Honeybees and Flora

The energetic and bold honeybee is greatly talented in many activities for their survival. Buzzing from flower to flower, collecting residue of yellow pollen and nectar. Yet, their only defense is their stinger: and with the use of that comes their death. Flowers are gentle, colorful, and move only with the titillation of the wind. Their beauty, their talent, is worth boasting about, although they would never be able to. Each, in their mutualistic relationship, receives only what they need--nothing else, and certainly nothing less. This is you and I.

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Last week was the first round of the talent competition. You explained it to me like this: our school likes to be quirky and different, so instead of just one talent show, we have two. The finalists from the first week’s talent acts will move on to the second week. 

Each year, there’s a new theme. This year’s first round was to sing a song--one that’s already been written by a famous artist. You were in the choir, and being one of their most stellar vocalists, it was no question whether you would join or not. 

Now, exactly a week after the competition, the results are being released. The sign covers half of the announcement bulletin board. A tight crowd has formed a ring around it, shoving their heads into the small spaces between each other to try and get a look at the content. I stand back.

“Is that Alice Willows?” I hear a voice buzz from behind me. High pitched and loud, I know that it is from you. “Are you gonna go up and look or not?”

You look at me from the side, and I chuckle. “I’d rather not get into that shit-show.”

But I’m too late: you’re already weaving through the crowd faster than a sewing machine can weave a sweater. I want to follow you, but I don’t. You’ll come back with the results soon enough.

For now, I stand there patiently. I hear the shouts and the gasps, the Oh, I expected that’s and the Wow, that’s a shocker!’s. Although I’m confident that you at least were a runner-up in the competition, I am not sure that you’ll be able to advance. After all, only three out of all of the competitors do.

The wall I lean against is cold against my heating skin as anxiety rises from the pit of my stomach. I know that you won’t care much if you weren’t chosen--but I don’t want to see you upset.

Through the crowd I see your gleaming face running towards me. I’m too perplexed to realize that you are going to body slam into me.

No, it’s not a body slam. You’re hugging me. Even though I’m not someone that likes to be hugged--I’d much rather high-five--I know this means good news. We don’t even have to say anything.

“I’m guessing you did well?” I laugh.

“I made it,” you say. Your smile fades into furrowed eyebrows. “Alyssa Davis did too,” you admit.

That nasty bitch. I’m not surprised people voted for her--it’s no telling what hissy fit she would’ve thrown if she didn’t make it. She’s spoiled rotten.

“We’ll just have to see the next part of the contest,” I say. I mean it to be comforting, but your face began to twist like a lemon.

“Yeah, I guess,” you say in a tone I’ve never heard uttered from your mouth. Your yellow seems to have faded. 

***

The day passes like stones erode by the gentle flow of the river. Throughout our entire last period, which we share in art class, we wait for the announcement that will bring the next competition. It was so hot in the classroom that my thighs stuck sweatily to the metal of the chair. Not only was I mentally uncomfortable, but physically as well.

We hear the beep on the speaker, loud and obnoxious. Each student, even those roaming the hallways, stops their movement to listen intently. The sound in the room is still--it seems as though time has stopped.

“Good afternoon Jessertorn High School! Please listen in for the following announcements.”

We hear the microphone switch from the secretary to the principal. “Amazing performances were given last week at the first round of the talent show. All of you did so well: it was very impressive. We are so proud of all of you. Now for the honorable mentions:”

They run through the list of names. “Carly Johnson, Frank Williams, Liam White, Sammy González…” Each time they begin a new word, I feel the anxiety rush through me like I’m an opening dam. 

They list the names of all those who have moved along to the next round, which is only three. Alyssa Davis, Darius Hill, and Kayla. Even though I already knew that Kayla had advanced, it was still a rush of pride to hear it said out loud.

“Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for: the announcement for next week’s competition.”

There is a musical break, but nothing loud enough to drown out the ringing already happening in my own head. When they come back, the voice is of a man: like a sports announcer on a 1960’s radio station.

“Next week's task is something that blends the worlds of academics and talent together. We don’t believe that you can be your best without a little challenge.” I hold my breath. “Next week, you will be required to write your own song and perform it.”

Gasps move like gusts of wind throughout the room, and whispers of disbelief emanate from the mouths of their owners. Write their own song? 

“Good luck to all competitors, and remember to have fun. If you’d like to drop out, please notify Mrs. Spangles as soon as possible.”

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Bees are not easily scared; they’re willing to visit any flower, land on any piece of wood, and fly towards any human. But when they are agitated, they are sure to sting. This minor sting will cost them their entire lives, because they cannot escape the skin of their victim without becoming a victim of self-destruction. Their organs will be pulled out along with the stinger. 

A bee can sting a human or an animal if that being had startled it in some way. However, the bee cannot, and would never, sting a flower--they need it for not only success, but also survival.

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“I don’t think I wanna do it,” you said to me, “I can’t write to save my life.”

I knew that this wasn’t you. This was an apprehensive, unpoised sludge of you, like the clear liquid that replaces red blood inside of bees. This wasn’t the Kayla that I was familiar with, but I was willing to bring that Kayla out of you.

I shift on the seat at my kitchen table. After school, we’d rode the bus home together as usual, and had made conversation that had nothing to do with the competition the entire way through. I would have never guessed that you’d be forfeiting. Not from our hilarious, yet slightly mean, jokes about Alyssa Davis. 

“No,” I say. “Why would you? You’ve already come this far.”

While walking to the window, you take a bite out of your freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. “You know I can’t write. I’m not doing it.” You say it as if it is a fact. 

Frustration bubbled inside of me like an unstirred pot of oatmeal. “You were amazing last time. You have to. And if you don’t do it, you’ll be proving Alyssa right.” The words come out of me haphazardly, each one bumping into the next. 

“I don’t give a shit about Alyssa!” You raise your voice and it permeates through the walls of my house, echoing like we’re trapped in a metal chamber. 

You quiet down. “I don’t understand why you care, to be honest.”

I realize that my pot of expectations have overflowed. You were never supposed to see it, and I’m worried that I’ve ruined our friendship. I take a long, deep breath. “I just don’t want to see you disappointed when you realize how amazing you could’ve done.”

The air surrounding us is stiff, like our limbs against our bodies. We soak in the somber silence, each of us too afraid to share more of our thoughts. The sun hides behind the clouds outside, bringing a new darkness about my kitchen. 

“I could write it for you.” The words leak out of my mouth like a running faucet. “I mean, I don’t have to. If you don’t want.” A smile creeps over your lips. “But I could.”

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Just because honeybees and flowers are similar in their goals--to stay alive and reproduce--does not mean that they can achieve their goals in the same manner. A bee is able to fly across the meadow, while the flower stays in one spot for its entire life. However, if a bee attempted to produce its own nectar, it would fail miserably. Success means working together.

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The next day, after school, we decide to accomplish the task that has been taunting us for the past twenty-four hours: writing the song. We had pretended to ourselves, and to each other, that it would be an easy process.

“You know what, I think I’m gonna try and write it myself,” you suggested. I couldn’t see why not--you were good at everything else you’ve ever done. Or I had seen you do.

You take a sheet of paper from the pile and stare at the blank page in front of you. It’s terrifying--unmotivating--to see the white of the page stare back at you. It feels like looking into the eyes of a person, but the pupil and the iris are missing.

“What are you thinking of writing it on?” I ask.

“Oh I don’t know,” you answered. “Maybe friendship.”

You begin to scribble some words down on the paper. I smile, thinking that I have been rid of my responsibility of writing. You are the star singer--and you can be the star writer as well.

But after just two lines, your hands come to a halt. The pencil drops and rolls across the paper in defeat. I half-expect it to start dripping red.

You stand there for a moment, pursing and sucking your lips. I hang my head over the paper to catch a glimpse of what you have written.

Bees buzzing in the meadow,

Flowers blooming in the meadow.

Two lines.

“I know it’s terrible,” you say. I laugh nervously, because there is no use in lying. But underneath the nerves is a hidden hope--you have gifted me an idea.

***

That night, we went back to my house to begin the writing process. I was always the more musical one out in our duo, but you were louder, so people tended to listen to you more often. This is the reason why this operation came so lightly to us. We had always combined our efforts to reach our goals.

Your natural ability to tune into any melodic mood was an asset to my sub-par, but still superior in comparison to you, songwriting skills. If there was an issue with wording, or if the creativity did not materialize in the way that we had hoped, I counted on you to add your own interest into it.

We got lost in the pattern--the therapy that was the methodical process of songwriting. You tried a few times to construct your own lyrics. You said you wanted it to be touching, but it ended up feeling gross.

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It is well known that bees pollinate flowers; it is obvious that, without bees, flowers would not be able to reproduce through means of cross-pollination. In fact, many of the species that we accept to be essential to our food sources and food chains are only vitalized as a result of the bee’s pollination. Without the bee, reproduction would be impossible.

Without the artistry of the bees, we would be deprived of the sweet indulgence that is honey, nor would we have colorful flora that adds beauty to our quickly industrializing world. 

But just as important is the effect that flower pollen has on the livelihood of bees: without their natural powders, the ambrosia of honey would not materialize. Without the steadfast nature and consistent production of pollen, the ambition of the bees wouldn’t have much purpose.

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I spent the next few nights perfecting the melody of the song. Switching the tuning, tweaking each detail of every note. Quite often, I would stop to think about how blissful the process was. Writing, crossing over the lines with my finest pencil, writing again, repeat. It’s therapeutic. And it took me all through the night, shuffling between my favorite lines and stanzas.

You, a bee buzzing by my mellow meadow

Allow me my shaking petals to lend you

Lend you some nectar, dipped in shallow

Into the lucky hive for some honey love

By the time the sun began to rise above the horizon of the great plains on that third night, my final touches had been made. My work was ready for you. I would have to run the lyrics and songwriting over to your house by tonight to get it to you in time for you to practice.

I really hoped that nobody would know it was my writing. If they did, there would be no way that you would get out of this without a disqualification.

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The combination of the work achieved by the bees and by the flowers produces an exquisite result: the luscious nectar that is golden honey. This feat is irresistible, just like the flower and the bee are to each other. 

Honey is able to make anything sweeter; any food from stale bread to overripe bananas, mushy apples to cottage cheese. It adds its own special flavor, bringing success to any dish that once was mundane.

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You jumped up to the stage, proud and confident, locs of hair resting upon your shoulders spread wide. Excitement glittered off of the eyes of each person in the audience, mesmerized by your presence. Alyssa was coming off of the stage after performing her own song, titled I Can Do It All. Ironic, because she forgot her lyrics halfway through and ended up stumbling on her words.

The only sound in the entire auditorium was that of the clicking of your heels against the wood. Nobody dared speak a word--if somebody needed to cough or sneeze, they held it in. Your voice would come first, triumphing like a trumpet during the coming of the gods.

Honey rods, dripping sweet

Petals and buzzing bodies meet

My written words transport through the air like fluffy clouds, floating and admirable. Your personification of my careful chorus, the way you have made it your own, is something that I could not have crafted with words alone. Passion exudes from your mezzo soprano voice, vibrating the hearts of those listening. And I’m not excluded--tears begin to flow down my cheeks.

I scan the audience for dismissals or disapproval, biting my lip harder when I come across a blank expression. I wondered how anybody could not feel overwhelming emotion by the sound of your falsetto. 

Fleeting and falling,

Petals come to cushion me.

Land on the faithful flora;

Nectar mixed with faint humming.

The consonants roll off of your tongue like dribbles of morning dew off the petals of a flower. It sounds like I am listening to the song for the first time, despite having written it myself. With each line, a new humbling surprise emerges.

Your interpretation of the song is something I would have never thought of. Instead of my solemn imagining of it, you have created an upbeat, yet mesmerizing, solo masterpiece. Nothing else can explain it except for two words: pure talent.

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The bee has its own purpose--it’s own calling. It buzzes around, traveling to different places and experiencing different things. But the flower is rooted to its home: where it was born, it is comfortable enough to stay. It does not enjoy, or rather, suffer from, the same wanderlust as the bee.

But the bee does not wish to stay in one place, just as much as the flower does not need to leave its home spot. Unlike flowers, which can live off of solely solar energy, bees must take sustenance from external sources.

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There was a short band sequence before our principal, Mr. Matthews, stepped on stage to announce the winner. “Didn’t know I’d be offering a free concert.” Everyone chuckled.

“Now for the winner of the competition’s second round.” A pause, and then he cleared his throat. “Kayla. Kayla Allen.” 

The audience’s enthusiasm penetrated the air as they erupted into claps and hollers. You were swarmed by your classmates and your parents: the recipient of high fives and hugs, photos and chants of your name. I stood on the sideline, watching as people hummed with excitement surrounding you. The space surrounding me was filled with nothing but my own fulfillment.

  When you glanced at me, you looked frightened of what my reaction would bring.  Did I appear to be a volcano, molten magma breaching the thick covering of my rocks? You eyed me like a glass edging the table, waiting for it to fall and eventually crack, sending pieces of itself flying across the floor. But I wouldn’t, and it would be a few minutes until I could express how perfect of a moment this was for not only you, but for me as well.

Many others in my situation would have been bitter--even regretful. I know that you would have never imagined a win, but this was my plan all along. I’m the flower for your need for nectar, and you’re the honeybee that gets to bring it back to the hive.