The Friendly Bee

Frankie the friendly bee was busily buzzing around the peaceful flowers in the gardens of Bloomfield Grove.
In and out of the tulips and roses and honeysuckle she flew, gathering pollen to take back to her home, where it would be turned into yummy honey.
Just as she was about to head home for lunch, she heard a group of boys laughing as they were playing cricket in the street.
She buzzed over to where the batsman was standing, grinning with excitement as she ignored her mother’s advice to ‘stay away from the humans.’
Frankie hovered near the stumps, smiling and taking great delight in the game.
She was whistling and shouting ‘good shot’ when the boy hit the ball high up over his friends heads and on to one of the house’s roof.
During the lull in play, Frankie buzzed towards the bat to take a closer look.
She was just about to inspect the handle, when she had to quickly change direction to avoid being hit for six herself.
She regained her composure just in time to see the boy swing for her again and feel the bat to bash her bottom.
Crying, Frankie flew off in the direction of home at top speed.
Though she attempted to hide the tears from her mum when she got home in a bid to hide the fact she’d been messing around with the humans, her mother instantly spotted the telltale signs.
“What’s up?” she said.
“Nothing. I just got some pollen in my eye,” Frankie said, too quickly.
 “I know that’s not true, Frankie. What’s the matter?”
“A boy hit me on the bottom with his cricket bat.”
“Oh, baby. Are you ok?” Frankie’s mum said.
But then followed it with “What were you doing? You weren’t interfering were you? I told you not to bother the humans.”
“I just wanted to play,” said Frankie, through more tears.
“Look honey, they don’t understand that we are friendly bees and that we’d only sting them if we had no other option. Well, some of them do understand. But you have to be careful out there. If that bat would have hit you harder you wouldn’t be here now.”
“OK, mum. I know. I’ll leave them alone now. It’s just. It always looks like they are having so much fun. I wish I was a human instead of a stupid bee!”
“Don’t say that Frankie. Bees are very special and you should be proud to be a bee! Here’s a nectar sandwich. You go and eat that in the sunshine and have a good rest before you buzz off for the afternoon. Good girl.”
Five minutes later, having devoured the last sandwich her mother would ever make for her, Frankie was making a beeline back towards Bloomfield Gardens, more determined than ever to make the boys realise that there was nothing to fear from the humble bumble bee…



Although Alvin audits admirably, anal Andrew always advocates auditing assessment activities against Alvin Associates’ analyses. Andrew: awful.

Britney brazenly bullied Buffalo Bill’s brother’s boy. Bemused, Bill butted Britney but Britney battled back by bashing Bill’s ball bag. Bummer.

Clever, considerate, compassionate, caring Carol craved crack cocaine constantly. Crackpot.

Did dangerous Derek’s deluded dalmation decide Derek’s darkest dreams disrespected dogs? Dunno.   

Energetic elephant ensnarer extraordinaire Evil Enid easily eats eighteen elephant ears every eight epochs. Excellent.

Famed for farming frogs, fancy-faced Francois Flueirre from France found fifteen famine fearing female foxes foraging furiously for festive foods.


Plastic bags

“There’s something going on at the back of that kitchen cupboard where you keep all the plastic bags,” he said before disappearing into a plume of purple smoke.

I didn’t think much of it at the time. But when I got home, I have to admit, I decided to delve a little deeper than usual into the cupboard under the sink.

Upon opening the door, a slew of environmentally friendlily stored plastic spilled out covering my feet.
(Tesco, Sainsbury’s, one from Boots… a crumpled advert for the most boring elements of High Street Britain).

I scooped a few more bags out on to the floor and was shocked to discover a miniature ghetto blaster, about the size of a match box hidden among the plastic. Unable to think what it meant, I used the tip of my little finger to depress the play button. A second later Vanilla Ice’s ‘Ice, Ice Baby’ came bursting out of the tiny speakers at an unbelievable volume.

As soon as the first lines of the song kicked in: ‘All right stop collaborate and listen, Ice is back… (etc),’ a strange rustling, scurrying sound could be heard coming from under the carrier bags still wedged in the cupboard.

Now even more confused, I placed the ghetto blaster on the floor and began clawing out handfuls of plastic bags, discarding them over my shoulders as I dug deeper and deeper into the cupboard. The scurrying noises didn’t go away, despite my frantic searching of the cupboard. They seemed to grow louder with every bag I removed.

Leaning further and further into the cupboard and with the scurrying sounds echoing in my brain as the tune reached its peak, I continued tearing away the plastic bags. But to no avail.

As the song ended, the scurrying stopped. And I found myself sweating and panting in an empty cupboard. All the plastic bags, hundreds probably, were scattered all across the kitchen. And I was none the wiser as to what had happened.

When I tried to climb out of the cupboard I found I could not move. I have been here ever since, trapped, staring out at my kitchen.


Someone closed the door last night when I fell asleep.
And rap music has been blaring out of the ghetto blaster all day.
The scurrying sounds, which I have decided must be being made by malevolent dancing mice, are driving me crazy.

I’m not sure I can take it much longer…


What they said...

When it should have been silent I could hear them, shouting whispers.
Things like:
“Don’t tell me…”
“What are you doing about it?”

It was secretive. Furtive.
Against me?

“…n’t the first time…” (something).
“… from the beginning,” one said.

I heard mumbles:
“must make sure he does…” (it might have been doesn’t?)

And then:

I tried to focus but then some noises replaced the voices.
Slipping away, I forgot.
I went to sleep.
And they didn’t come back that night.



Terrible sunlight slowly floods the room, erasing the soft hopes onto which they both cling. Morning has broken. And with it the bubble that shields them from responsibility and reason and rhyme. Just five minutes more, their cry every time…