fiction by corbin eaton

A Bee Sting and a Financial Advisor

There are only three instances in which a bee sting can be fatal. The first being for those who are allergic. The second being for those who are the bees. And the third, the peculiar situation of Humphrey Mardukas.

In the summer of 2008, the country was in need of some good news. And Duke, as his coworkers lovingly called him, was in need of some light medical attention.

He was taking a phone call outside of the financial center in the garden when it happened. It was a small, quite depressing garden to look at. A few wildflower patches shoved in between concrete to add life and vibrancy in such an industrial zip code—but it had the same effect of putting a band-aid on a gunshot wound.

However, Duke couldn’t care less about the wildflowers. He stomped up and down the pathway as he argued with the man on the other line, who is of no importance to us. What is important is that a bumblebee was knocked off of its flight path by the aggravated waving of Duke’s fist. This, in turn, made the bumblebee particularly angry. Which was unfortunate because he, the bee, had been trying to work on his temper. But I suppose there’s bigger plans in store for all of us. And, for Humphrey Mardukas, that plan involved a bee sting to the hand.

The stinging itself was nothing more than momentary pain. The real trouble came later that night, when Duke’s hand had donned a striking red knot, front and center. “But doc, I’m telling you—this seems serious,” Duke yelled into his phone.

“Some allergy cream and an ice pack is all I can prescribe for you, Mr. Mardukas. Aside from that, time and rest will heal it,” his physician replied. Duke could hear the laughter of a television in the background. It became clear to him that he was not the priority—and this did not please our friend Duke.

By the time he slinked into his lavishly lonely one-bedroom apartment, his hands resembled an uneven pair of boxing gloves. And so, that unprepared prize-fighter slithered into bed with a glass of scotch, trying to dull the pain.

The next morning, when Duke awoke, he noticed the pain was gone. Not only the pain though, the entire feeling in his arm. He raised it, which was still hidden under the covers of his California King, up to his eyes. The swelling had subsided. It was an overnight miracle. “But what of the numbness? Perhaps,” Duke deduced, “I just slept on it funny.” Sounds reasonable enough. But of course, he would be very wrong.

Duke rode the subway to his office. It was packed, as it usually was for a morning commute, but Duke had noticed it more so. He sat cramped in like an obese child’s stomach and stared at the pregnant woman standing across from him.

And then, something happened deep inside of Duke.

Something that had never happened.

Duke got up from his seat and gestured toward the woman. At first, she was confused. This wasn’t the usual behavior Duke, whom she had seen on the train many times, had shown. After two years of rush hour train rides, his cold-hearted apathy had become commonplace. Not once had he ever offered up his seat. “Well,” she told herself, “people can change, Samantha.” They certainly can.

As Samantha took advantage of Duke’s newfound generosity, she thought it best to pay it back to the man she barely even knew. “I like your tattoo,” she said with a kind smile as she sat down.

“I don’t have any tattoos.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Well, whatever it is. The flower on your hand is very pretty.”

Duke raised his no-longer numb hand to inspect this so called flower tattoo, but the voice of the train announcing its stop snapped his attention elsewhere. He hurried off, barely slinking between the already closing doors.

Before he knew it, Duke was outside of his firm’s rotating doors when he remembered the tattoo comment. He stopped on the sidewalk and raised his hand up for inspection. Sure enough, there was a small, delicate flower—a daisy to be exact—planted in the middle of his hand. He brushed his fingers underneath its white petals with equal parts curiosity and tranquility when suddenly he heard the unwelcoming voice of the accounts manager. “Duke. What are you doing out here? Scared of the wolves inside?”

With a quick pluck and short-lived tinge of pain, Duke tossed the daisy to the pavement and greeted the man with a half-hearted smile.

Duke tried to continue his day normally, but there was nothing normal about a flower blooming from one’s hand.

Every afternoon, Duke would take his forty-five minute lunch break and work out in his office’s fitness center. It was always a fine way to relieve the built-up stress of the job. Duke figured it even more important to practice such a routine on this day. But as he saw himself changing in the reflection of the locker room mirrors, Duke was reminded that this was no normal day.

His dress shirt was folded neatly on the bench, but Duke stood not so neatly, almost trembling as he looked at himself. All along his chest, back, arms, and shoulders were little flowers. 

Just 

beginning 

to 

bloom. 

Corbin Eaton is a writer and filmmaker from Nashville, TN. His screenplays have garnered awards and attention from the MidWest WeirdFest, the Chicago Screenplay Awards, and the Los Angeles Lift-Off Film Festival. His most recent television pilot 'Old Folks' has been optioned for a deal and will begin pre-production this spring. He's always had a strong passion for storytelling and is honored to be featured in Mulberry Literary.

Eaton's short stories can be found at CorbinEaton.com or on Instagram, @52BadStories