A Bloom and A Bee
This month's hobby experiment took me somewhere unexpected and completely out of my comfort zone: a competitive fiction writing challenge. I signed up for Writing Battle's Verdant Owl Battle, a short story competition where participants receive three random prompt cards and have one week to write a story between 1,500 and 2,500 words.
I chose the Cleric class — stories centered on love, friendship, and heartfelt bonds — and drew these three cards:
Genre: Opposites Attract
Character: Rival
Setting: Orchard
The result? A story about a man allergic to his own family's cherry orchard legacy, a declining Southern farm down to its last five trees, and one very unexpected encounter with a solitary scout bee on a cold spring morning.
I wrote the entire draft in under 90 minutes on a Sunday while being very busy with other work. It was chaotic, frantic, research-fueled, and honestly one of the more fun evenings I've had in a while. The “last call” email alert was a blessing or else I would have missed the deadline! Before getting into the story, the hosts shared some stats on this specific battle (there are others throughout the year!): over 3,300+ stories submitted, and in my genre there were over 400 submissions!!
A Bloom and A Bee
For 103 years my family has been tending these trees, some years new saplings were added while others withered away. At its height I’m told there was 60 trees on the property. I’m the only person in my immediate family that cares about the last five remaining, ironically the ones my grandparents planted for each of us grandkids. I’m not the youngest nor the oldest, but I am the one allergic. This crop of trees in our family orchard has always been nicknamed “the littles” and today I’m here to take stock of the incoming blossoms. Like most orchards in the south, climate change is forcing us to rethink our operations and ‘diversify’ (my older brother’s favorite word these days) our crop production. Most importantly while we cannot maintain our natural fruit goods, we’ve moved into “maintaining the brand image” (another one of Tate’s go-to phrases) with cherry-themed merchandise and marketing what little stock we do have as ‘limited release’ and ‘small-batch’ runs while we work on buying new land to try and replant. Considering we won’t see production for a few years with the new saplings…things have been tight to say the least. Not only on the purse strings but also the family commitment to starting over.
Cherry trees like ours are pretty unique in our apple and orange covered county, but Great, Great Grandma Dolores discovered the sweet fruits after her father brought some back from a trip on a train. As the story is told, some carpetbagger or another sold him a box for $2. The exotic taste captivated her spirit and while her blindness prevented her from ever seeing the pale pink blossoms in all their springtime glory, her creative tastebuds earned her the blue ribbon at many county fairs and even landed her a column in the local newspaper for cherry-themed recipes. Luckily she fell in love with a local tree farmer who planted her a tree as a surprise on their first wedding anniversary and they named their third daughter Cherry once the tree finally started producing the sweet fruits. She was so enthralled with the taste that Jerry planted as many as he could to keep her happy. Did this coincide with the birth of their 12 kids? Who's to say really. She was invited to compete at the national level for several years and even went on radio shows to guide other bakers through her concoctions. She was quite the living legend in her day and while no one in the family has since been able to replicate her charisma, you can probably guess why this replanting initiative is taking awhile to get its roots planted, pun intended.
That’s me. The funny guy. In a large family there’s always one of us that acts out for attention, luckily for me I thrive off good vibes and didn’t rebel like my twin sister Mabel. I mentioned I was allergic earlier, did you catch that? Ironically I’m allergic not only to the fruit that’s made my family famous but I’m also allergic to the bees that help pollinate the trees. I’ve got an EpiPen in my pocket but it’s been years since I’ve needed it. Sometimes I wonder if it’s an allergy I’ve grown out of, but being allergic to the family business has its pros as much as its cons. So while I can’t taste test or help with recipes, and I can’t harvest the trees for risk of contact, I have found my calling in painting. This time of year is my favorite to visit as the white and soft pinks are starting to bud. Usually I bring out my easel and paints and set up shop for a few hours at a distance that allows me safety from the bees but lately our hive has been flying elsewhere. As the orchard as died off over the years the bees have needed to find their sustenance on other farms contributing to our dwindling tree counts. We’ve (okay my brother) has tried introducing 2 other hives to get into the honey game but they simply had bigger appetites than what we could provide.
This morning there’s a bite to the air, so snapping some photos to take back to my studio instead of an outdoor session. Every season I paint the trees as they progress and Tate includes high-resolution photos on our website and marketing materials. This year he wants to introduce new products like puzzles, canvas totes, notebooks and other quick pick items to fill up our increasingly empty shelves. Do I have to repaint every year, no. But looking back at my catalogue it’s been bittersweet to watch the orchard dwindle to its meager remaining row. I’ve been approached to display a history of some of my original canvases in some big city on the other side of the country. I have no real desire to figure out the logistics of getting the paintings out of the back of my warehouse studio and onto trucks to go on a cross-country ride. While I’m sure my brother would appreciate the cash grab of some sales, I’ve always painted for me, not we. If anything I’d prefer to keep the artwork local but there’s no galleries around here which is the way I like it.
I’m dilly-dallying as my mom would say. The chilly morning and high fog make for less than vibrant photos to use for inspo today. Sometimes I get the itch to paint something new but cherry blossoms are what come naturally to me, probably since I’ve literally been around them my whole life. As I’m snapping photos I noticed when I zoomed in on one there’s a lone bee hovering near some of the early blooms. While most buds are still closed up a handful opened early. Bees on our property are not usually solitary creatures but a quick scan of my camera roll, I don’t see any others around. It gets me wondering, is this bee on a mission to be brave? Is she desperate? Is she an oldie reminiscing on when these trees were in their hey-day? I mean obviously this bee wasn’t around during Dolores’ time but maybe her bee ancestors were? If you know anything about bees you probably already realized she’s a scout if she’s out here this early on her own. How do bees report back? Does she buzz into a microphone? Does she write up a literal report in honey? Do bees know how to spell? Alright, alright, that was too far.
I decide to get a little closer. We’re both out here alone and now that I’ve shared my outgrown allergy theory with you I am curious enough to bait my future. As a kid I was terrified of getting too close before I learned the differences between bees. While both honey and mason bees can pollinate cherry trees, we’ve never been blessed with mason bees of course. Stingless and solitary I probably could have tolerated those but we’ve never experimented with bee exposure. One honeybee sting and a swollen throat was enough to knock the fear in me (and my parents). One of the reasons why Tate was so hopeful the honey business could be leveraged since honeybees were both a blessing and a curse, I guess more curse in the end after all.
As I get closer to the scouting bee my whirling mind goes to other types of bees. We’ve had a few carpenter bees off and on as the trees dwindled. Most of the time we harvested the dying trees before they could really settle in and my uncle was a woodsmith who made some knickknacks to sell in our roadside shop. No one took up the chisel after him so it’s been awhile since we’ve been able to offer wood goods. We did sell some of the lumber but that wasn’t sustainable despite the trees dying off. Most lumber yards needed more than what we could sell each season so instead we sold if what we could to furniture makers the next town over as part of the “locally” sourced phenomenon happening in every small town literally everywhere. (Yep, that was a short lived brand extension according to you know who.)
I snap a few more photos, thankful my phone camera has a silent shutter. She doesn’t seem scared of me, as much as I am terrified and find this whole tip toe endeavor thrilling. It’s the most action I’ve had in months. Sheesh what does that say about me? I could go touch some grass but I am literally in a field right now so that doesn’t help.
She stops to rest on one of the blooms, or I think she’s resting but their wings beat too fast so it’s hard to tell. I might hear the teeniest of buzz sounds though since she’s the only one around it could just be my tinnitus acting up. Closer up the color contrast is much more mesmerizing than my distance earlier. I’ve never painted a bee before.
I take a few more photos and she seems to notice me. I go still as a statue, mentally replaying in my mind over and over again where my EpiPen is (front left pocket of my Levis), how to use it (cap off, twist, slam into my thigh) if she decides to get more friendly than I am willing to get. I realize my phone screen is zoomed in on a photo of her and the petals and shockingly she buzzes around the photo and sits on my thumb. I am hyperventilating as silently as possible. A bee is on my hand. A bee is on my thumb. The thumb I’d need to call for help. I am alone in the early morning dew. I’m sure my family knows I’m out here but do they actually know? You know what I mean? How long before I am missed from dying alongside these dying cherry trees because this scout bee taking a revenge sting on me for taking her photo without permission. It’s 2026 I should know better, I should have asked for her consent. I’ve read through all of the MeToo movements just had no idea bees had taken up arms themselves. Wouldn’t it be poetic? She dies from stinging me, I die trying to document the death of an orchard. My brother would try to spin this into a movie deal. Maybe I am the superhero my family needs and my death by bee sting will avenge the family’s honeybee curse.
What felt like minutes was probably like three seconds max before she moved on. I realize I death spiraled for nothing, give myself some shakes as I talk myself down off that premature grave I was digging.
Back in my studio later that morning I bring back up that picture of her in the bloom. At first I sketch the bloom, as always. I’ve started experimenting with close ups, not just my landscapes, to support Tate’s vision for branding more of my artwork. Quite literally he asked me for “more detailed, close up paintings” to use in more “singularly focused items” like magnets and pins and pens. I guess his MBA degree has been working overtime lately.
I start thinking about her more than I probably should. Do bees have names? How do they identify each other during their spelling bees? How did she earn the scouting gig? Does she like it? Is she a first of her family to get the honor? Is it an honor? Or a punishment? I should probably lay off the caffeine at this point, instead I pour another cup and start to sketch. First I start with her outer body and invisible wings on the outer edge of my canvas. Zooming back into the photo I am trying to find the moments where her fuzz fades into her smooth shell. My blooms are usually less detailed since I am painting from a distance. Paying attention to these close up shots of the blooms and now this bee is really challenging my artist skills in new ways. While I should be nervous about exploring a new form of my craft for the first time I am actually feeling really good about this pivot. We’re all pivoting these days it seems. Well maybe not Mabel, but Tate has been trying to turn this new leaf over for the business. Am I stuck wistfully thinking of what the orchard has been and painting it’s glory when it’s really like this bee here and the last one around? Literally no other farms have attempted cherry trees in this area because of, well one not wanting to compete with our family, but also, they are extremely challenging to keep alive and most thought the “Cherry” family (yes that’s our nickname) would have given up by now.
Her first sketch takes shape. Then I draw another and another. Before I know it this little Betty (original I know) is covering the margins of my canvas. I didn’t hear Tate walk in I was in the zone. He leans in close, admiring the strange yellow coloring on my painting palette and asks what this is?
I smiled. I think this is our pivot.
