(The New) Cycle of Life

The bee flitted around, single minded in its purpose. It could smell the honey. It was one of many workers, each invaluable in bringing food to the hive, if one lost, there were others, but each loss would make the hive that much hungrier than before. Each worker drone, communal as they were, without individuality, was simultaneously more important than and lesser than the whole hive. They were all important. They all had no value. All of them served a purpose. Together they formed a cohesive whole. The loss of one was as the hive losing a limb, an invaluable tendril that would not cause it to starve, but would definitely bring about a famine to the whole. The hive depended on each and every bee. 

The bee flitted around, single minded in its purpose. The field of poppies was bright red, each petal as unique, and singularless as the bee. Each petal giving off a scent that others could smell, each stem giving off a scent that drove the bee, attracted it, allowed it to pollinate the field. Communal harmony. The field depended on each and every bee.

The flowers served as a home for the insects within the soil, protecting them from the harsh glare of the sun. Each insect further populating the soil, filling it with minerals, filling it with life. The thriving community of insects and insectoids depended on each and every bee.

A whistle shrieking through the air, loud, obnoxious, for a few seconds. The bee was hit by the arrow with the red shafts, its life crushed in seconds. It suffered no pain, but all the communities would. On the other side of the deadly arrow’s trajectory, stood a boy. He saw that it had not hit the squirrel he had been aiming for, and he was sad. In his mind, he was a hunter, a great and fearsome warrior, but this aim had brought the shift of reality to his perspective. His sneering smile turned into a frown. His sire ruffled his golden brown hair, and comforted him with words of solace. Encouraged him, asked him to try again. The boy misunderstood, and rifled that his father thought he was not good enough, enraged, began releasing one arrow after another. By his third, he had hit the squirrel, or it had died in fright of the rain of death that was hurtling towards it, and the arrow had hit it afterwards. He continued, uncaring, unseeing until all of the twenty four weapons in his quiver were lying on the ground, the yellow feathers on their shafts quivering. He continued, unseeing that he had hit a dozen more bees, and ended fourteen total lives, the hive would surely suffer dozens more deaths because of the careless actions of a bloodthirsty son of man.

Clouds witnessed the tragedy from above and shed tears down below, passing as they did, over a damn nearby. The water became too heavy for the wooden walls to hold, and as it flooded, they snapped like twigs a tenth of their length and size. The village next to it flooded, the stubborn villagers who for years had refused to move from their ancestral lands, swept away in the force of nature’s wrath.

When archaeologists would investigate it many years later, carrying flashlights and torches to find out how the village came to be emptied, and devoid of life, they would find nature growing anew. Grass growing sparsely but quickly, beetles teaming, scuttling around.

One senseless act of violence had led to new communities of life.