I write sins, not tragedies
She barely remembers to turn off the lasers when she whirls around to see who’s at the door, the lights tracking quickly across the wooden shed, leaving a pair of light scorch marks in their wake before she scrunches her eyes closed. “Oh,fuck, sorry Sam -” Wessex looks away and then pauses to make sure everything’s ‘normal’ before looking back at the bookmaker.
“Wasps are - the fucking worst.” Absolutely no use for them. They don’t pollinate, make honey, or do anything useful. They just sting. So she doesn’t feel too bad about destroying the nest. Waving a hand in the air to make sure the few still flying around don’t reach her, she makes a face.
“But yeah, all good.” And if it wasn’t, it would be. Returning to the ash in the wheelbarrow, the Queen attempts to resume her composing efforts, but the front wheel seems to be stuck in some memory mud and it does not want to let go.
“Wasps are - the fucking worst.” Absolutely no use for them. They don’t pollinate, make honey, or do anything useful. They just sting. So she doesn’t feel too bad about destroying the nest. Waving a hand in the air to make sure the few still flying around don’t reach her, she makes a face.
“But yeah, all good.” And if it wasn’t, it would be. Returning to the ash in the wheelbarrow, the Queen attempts to resume her composing efforts, but the front wheel seems to be stuck in some memory mud and it does not want to let go.
WESSEX
