The Butterfly and the Bee

Did I ever tell you the story of the butterfly and the bee? No? Then I shall tell you now, if you would like me to. Yes? Alright then.

Once upon a time, there was a pretty little flower patch that was tended by a pretty little girl who lived in a pretty little house in a pretty little town where it only rained at night time and every day was sunny and beautiful. However, the only thing of relevance to our story is the pretty little flower patch, I just assumed you would be the curious sort and wonder where the little flower patch resided, who cared for it, and so on. Now that you know, we can move along.

Anyway, so the pretty little flower patch. In this flower patch, every imaginable kind of flower blossomed and flourished and grew and grew and grew. There were no weeds in the flower patch, but that too is irrelevant to our story. As the flowers grew in the garden, the insects of neighboring gardens became curious of it and went to investigate. In particular were a butterfly, and a bee. The butterfly was majestic, with shining wings of bright, unimaginable colours that blended with the flowers in an indistinguishable fashion. The bee was a very average, plain bee, who was rather avid about his work, and determined to be the best, most noticeable bee in his hive. All the other bees knew that this was a noble but unreachable aspiration and were content to remain as average bees.
 

Back to the pretty little flower patch. Sunlight danced on the flowers in the day time, and raindrops danced on them in the nighttime, and the flowers grew and grew and grew until the flower patch of the pretty little girl became the prettiest little flower patch in the whole city. When it did, the insects of other gardens had a general meeting to decide who should get to move into this pretty little flower patch belonging to the pretty little girl in the pretty little house in the pretty little town where it only rained at night time and every day was sunny and beautiful. There was a unanimous vote that butterfly should get to go. After all, she was the most majestic, and her wings would be much better offset by the flowers of this pretty little flower patch then they would by any others in the pretty little town. The average, yet avid bee, seeing this as his chance to become noticed and placed above the other bees, demanded that he too get to go to the prettiest little flower patch in the pretty little town. And the other bees, sick of his ways of showing off and his over-zealousness, agreed that he could go.

Thus, the butterfly and the bee moved in to the prettiest little flower patch tended by the pretty little girl who lived in the pretty little house in the pretty town where it only rained at night time and every day was sunny and beautiful.

Seconds, minutes, and hours past (because we are talking about the lives of insects, time must be measured in shorter increments). The butterfly and the bee busily harvested pollen from the flowers and kept the pretty little flower patch growing and growing and growing, with the help of the pretty little girl. The pretty little flower patch continued to be the prettiest little flower patch in the pretty little town.

Eventually, every flower in the garden had been visited by the either butterfly or the bee. The butterfly knew this, and so she decided to take a little rest. She landed on a particularly nice-looking flower and closed her eyes for a nap, stretching out her wings to soak up some of the dazzling rays of sunshine that shone from a cloudless sky. The bee was still avidly searching for a flower that had not yet been visited. He was growing impatient when suddenly, much to his surprise, he spotted a flower he had never seen before. Swiftly, he flew over and landed, ever so softly, upon the flower, and attempted to reap from it's large quantities of pollen. But this flower did not so easily give up the pollen it held. For some reason he could not achieve a proper purchase of it, and this frustrated him greatly. The harder he tried, the more frustrated he became, until his fury had built up so high that he became utterly irrational, and stung the flower in his indignation and anger. At this, the butterfly awoke to the unpleasant knowledge that she had been stung, for she was indeed the alleged “flower”. Weak from the pain, and knowing that she would soon die, she looked down at the bee, gasping for breath beside her, and shook her head sadly.

“Now you will be remembered.” she whispered as the light faded from the corners of her eyes.

At these words, the bee died happily, before he could put together that he would be remembered as the stupidest bee in the hive. Not only that, but a murderer. He died before he could realize that all the other insects would think he had killed her purposely, out of spite over her beauty and originality. And the butterfly, knowing that he had died before coming to these conclusions, also died happily. For she was not only majestic, with shining wings of bright, unimaginable colours that blended with the flowers in an indistinguishable fashion, but she was a kind, selfless butterfly who thought very little of herself and much more of the happiness of others.

So the pretty little girl in the pretty little house found the two insects dead in her pretty little flower patch. She gathered them both lovingly into her hands and buried them in the soil. The same soil in which the flowers grew and flourished. The same soil that made up the prettiest little flower patch, tended by the pretty little girl who lived in the pretty little house in the pretty little town, where it only rained at night time and every day was sunny and beautiful.

The end.

The End

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