PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
Ariadne wove along the tangled path, through nodding rosebay willowherb and scabious, nettles snatching at her skirts.
Her mind wandered ahead to the hive, the warm, sweet buzz of the comb then back to him, his warmth. He was often sweet but always tinged sour with beer or sweat, hard words, hard hands.
The sound reached her first, a thousand singular insect voices weaving to form a low hum. The brown cloud enveloped her as she drew close, furry bodies bouncing against her hands, her cheeks, welcoming her.
‘He’s dead,’ she whispered.
She turned and followed the path back home.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. Join in, read and share here.
At first glance there may seem no connection between my story and the prompt photograph, but the shapes in the net reminded me of a honeycomb, which led my mind to bees and the tradition of telling them when someone in the family dies. To read more about this tradition take a look here.