Winners: March 2025 Non-fiction Contest

We are excited to announce the winner of the March 2025 Chattanooga Writers’ Guild Monthly Contest is John C. Mannone with the submission “Hives Full of Drones” and runner-up is Brent Weston with the submission “Dad Was Dying!” This month’s non-fiction category was “Drone(s),” judged by Sherry Poff.

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Hives Full of Drones

A collage, micro essay with didactive and imaginative nonfiction elements
2025

I.

Our survival depends on honeybees, which now risk extinction. Politically-protesting beekeepers in Europe, for credibility, put words in the mouth of Einstein, even posthumously, who allegedly said, If bees disappear, humans would have four years to live. And though a hyperbole, it does not decry the concern. Eighty-five percent of all our food depends on bee pollination.

Drones evolve with no father, only a mother, they do no work—gather no nectar or pollen—are fed by the female worker bees; they have no stinger. To court the queen, to have a one-night stand, drones have been programmed for self destruction. Their eyes are big, to perceive, to keep in synch in the ballroom waltz with the queen. They only live to die in a nuptial flight with the maiden queen from another hive and her sexual appetite doesn’t stop until 20 drones have had their day; the survivors may be kicked out early to preserve the food supply. However, they are not useless. They preserve the genetic diversity and survivability of the hive, ironically by having their sexual organs ripped from their bodies when the copulation is over.

Some say when bees hear the buzz, sense the danger from mobile telephones, their antennas tuned to radio waves, they leave in a frenzy, disoriented, not knowing their real killer, their sting of extinction. Extinction will likely come from a one-two punch: from a parasitic mite (varroa destructor) and the agrotoxins from fumigation by humans. We are the new killer bees, and it seems that we are determined to kill ourselves. We are our own existential threat. 

II.

Our survival should not depend on a certain type of drone, which ironically could risk our extinction. I say, if these drones don’t “disappear from the face of the Earth,” man might have no more than four years left to live before a paradigm shift in artificial intelligence (AI) occurs. Moore’s Law (an observation that isn’t based on any scientific principle) predicts an exponential growth rate of technology. But it’s more than a mere doubling every two years as it was for transistors, AI is progressing at hyper rates doubling every seven months because of improvements in algorithm optimization, data availability, and GPU technology.

Without any limiting constraints, then, at this rate, AI could evolve to produce self-aware drones before 2030, which could perceive humanity as a threat, or unnecessary, and therefore obsolete. But even if this does not happen soon, if at all, programming by dim-witted politicians and misguided generals could still lead to man’s extinction. Beware the drones that bear no honey in their mouths, but only duplicitous words of their fanatic creators. And these drones do have stingers in their tails, as well as big eyes to see our weaknesses.

What good are the drones of war? There’s a buzz of bombs over Israel, Palestine, Ukraine, Russia… There’s no sweet nectar in the flowering waste of destruction. Carl Jung said, I am not what happened to me; I am who I choose to become. What these drones choose to do to survive will be at the expense of our own dear lives.

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Dad was dying!

With a morphine gaze in his eyes, Dad was already absent. His former, bright blue, smiling eyes were open, but his spirit descended far beneath and into the deep – his eyes now cemented in a stare – stuck in a strange void. Could he see any light through those eyes of heavy fog, those eyes now clouded with hazy grays? Eyes were unresponsive, motionless, seemingly caught, and caged between memories of color and impending death – Frozen between the in-coherencies of a swirling black-and-white static storm. Dad’s breath was too simple and too shallow.

Heidi, our black Golden-doodle, knew it too. She repeatedly nudged Dad’s hand through the rail as if she wanted him to wake up. Of course, she slept out of our way but camped beside his hospital bed in the living room.

My sister and I – tired, beyond tired. Like being wired from lack of sleep. Dad was receiving hospice at home. It was grueling!

But, no longer was he yelling in pain. Looming quietness fell over the room.

Days before, my sister had him yell, “Praise the Lord,” instead of screaming with excruciating moans. At least there was sound.

When we turned and cleaned him, Dad’s back could no longer take the pain in his transitions. We timed the turns and got him to yell, “OHHH!” – within our bracketed words – “Bless the Lord, Oh, My Soul.” At first, it was funny. Later, serious as death. He learned the drill. In anger at the situation, Dad praised Jesus while in extreme agony. 

But the time came when the increasing morphine gently emptied and stilled his life. It was the last answer. 

When we told Dad about the morphine, he nodded with his eyes and acknowledged the pain was too much. Then, with the mouth, he emphatically said, “Darn it!” 

Mom says those were his last words. I do not remember – I was too exhausted. 

Over days, the slow demise of color exiting his eyes told the entire story.

Instead of running to my father for his hug, smile, or listening ears, I no longer recognized him. Was he still there fighting for life somewhere under the dead icy stare? Dad was no longer eating and gagged a little when we gave him water. Did we give him enough water there at the end? 

My sister and I tried our best. 

During the first hours of February 19th, 2024, Heidi got up and looked at me. At 2 AM, she was trying to tell me something in our revolving, unconventional schedule. Her eyes and head alerted me towards the door! She needed out. It was time for a walk in the backyard. 

The yard opened to a clear and crisp dark sky. Brief respite. Full and deep breaths. I felt God’s gentle breeze over my skin. I looked up towards the heavens in prayer for Dad and the family. Without hurry, my eyes drifted down and gazed at the silhouetted, low mountains on the horizon. 

Above the tree line were red lights slowly moving from the left to the center of my vision. 

So close? This late!? 

I wondered why an airplane was just above the trees near our house! We do not often see planes here in the Sequatchie Valley, below the cliffs of the short and stubby mountains. If so, they are typically fighter jets or C-130s on training missions. The military moves fast!

Maybe the lights were a helicopter. The extremely lateral and slow speed made this the more likely scenario.

My prayers before God in the midnight sky were interrupted by these lights. It soon hit – I was looking at a probable drone. I say this because of the proximity of the lights to themselves and the proximity of the lights to me and Heidi. As soon as I surmised it was a drone, the blinking stopped! Those lights in the sky went dark. They just disappeared! I never heard a sound coming from their direction. I stood in complete silence, wondering what my eyes had just seen. 

First thoughts, Why was there a drone out flying around at 2 AM? Over our yard? Why did its lights turn off when my eyes locked on it? Immediate next thought – Is this the night the lights will go out on my father? 

I went inside without talking about what I had seen. My sister was playing hymns on the piano next to Dad’s bed. A drone outside was the least of my worries. Around 4:45 AM, Dad died. His breath just slowly slipped away, no gasping for air.

I missed holding his hand as his breathing crept to a gentle stop. Clearing a path for the morticians was important, but I regret not being intimately present with him in his final minute.

The morticians took four hours to get to the house. Outside the temperature was brisk, a light-filled morning. Inside – Rigor mortis was setting in.

When we left Mom and Dad’s house in the past, Dad always followed us out the door and to the bottom of the driveway! He waved goodbye with both arms held high until we could no longer see him in our departing rearview mirrors. To our family, this was known as the “Weston wave.”

Now, Dad was being wheeled outside on a gurney. My sister and I followed him with Heidi on the leash. But, this time we gave him his “Weston wave.” We waved to a strange car and strange people who took our Dad away.

I stood in the bitterly cold air warmed by Dad’s thermal shirt. The unwashed shirt glued to my body and soul for the last week and a half. The long sleeves kept me warm inside as his skin grew colder. The long sleeves kept me warm outside as the teenage morticians drove him away toward the Eastern sunrise. I wore that shirt to his memorial service where I gave his eulogy. The blue shirt still has not seen the washing machine. 

I tear up now, recalling all these memories. My eyes are cloudy! Until now, I have not allowed myself to grieve. As the eldest son, I feel too much responsibility for caring for my mom and the finances to allow for a breakdown. Grieving will have to be done later when life slows down. Well, life is slowing down now. Moving in to help Mom, I have sorted most of Dad’s Depression-era heirlooms, cassette tapes, and years of paperwork.

Remembering the previous 4th of July, Dad and I drove around town several times looking for the best place to see the local fireworks. He finally let me lead the way, and I led him from a grid-locked, overcrowded parking lot to a place where he and I could watch the fireworks alone. It was the perfect spot in our town of 1,900 people.

We sat in the Honda, amazed at the long patriotic show! I noticed two drones darting in and out of the fireworks. Their lights flew like bumble bees in spring – hovering towards and into the flowering fireworks. I pointed the drones out to Dad. His old, tired, big, blue eyes got huge. His eyes grinned with childlike excitement! He had never seen a drone, and these little flying machines now tickled his 93-year-old curiosity. A drone flew over our car and rested for a few seconds. Hesitating and fluttering above us, Dad saw it through the open sunroof! – Blinking with and amongst the stars.

The other drone dashed again and again into the explosive midnight colors. 

Dad was passionately fascinated with politics in his later years. Though we agreed and disagreed on many issues, we sat in the car and watched a celebration of a country we both believe in and want the best for. 

It is only fitting that I soon was the discoverer – February 19th, the early morning of his death, was Presidents Day! 

I salute my Dad!

I salute my Pops!

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The Monthly Contests rotate through a pattern of Poetry, Fiction, and Creative Nonfiction throughout the year, with a new theme each month. Go to the 2025 Monthly Contest Series Info page to view the genre and theme for each month.

This contest is free to enter for members of the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild. To become a member, click HERE.