Flash Fiction, Shorts

Sting

Oh little bee.

You used to have such a warmness to your happy buzzing. You didn’t have to end it all. Did my swatting hand crash into you with the weight of the world? Were you fueled with a furious anger at the unfairness of it all?

You stung me and it hurt. I hate you for that. Stupid little bee. You hurt me with your insignificant little death and now I hate you and I am glad that you are dead.

It is estimated that approximately 1000 honey bee stings are required to be fatal. That’s one thousand dead bees in exchange for one dead human.

Your barbed stinger is stuck in my arm. I think I will leave it as a badge, and it is unique in every way.

Stupid little bee.

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