They once said that regicide is the greatest sin a man can ever commit. How the times have changed.
In days long past, she crawled into a safe place and laid her first eggs, like pearls brimming with the future. The eggs hatched and her sons constructed a palace of splendor and glory that was like no other that ever existed.
In a space shared with ambivalent residents, they made that palace home. It was a magnificent spire upside down, shaped with long traditions that stretched backwards for so many generations that the bees cared nothing for their meaning. They just built, and it was good. More than good, it was right. The Mother sat at the center, dutifully and lovingly giving her sons brothers in an endless circle of harmonious Oedipal procreation.
So it was, that from flowers like bright suns and soft bells, they brought back the nectar of sustenance, and from an ocean of color, they drew life. In deep vats of unknown alchemy, they brewed ambrosia. The towers grew taller as they reached for the ground.
With fear fed by that buzzing industry – a fear that gained black size with the hive – the ambivalence of their human neighbors disappeared. Genocide was the verdict pronounced. The sound of a jittery truck preceded a cloud of gray smoke. A pair of inured killers stepped out wearing boots painted with mud.
The two masked strangers arrived with strange, cowardly weapons that breathed Death into their home. As the Queen crawled from her palace, her family fought the doom, flying into walls and lights as the demons with masks and silvered, invisible eyes laughed in loud, inane guffaws about women and inflation. Her knights perished as they dogfought insane figure eights with murderers impenetrably armored. Their valor was as futile as their glorious golden black swords that glistened with the setting sun, broken. As the Mother coughed one last time and spilled her last quota of blue blood onto the green grass, she wondered about provocation and compassion. Why, she wondered, and how.
A boy watched wide-eyed from a window. As they fired the Queen’s palace, a flickering orange reflection lit his glazed eyes like candles in clay recesses. The Queen herself lay on the trampled grass below, breathing a last breath of air laced with the scent of sweet honey, an odor that was almost drowned by the stench of her roasted kin and a bitter, smoky poison. No graves were dug. No headstones were placed. No ceremony was offered and no prayers were said at the crematory pyre of that great family. The ashes were lost in a soft breeze, a breeze that was perhaps the soul of the monarch moving on.
The boy alone whispered a pleaded eulogy and turned on the news. Sinking into a comfortable chair and clutching the remote, he thought, “How can the children of God be so indifferent to one another?” The answer waited, ready. Because men can’t think about it for too long.