Bees | By: Joseph Schlegel | | Category: Short Story - Adventure Bookmark and Share


I'll never forget those bees. Not even if I'm unfortunate enough to live a million years. I'll never forget the way they followed me . . .
It was long ago - when I was still a boy - when the bees began to pursue me. I'd done nothing too horrible, or so I thought. My father thought differently, the bastard. He tossed me into the pit to punish me. The pit I'd dug myself.
The sun was so damn hot, you'd think it was sitting in the pit right next to me, smiling. I looked around immediately for an escape route . . . nothing. That's when I saw the bee.
It buzzed around my head for a second or two, then landed on my shoulder. I stared at him for a long while. His eyes told me that it was my archnemesis. The bee flew off and I didn't think much of it. That is, until a couple of minutes later, when it came back.
It buzzed around my head for a second or two, then landed . . . in my left ear! It crawled right in there, and I could hear nothing but buzzing. I thought to myself, "Dad, you bastard!"
I shook my head visciously and the bee flew out, thank God . . . but that buzzing sound didn't go away. I thought, at first, that it was some sort of after effect . . . that the sound was just the echos and reverberations of the bee's sounds that emminated from him while he was stationed in my head. However, the sound wasn't coming from inside my own head . . . the source seemed to be behind me.
I turned around and noticed a small hole about the size of my index finger in the side of the pit. Naturally, I stuck my finger in it. God damn my dad's a bastard! No sooner had my finger reached the knuckle, a crazy sensation began to develop. I pulled my finger out and watched as a swarm of angry bees began to emerge from the small hole. There must have been a thousand bees in that little hole, at least, because I know I got a thousand stings in my left arm. All one thousand of those bees landed on my left arm and simultaneously stung me. There was no way to wave them off, or slap them silly, or spit on them, because there were just so goddamn many of them.
I killed my father the next day. He didn't realize I had made it out of the pit. He would have left me there to rot, the bastard. Fuck him. I shot him with a twenty caliber, or some shit like that, and he died instantly. I held my arm.
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