About Bernard

I won't build suspense; nine years down the road Bernard shot himself. But before then, he encountered complications. He once picked rocks on abandoned fields of expectation.

Bernard worked in fireball, July heat. Unusual heat he did not suspect to be a consequence of fossil fuel consumption. His thoughts would hover on his friends; working in cafes, making more money, smooth-talking lady bees that worked at the bar… why exactly was he there? Damn. Those fields had no end. Looking back, he saw just as many stones as before. Sometimes it looked as if they'd multiplied.

Possibly noticing, Papa Bee flew right in on his four-wheeler and provided a sincere expression of shock, disappointment and urgency. "What is this… good God." Non-conflictive, he acknowledged Bernard's failure, "I thought you'd be done last week." Candid, he admitted, "Summer's coming to an end. I just don't know what's going to happen if we don't get this done."

Dead silence had fallen for what seemed like twelve firm seconds, but was barely two; a single crow resounded, and Papa Bee confessed, "When I was a young bee, I picked garbage for four summers to put together a piece of shit bicycle, I called it Piece of Shit. It sure looked bad…" he sank, "- but now!" Blushing, merging distress and satisfaction Papa Bee concluded, "look what we have now."