(Copyright Jennifer Pendergast)
Set plumb in the middle of my well-manicured knot garden, the dead boxwood has disrupted my sensibilities for months.
Today’s the day. I plunge my shovel into the soft dirt and lift the roots.
A great hum surrounds me as hundreds of bees swarm from the hive nestled in the bush. They settle on my arms, legs, neck, face, and plunge their stingers through my skin.
The faces of my wife and children materialize as I succumb to my deadly allergy, knowing that I can no longer live with my shame—and my family needs the insurance money.
(Written for Friday Fictioneers, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, August 2, 2013.)