by Whitney R. Holp
I’ve been climbing these stairs as long as I can remember. There does not seem to be any end. Up and up and up, step by step, one foot after another, this ascent feels like an eternity (and maybe it is).
Until the moment I suddenly arrive at a small landing outside a closed door.
I wonder, should I knock, or try to open it? Part of me wants to, yet I hesitate. Isn’t this the reason I’ve been climbing these stairs, the destination I’ve been seeking all this time?
Why did I come here? The door becomes an ominous portent. I don’t even want to know anymore. Perhaps I should just turn around and go back down all those stairs.
Before I can decide, however, the sealed door opens from within, and reveals what appears to be a humongous bumble bee. It’s standing upright, so that its face is level with mine, with its membranous wings folded back and relaxed at its sides. I perceive a smile in its uncanny insectoid visage, and sense a gentleness emanate from the textured lens of its large compound eyes.
“Welcome,” it says. “We have been awaiting your arrival. Please, do come in.”
Cautiously, I step through the doorway and into what appears to be a massive industrial honey production facility. The bee leads me through a thrumming complex filled with giant vats, reinforced tanks, and great bubbling cauldrons. Everywhere, swarms of worker bees buzz about, humming in unison as they toil at their tasks.
“It has taken us nearly two thousand years, but at long last I think we have finally perfected the recipe. Would you care for the honor of being the first human to sample our special formula?”
I nod slowly, speechless with wonder before this incredible scene. My host leads me to a nearby sampling station, and pours some into a small ceramic cup and hands it to me. I hesitate, then put it to my lips and imbibe the sweet golden syrup within. It’s delicious, like silky smooth saccharine sunshine, sublime.
Nevertheless, after tasting it, I hear myself speak, my voice sounding as if from far away, “My blood is sweeter than this honey.”
Everything around me then grinds to a halt. Suddenly, I feel hundreds of shiny black insect eyes staring at me.
“Blasphemy,” someone urges in a hissing screech.
“It cannot be!” shouts someone else.
“We have worked tirelessly for two millennia. Nothing in the whole world can possibly surpass it.”
“Hear, hear. This… two-legged thing… is clearly a liar and a fraud. Death to him! We must silence his deceit. Such impiety cannot be tolerated.”
“Wait, wait,” states my host, stepping forward and raising a number of delicate forelimbs. “Please hold off, comrades. Let us vacillate for an equivocation.” After an extended interval of their buzzing and humming among themselves, my host turns to me, its reedy vibrato inquiring, “What you have stated, how can this be? Human, you must explain yourself.”
“Um… well, I don’t know,” I venture to say. “It just...is.”
The legion of eyes continue to stare. I feel my heart beating faster.
Swiftly, my host darts in and grabs my hand, and with a lightning-quick dip of its proboscis, draws a quick sample of blood from my wrist. Then it raises itself upright and declares in a flat tone, “What the stranger says is true. It is no prevarication. His vital plasma does indeed contain a more savory tang than our nectar.”
There’s a moment of silence as they all contemplate this information.
Then someone shouts, “Seize him—we must learn its properties.”
Immediately they swarm upon me, my host helpless to prevent them, and soon enough, I find myself restrained upon a waxen table. Clear cellulose drainage tubes are fitted into all my major veins. My foolish heart betrays me for the last time, as I watch in fascination while it resolutely pumps all my blood through the polymer tubes and into their testing vats for analysis.
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