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Friday, 21 June 2013

A Random Meeting

By Warren Lieberman who blogs at 65 and Alive

(While inspired by the events of November 29, 2012 on a cruise ship, this is fiction.)

Roses and colorful flowers entice me constantly. With eagerness and pleasure I seek their sweet, moist and energizing essence; I love them, I need them. I flitter from one to another attracted by their scent and to imbibe the flower’s nutrients. One plant to another I float. What a joyful life.

Sometimes clumps of flowers attach to my feet and wings. I deposit them on other plants as I move around, gifts of life as I move from plant to plant. It’s my job, my purpose. A cycle of life I am told. What a joy. I drink in life and move bits and pieces of seeds to other places.

I’m a traveler, a pollinator, a life giver.

Gusts of wind move me further and further from my hive. I should return; I try but can’t. Now I am lost.

The wind holds me in its grip. I travel without control. High and low I sail, away from the scents and colors near the sandy shore. Trapped by the wind, I go where it takes me.

My wings vibrate to no avail. I can’t return to the land of flowers and sweetness.

Below me is salty water. To drink is to die. Ahead is a dark solid mass, not water.

I urge my weakened body towards the dark mass. The solid mass offers a spot to land and rest. My strength wanes and I drop onto the solid place. No aroma. Nourishment is missing. But I can rest. My wings slow and then stop as I land on the solid thing.

A pink mass is nearby. It projects an aroma of life and moves, closer to my resting spot it comes. I am too weak to flee as it stops next to me.

I garner my diminishing strength and move to it. It’s alive. It has an aroma that stimulates me. I need sustenance. A dark salty liquid streams out - it is bitter but I drink without hesitation. Not a rose or any other flower I know.

Despite the bitter taste, it is wet and I am thankful for the moment. Perhaps it can give me sufficient energy to return to my beloved roses.

A shadow covers me, air moves and the pink mass crushes me. I die, but not before my stinger springs into action and my toxin flows into the pink mass.

* * *

Later a man has an anaphylactic reaction and only vaguely remembers the reason.

[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post


This was great. You wrote it with the flavor of laziness; exactly like ship lounge chair relaxation would produce.
Fiction to you, but real to me. I drank from my can of root beer on a picnic. I felt movement in my mouth and spit it all out. I didn't feel a sting, but in minutes my bottom lip got bigger and bigger. I looked like a cartoon character.
I'll just bet I'm not the only one.
Thanks for this driftwood dream.

I've found cold, wet, exhausted bees in my garden many times. My "fix" has been to get a glass jar, place it on its side, without a top, place a 1/2 tsp. glop of honey immediately adjacent to the bee and wait.

Sheltered from wind and rain, and with a food source, a bee will drink and drink and drink, then clean themselves, and finally fly free.

I thought it was a butterfly right up to the end. Did you plan for people to think that?

Thanks for the comments.

Never even thought of a butterfly. I was concerned most of the day after the sting, worried about a reaction that never happened. But I scribbled thoughts into a journal and wrote about when we got home.

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