Tears of the Sun MATTHEW TRAVAGLINE
When young Walker stormed into the kitchen, tears streaming down his cheeks, his grandfather looked up from his newspaper and invited the boy to climb onto his lap. Walker thrust a finger before his grandfather’s face, mumbling between cries about a bee. “Shh, it’s okay, Walker. It’s just one little sting.” Walker’s grandfather scraped the stinger out with his fingernail. “See? It’s out. No more tears, little one.” Walker pulled his arm back and inspected the red welt on his finger. He lowered his arm to his side, keeping it; with his free arm, he wiped at his nose. “Why do you have those stupid bees anyway?” Walker’s grandfather sat him on the ground and the pair walked over to a window overlooking the hives in the backyard. “Without those ladies, many of the delicious foods we eat could not grow. Even chocolate relies on pollinators like bees.” The boy buried his face into his grandfather’s waist and mumbled something inaudible. “Have I ever told you how bees came to be?” the grandfather chuckled at his pun. Walker shook his head. “Our story takes us back to ancient Egypt.” # Mandisa sat up, waking from a sleep she hadn’t remembered taking. The sound of pursuing feet that woke her faded into a dull memory. Her hands instinctively felt at her hairline, searching for something that was not there. Shaking the nightmare from her mind, Mandisa considered her surroundings. She slept on a chair made of polished wood and tanned leather. Brass epaulets tacked to the edge of the leather made the chair look like the throne Mandisa only heard of in her father’s tall tales. After standing, she stooped and dusted sand off of the seat, wincing as her fingers ran over a crease that outlined how she sat. Looking around, Mandisa realized she was alone. The chamber held no other focal features save a reception desk to one side, a small table bearing leaflets, and a television monitor flickering through a dozen preset messages. “They didn’t have TV’s in ancient Egypt, Grampa!” Walker’s sharp comment echoed through the room, though his grandfather was quick to work around his logistical faux pas. “Maybe it was a magic tablet that changed hieroglyphs every few minutes.” THE KUDZU REVIEW 22