That Corpse You Planted Last Year in Your Garden
by Stacey Berg
Plants comb the dirt in rows, sparser than Damek had hoped. The greenhouse windows sweat, dripping clear trails against the fogged glass. There's a fog outside too, the light dispersed so evenly it looks opaque. Behind the clouds an occasional brighter light flashes. The low rumble rattles the panes. Moving away, Damek tries to tell himself. He doesn't count the intervals, not wanting to know otherwise.
He wipes moisture from his scalp, fingers drawing a few hairs across the barren patch. The vanity, so absurd in the face of this madness, shames him. He glances at Mbali, but she hasn't noticed; she's watching the bees. The calm on her face shames him too; he knows he looks the way he feels.
Shame flickers into anger, comes out as accusation in his voice. "It has to work this time. It's our last chance."
She doesn't look at him. "We still have the sequences."
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We don't have any more eggs to put them in, he starts to say, but she knows that already. She stands bent a little, one hand resting low against her belly, where fresh red stains her shift.
Wings hum, the frequency rising and falling as the bees drone through their programmed dance. All the flowers have blossomed that are going to. Thumbnail-sized fruits hang fleshy and pink against the white petals; the stems sag under their slight weight. A meager harvest, measured against the coming winter.
