evanescence

rating; G (what a surprise!)
fandom; The Principle Of Moments
This is the way we do it; Someone, usually writes something offhand and throwaway, just to get started. Then someone, usually me, thinks it’s too good to throw away.

Emma was expecting something, as she pulled up in front of the house. Dance’s phone call alerted her.

“Honey bees, all in the garden. A swarm!”

But–she wasn’t expecting anything like this. The roaring of uncountable wings penetrated the closed windows and engine noises of her old Volvo. In the sunset light, the air in front of the house was blurred with tiny golden bodies in perpetual motion; whorls and streamers and galaxies— tornadoes and skyrockets of bees. The neighbors all stood on porches, safely across the street, turned wondering faces towards her home.

The noise increased in pitch as she opened her door. The bees spilled over the boundaries of Dance’s garden into adjacent lawns, and eddied against the her car as she parked. Some of them landed on the hood, crawling across the pinging surface– responding to the warmth, she thought. They tickled, and were unexpectedly heavy, on her bare arms. She lifted her hand to study one crawling on her wrist; the fine plush banded in nickle yellow and rusty black, the delicate, impatient wings, the glossy little head with its sturdy antennae. She could feel its claws release her skin on take-off.

Emma walked slowly to the sidewalk, wondering. Close up, she could hear a slightly higher pitch of individual thrumming as they flashed past, and the hurtling bodies made her blink reflexively. She wanted to call out to house, but was afraid to open her mouth, lest they fly into it. The family across the street was shouting at her to get away, get to safety, but Emma walked steadily between the bees to the gate, and into the maelstrom. Turning to her left, she saw them in sunlight– brilliant glittering gold, like champagne bubbles or confetti, and she began laughing helplessly at the fantastic beauty. Bees rushed towards her, parted and went to the right, the left, over her head, while others were coming from behind her at the same time.

Dance came out of the house, and she watched him glide through the golden cosmos towards her.

“This is many swarms,” he said loudly over the booming. “I have counted at least eight beeballs, and they won’t settle– too many other swarms, I think, not enough trees for them. I have never heard of this.” Living gold besprinkled his black hair. “You are crying? I did too.” He reached up and wiped her wet face.

Or, written by ;

Drin, watching, sees Dance cock his head to one side, hears Emma whoop suddenly, over a sudden crack of surf. Spray stings his face. And out of nowhere they are surrounded by an armada of paper drink parasols, fully opened, green and violet and luminous blue, tossed across the rocks by the sleepers and swept up from the little drainage stream, and on and down the beach, hundreds of them, just there, whirling in the surf, then vanishing, gone.