Narrator: Gerald S. | Shropshire, England
I’d kept bees for nearly twenty years. A face in a mass of insects didn’t initially trouble me. People see faces in all sorts of things.
It appeared when I lifted a frame. Two dark hollows, a narrow nose, a mouth. The bees moved, naturally, but the face kept its proportions. I turned the frame and it turned its eyes towards me.
I held it away from my body. The mouth opened. The sound came through the buzzing: a long, breathy syllable that might have been my name.
I dropped the frame. I’m ashamed of that. It hit the ground hard enough to kill bees, and I had never handled a colony so carelessly before.
My wife came over because she’d heard me shout. The bees were behaving normally by then. I completed the inspection with her standing beside me.
I kept the hives. People are surprised by that. I was frightened, but they were still living things in my care. I haven’t heard a word from them since. I do talk to them more than I used to, though I couldn’t tell you what answer I’m hoping for.
