by Sara Dobbie
A bee hovers in the air, flight hindered under the weight of all that nectar, the heaps of pollen collected to bring home to the nest. Calla wonders why people associate bees with lazy, hazy afternoons when the truth is that mothering a brood of thousands involves non-stop labor. She can barely imagine how she will survive bringing a single baby into the world, let alone an entire generation.
The afternoon is warm, and she feels a sense of languor in her body, but not in her mind. Images buzz in circles, stinging her consciousness with sharp realities. The father doesn’t know yet, and Calla may not tell him. She knows what his reaction will be; a stony shield will mask his face when he asks if it’s his and how she knows for sure. She pushes her bare feet through blades of cool grass and watches the enormous bumble bee drift high and low through the back garden. Everywhere she looks there are signs of new life, the low thrum of insects, the scent of blooms on the breeze.
One night, Calla thinks, a few moments really, and everything is different. She wishes she were a bee, or any creature other than a woman. Then it would be simple, then she wouldn’t have to explain herself to anyone. Where she will live, in the hive, what she will do, dispatch drones, how she will provide, by feeding nectar to her larvae. Her parents wouldn’t be disappointed, her best friend wouldn’t ask her if she’s ever heard of birth control. Her heart wouldn’t feel like a throbbing, defenseless wound full of shame, regret and worst of all, hope.
Yes, hope. Because even though it’s insane, she wants this. A steady sense of resolve has overcome her, and as long as she ignores the constant buzzing in her brain, she is certain. The queen flies near enough that Calla can hear the distinct hum of her vibrating wings. She pictures a minuscule version of this bee nestled within her womb, curled in on itself, all fuzz and pollen and yellow and black stripes. All brightness and light and happiness. She drifts to sleep and dreams of flowers and springtime and honey dripping from honeycombs.
Calla wakes with a start because the buzzing is so loud it sounds like screaming. Or wailing. The sound is coming from her own mouth. A thousand bees, or maybe ten thousand, swarm around her. They crawl over her sticky thighs, proboscises lapping up liquid. Her arms quiver, a mass of tiny black legs, her head a writhing hive. Wings beating, stingers pointing. Calla’s hands flutter over her stomach, her body an abandoned colony, as one by one the bees drop lifeless to the ground.
Sara Dobbie is a Canadian writer from Southern Ontario. Her stories have appeared in New World Writing, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Ruminate Online, Trampset, Ellipsis Zine, and elsewhere. Her chapbook “Static Disruption” will be available from Alien Buddha Press in July of 2022, and her story collection “Flight Instinct” is forthcoming from ELJ Editions (2022). Follow her on Twitter @sbdobbie, and on Instagram at @sbdobwrites.
