First Wasps of Spring

A novel start for 2026

I’ve been dabbling in various ideas for a novel to complete by the end of the year. Thank you to all who read starts for The Dawnlands and The Owls on Titan. I’m pretty sure this piece is the direction I’ll take, though the novel will likely be told from a different perspective. I really enjoyed exploring the character dynamics in this, which will be a central focus of the book.

Before writing, I read Papi Pavarotti’s (or whatever he’s going by now) day of the dead writer to embody a vibe. I’m finding that reading these day-in-the-life pieces can put me in a physical state to channel the magic of other writers (mwhahaha!).

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The first wasps of spring came for the platter of cured meats and cheeses. They showed particular interest in the fig jam, which they clumped to like a mob, devouring the unnaturally sweet substance, as if looting through a window into heaven.

In 1964, the Rhineland had settled into spring, emerging from post-war starvation. Shiloh Blum sipped a glass mug of black tea, steam rising. A strong breeze picked up, signaling rain. He sat in the orchard beside the ruins of Reinhardtstein castle, watching the wasps carve ham with their mandibles. They broke off little pieces before buzzing away to paper nests cemented to the weathered stones of the decapitated tower. The astringent tea burned Shiloh’s throat, just enough to keep him from being bothered by the deteriorating weather.

“Herr Blum.” Uwe limped up to the table and swatted the wasps with a cloth napkin. “The bastards are early. I’ll get the spray.”

“Don’t bother.” Blum leaned back against the chair, leg folded over his thigh. “They’re part of the orchard, just as you’re part of my family.” He put a hand on Uwe’s back.

“Your son was supposed to arrive an hour ago,” said Uwe.

Blum cradled the tea in his hands as a breeze shook the wizened apple trees, new leaves flickering. A late-season frost tonight, from the cold front, threatened to cripple the harvest. Blum offered Uwe a kind expression that told him not to worry.

Uwe was younger by 15 years, but a burn incurred in ‘45 had shredded the youth off his face, and even when he smiled, he looked like a catastrophe.

“I’ll get the spray,” said Uwe. “When wasps get used to being fed, they never leave.”

“Don’t.” Blum grabbed Uwe’s hand.

Uwe pulled back, but was met with resistance. The faded double-lighting tattoo on Uwe’s index finger was visible again, and he broke free of the older man’s grip.

“Wasps are clean insects,” said Blum. “What we let live in spring will serve us in the summer.”

“What about the rain?” Uwe motioned to the platter.

“When the storm comes, we move. You know, my mother taught me how to deal with wasps, before the spray. Our family used to have a garden. She’d put a liverwurst in the bushes, chopped up, and let them have their own picnic while we had ours. It was nice like that.”

“Isn’t it now, too late for that?”

“Here’s what I’d like you to do.” Blum took a longer gulp of his tea, which had now cooled. “Split us some wood before the storm gets it all wet, and start a fire in the cottage. His girlfriend won’t want to arrive soaked in a cold, drafty place.”

Uwe fiddled with his sleeve. “You didn’t say he was bringing someone.”

“She’s lovely, I hear. German, too. They met in Hamburg last October. You would have liked her.”

“I only prepared the house for one guest. They’re not married.”

“Things are not as they were. Now get that wood split before even a firebomb won’t get it going.”

Uwe turned away from Blum. “Okay.”

He limped toward the woodshed at the other end of the cottage. Blum watched him, holding his now cold tea, as Uwe hobbled around with a hole in his groin, and his scarred face, a miniature of the ruined Tuetonic castle that loomed behind them on the property, wreckage from a war of their making, but not of their choosing.

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Thanks for being with me through this little experiment. I’ll be back with more complete stories soon, as I figure out what’s next.

Komposs sinises, Janov Valve