I’m sure the souls of bees go to heaven — assuming there is a heaven. Nothing people as love as much as beekeepers love bees could do any less.
I apologize to my apiphobic friends, but this was my random prompt. No actual photo of actual bees, so maybe it won’t be so bad.
The Souls Of Bees
by Marian Allen
“Why?” Its assistant, a human soul, handed the angel a honey-packed frame and slipped an empty one into its place. “I mean, I agree, but why do you say it now, specifically?”
The assistant had kept bees on earth and could imagine nothing more heavenly in eternity than tending bees without wearing a protective suit, calming the bees with smoke, or fearing stings.
“Think about it,” said the angel.
Eternity was a good time/space for thought, but this particular consideration didn’t take long.
“Because worker bees don’t live long, and a bee dies when it stings, so there are a lot of them.”
“Bingo!” said the angel.
“How many hives are there?”
“As many as there are souls like you.”
“Are there enough of us?”
“There are exactly as many as there are souls like you. Always. Exactly that many.”
The assistant almost asked how that was possible, but it remembered where it was and didn’t.
Angel and soul worked in happy peace until all the filled frames were in the carrying case and all the empty frames were in the hive. Sunlight and flowers and the smells of flowers and honey surrounded them. Bees buzzed with contentment.
The soul chuckled. “I’m still not used to it. It’s still odd to see the workers loafing around and the queens gathering nectar and making the honey.”
“This is a funny place,” said the angel. “The last shall be first and the first shall be last. We laugh about it a lot.”
They took the frames in to extract the stored sweetness from the happiness of the bees of heaven.
A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Write something positive about something people fear.