shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Hank Kalet

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A Dream Of Bees In Black And White

Pain comes first, piercing, pure. The stinger stabs deep, pricks nerve endings to burn. No sound. No buzz. No smell or color. Just movement. The bees are dying. No one knows why. Just speculation & a name. You must have a name, must name something before it can become a thing. The bees are dying. The colonies collapse. But the stinger still hurts & the bee, black & stiff, drops to the grass. A swarm of bees, falling, failing, dying. The thing - what is it called?