To bee or not to bee

In Competition No. 3109 you were invited to submit a short story entitled ‘The Last Bumble Bee’.

The buff-tailed bumblebee, Bombus terrestris, was once voted Britain’s favourite insect, and this challenge seemed to strike a chord, inspiring stories that ranged from the topical to visions of a near-future of drone pollinators and enforced entomophagy.

The winners earn £25 each.

As B. came buzzing over the common, he noticed that he was alone. Where were his erstwhile friends? he wondered idly. They seemed to have packed up their hives and vanished, although some, he realised, had switched sub-genus, and were describing themselves as rumblebees, jumblebees, even zomblebees. Very discombobulating. Were they really of a different stripe?

Once they’d all been on his team, up to their thighs in delicious honey. They’d been on the B-team. Even the Queen. He thought fondly of that great day when she had invited him to partake of royal jelly.

Below him he saw ants massing. They were rightly called eusocial, even if their head emmet, a formica rufa, was a bit strange. A whiff of nectar distracted him. Ah, larkspur! Pretty! He dived away for a casual flirt. Who could care, on this glorious morning, that he was the very last bumbler?
Bill Greenwell

Derek woke from a vivid dream: he was tucking into a rare steak, french fries and a salad garnish. After all these years, why were these dreams tormenting him? It had been so long his children didn’t know what meat was, nor his grandchildren. His thoughts drifted to the days of dining out, selecting tempting dishes from the menu, consuming them with relish. Nowadays it was a quick walk to the corner café and very little choice.

‘Is that all you have? Nothing but insects?’

‘We prefer to call them hexapods, sir.’

Derek studied the display. ‘I’ll have a few grasshoppers, and’ — his eye fell on a dried, furry morsel at the back — ‘a couple of those, please.