The Beings
My wings beat to the rhythm of my hive. I can feel my thoughts wiring through the honeycomb catacomb. Smooth thoughts — like the honey we make — sluggish thoughts — like the beeswax I hop along — they all spiral their way out into my small world.
Potent thoughts. Like the Beings that reach in. They come in the day, the sun feverishly beating behind them. The rays crash into our world and blind us. Our honey stolen. Our Queen watched from behind a mask of mesh. Their faces never seen. Their voices never heard. Then they creep away into the horizon, leaving us violated and empty.
The warnings flood me, nectar bubbling in the back of my throat, my slippery new wings beating feebly. I have to escape.
Shrieks. Vibrations that drag me to the floor. Wax matting my fur. Shrieks. A great cracking which throws me against the wall of my cell. I look up. The hive is being torn in two.
They are here.
York St John Pollination Project 