Beekeper of the Dark - Beware
a short story
Beekeeper of the Dark
By Ophelia Everfall
Beware
Magic was real. It had to be. Elle saw things. She felt them too.
She had dreams.
Seth Rogan was in the worst one. Jim Carrey too.
They told her things from God. It was angels. She knew that’s what it had to be. Elle’s heart was always right. She knew.
It was nice.
Her soul guardian was known as Sundancer. Her Native American teacher who openly admitted hating the colonizers she was teaching was a great person. They’d invited her to maim Vladmir Putin with witch energy and that seemed like a great idea. Nothing in Elle had a problem with it. There was no way that man needed a hug.
They showed up in a dream once and had hair. It had to be Sundancer.
Her teacher had taught her the most important things. Firstly, to not care about anyone. Secondly, to take their money. Thirdly, it was that only a Native American woman could be a true medicine person or shaman. Fourthly, was how all deference should be paid forward to the Native American lords of the underworld.
Stanley Kubrick fucked everyone up. Sundancer told that it was correct to not understand. They’d explained how everything was told truest through the thoughts Elle could feel them inspiring in their head. She was a channel of the divine.
Elle didn’t like cheeseburgers but she thought about them all the time.
The first rule of shamanistic training was that you don’t speak about shamanistic training. The second rule of shamanistic training was that you pay money to a retard so they could scramble your brain. It was the nicest thing you could do.
People didn’t have wisdom in themselves. It all came from teachers.
Elderly people were God itself. They’d been so wise that Elle couldn’t help to offer them her deference. She felt bad about the thoughts she’d often have about them being incorrect. That wasn’t right. It didn’t feel nice.
Elle was refusing to masturbate for holding her energy. Something in her was breaking and she knew it Satan.
Money was easy for Elle. She was a cisgendered woman. People just took care of things for her when it didn’t work out. They knew her a feeble feeler person and not of proper rationality. Elle appreciated that. She took advantage.
Every once and a while, Elle would pull out her oversized purple dildo and ram her own ass with it in the shower. It was hard to use the suction, and poop was a genuine problem, but it felt right to do so. Her favorite station was the edge of the tub, with her legs straddling it, and her body gripping the walls as best she could. It wasn’t flattering but it got the job done. Everyone had a hidden dildo on DumSum at least once.
Sometimes she thought she’d been coming from her ass.
Anal orgasms were real. They were so nice.
She’d tried for the longest time to get her first one. It felt like her whole body going prickly from being so in a state of ecstatic release from fascia holding. She wasn’t fond of black people.
Elle didn’t tell people that because she was liberal.
She thought trans women were creepy. Those cute girls on testosterone with their retarded little mustaches and flannel, the way they picked the grossest shorts, and how their voices squirted panties by their invalid-status-confirming tone was a boon to the heart of all.
Elle wanted to eat one of those woman’s pussies because it might smell less like a can of tuna fish, and more like the cocks she wanted but was traumatized by. Culture told her it was right. The future was female and Elle knew that. She’d been burning sage to make sure her field of energy was clear.
Men were a problem. They were all horrible. Elle wanted to make sure none would ever stand beside her again. She was a lesbian now, despite every telling of her body, and the way it made her feel impossibly lost.
Elle didn’t like the way lesbians required each other to rape the other. They thought it hot. It was thing. Trans women were the worst for being so respectful and not understanding the breadth of purpose to lesbianism’s ideology. They wouldn’t rape when given the tell-tale lesbian cues. They were such men.
Misandry was a lie. It didn’t exist. That was impossible.
It was only right to hate men, because the rich patriarchs and their evil wives who manipulated them ruled the world. It was bad. It was all men’s fault.
Saying ‘not all men’ was a telltale sign of a men’s right activist. They’d all been obvious rapists. People wouldn’t stand up for a half of the population most deserving of losing place in society for eras to come. Why would they? Men were useless.
Magic was real and Elle swore it. Nothing felt less true than delusional men who thought they could be women to her. Those were the worst of all. They’d been trying to steal her space. Elle thought about a boy pussy as she’d fallen asleep.
She wanted a genital cult captain-retard for herself. It was that mustache they all wore. It was so hot. It was the shorts. It was the unbuttoned plaid. It was the thrift store vibe. It was the way they’d make it so clear they smelled.
Nothing was more disgusting than a transgender man’s kiss. It just tasted too great. It was a thing to wholly avoid. Elle just wanted that pussy with less tuna-smell so bad. She’d not been a fan of the sea.
Elle was squirt dumpster filler. She hadn’t found a good dumpster in a long time.
Everyone liked it too much and she hated that. She hated herself for loving it. She wouldn’t think about that. She wouldn’t remember the memories of her childhood which came up every time someone triggered her pussy to come too hard.
Men were rapists. Elle’s mother was a sad old woman. She’d been the best mom to every kid in their family. Nothing made sense to that mother except for her identity as one. It was all she’d to hold onto after dedicating her life to spawn who’d grown up and made choices she didn’t approve of.
She loved Elle best. They talked on the phone everyday. Her daughter was easiest to control. Elle would never let her mom go. She’d let them continue to ruin every day of her life until they died.
Elle was dying today.
She’d not know it yet and that was a good thing. For if she’d known it would have prevented the miracle which would spur forth in the wake of her suicide.
She was going to heaven. Souls were real. Every person was a whole soul.
People weren’t gods embodied. God wasn’t a singularity. Everything outside of reality wasn’t just a bit loving light. People weren’t all the same in the center. It was too scary to let go of possession in identity.
Everyone wanted to live forever because something in them told they would.
Nobody realized they were all the same in their DNA.
Humanity was of one base personality, borne into people of all different makes, and the trauma applied and forces at bear in their life would forge them. Their bodies were a filter. Each creation of the Earth would be a thing which believed itself most separate, if it was a retarded human. Those personalities were afraid to lose themselves. Ideas of oneness were so scary that people imagined layers of existential, esoteric heaven between themself and that light they could feel way out there.
The Devil made people think they were God. Satan had people fucking. Gay people were broken. Trans people were just the worst of all.
Elle was great because she’d known her spirituality the best of all. She’d known her magic was a truest thing. She didn’t think about her fantasies. Elle couldn’t fathom why she’d imagine a devil-beast with a fourteen-foot cock splitting her down the middle into a literal corpse-sickle most nights.
That was the man she wanted. All the men of Earth were terrible. All of them.
Women had every right to rule the world. Women knew magic. Women were pure. Women were the best at holding themselves accountable. Women were the most honest and least manipulative. Women never did anything wrong to young men. Women were angles. Men were scum.
Elle hated black folks wholesale.
