The Honey Collectors

A short fictional story about the honey collectors of India. Something that I am thinking about turning into a full length story. Comments? Suggestions? Constructive Criticism? Anything is welcome!

Yamir prepared his small boat to set off the island. It was the end of honey collection and he had over twenty old whisky bottles full of honey. He was proud; this would bring his family a somewhat better income than what he usually made. He thought of what he could do with the money. With the honey sellable at 0.75 cents per pound, he had options; he might even buy his son, Akshat, a bike to travel on. But Akshat was so young; perhaps he would wait till the boy was a bit older.

He sat down in the boat waiting for the other honey collectors to finish packing their remaining honey onto the boat. His belly growled. Yamir glanced over at one of the jars of honey. This whiskey bottle only held a little honey in it, not enough to sell. So he decided that he was to indulge himself in some of the sweet liquid.

It oozed thick like the sap of a tree down into his mouth. He savored its flavor on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it. Yamir wished he could venture into the jungle more often than the short fifteen days per year that the government of India allowed his Sundarban tribe of Jharkhali up the great Ganges River to the many small islands. He could make a fortune. Here, honey was like gold.

He gazed off into the distance dreaming of a fortune of honey when suddenly movement caught his eye. Yamir stood up looking closer into the dense mangrove forest. Again, he thought he saw movement. The old whisky jar was set down and he cautiously moved towards where he believed to see the movement.

He called to the others, but they were too busy with packing their honey to pay any attention. He leaned in, pulling out his old knife, looking closely into the brush but seeing nothing. Satisfied, he turned around toward his kinsmen. One of them glanced up at him.

“Yamir, what are you doing?” he called to him.

“Nothing,” he replied, “I just thought I saw-”

Out from the brush behind him leaped a large tiger, well over 400 pounds. It knocked Yamir down in a single leap, landing on his back. The wind rushed out of his lungs and he struggled to breath. He tried to turn, tried to fight, but before anyone could do anything, the monster of god tore into his throat.

His body went limp; the knife fell from his hand, and right before their eyes Yamir’s body was dragged into the forest. The others were frozen for a moment with shock and fear, but within moments they seemed to recover. They tried to chase the tiger into the dense mangrove forest, but it was too late. No tracks were found, no broken branches.

All that was left of Yamir was an old knife with a six inch blade. The widow would have no body to bury. 

Reviews

[KaylaPotter1216]

I don't know a lot about the subject written about in detail, but it was exciting and kind of made me gasp when he got killed. O_O Poor guy. But stories that begin with tragedy are nine times out of ten interesting and will keep their readers biting their tongues and holding their breath. Very well written. :) I'd enjoy reading anything you decide you might want to write and share continuing from this preview.

[Zune]

Thank you! It is much appreciated. I think that this has a lot of potential and I am glad someone else thinks that to!

[Marie]

This was exciting and suspenseful. Poor Yamir...dreaming of what he would do with his honey, tasting its sweetness...then the sudden tragedy...

[Zune]

Thank you so much! I appreciate your review!

[zainul]

Zune,
You have filled the short piece with tons of emotion and excitement.
Great write reflecting a great culture of honey collectors of the Sundarban of India and Bangladesh who always confront the man-eating tigers for living.
I congratulate you talented writer!!!
Zainul

[Zune]

Thanks! I was worried that nobody would know what I was talking about.

[zainul]

Welcome.
Don't worry.
I'm around to read your talented writes.