My first sting

My father had curiously shuffled through the bin for ten minutes before I tread up the hill to find blue fans, tarot cards, and worn woolen sweaters. Singular items, plentiful in mind. To be dipped into the treasure chest, my hand of all seeing fingers was in eusocial wasp brigade. Like all other nearly identical groups of being, they believe I am plotting a vicious conspiracy which renounces their true individual self as the upholders of mass uniformity. Naturally, I say. Blast, I say! A nest of hornets rest beneath the corner over which my arm hovered and bodied swords thrust into my skin. I screamed, ran backward whilst in search of my attacker. Another, another! Faster then. My father looked at me with both concern and bewilderment. He came toward me and I examined my arm to find three relatively large holes in the right forearm. "God dammit," I said to my father. He offered to drive me home but I insisted that we walk.
Throughout, I explained that the wretched smell in the kitchen hadn't been a dead mouse, as Mum assumed, but rather, a dead bat which had died while we were at the beach for the weekend. She hurriedly came in, handed me the disinfectant and remembered something she had to attend to outside, which kept her for the five minutes it took me to take the bat in the mouse trap outside, return, wipe down the area behind the toaster, disinfect it, and light a candle. I explained this to him because of his nose; amid his life, fights have broken it at least four times, ergo it became intolerant of the smoke put off by my mother's incense and candles. Upon returning, he would not comment on the heavy waft of apple wax and spiced plums so as to not upset my mother with the disrobed smell of rotten Chiroptera, not because of the stench itself, but because it would keep in her mind that another small animal has died in her home.

"At least it wasn't fifteen," said James.
Henry asked, "Are you in any pain now?"
I looked up at him while painting a matte print of Lake and myself and shook my head.
"That's incredible."
"I've only stepped on bees before, this is the first time they've attacked me."


At the beach, Tim read all but the last couple chapters of The Deathly Hallows. We stayed up after everyone had gone to bed and whispered our opinions and reactions to each other. I had so anticipated talking with him about the book that the idea of it knotted my stomach with excitement. Then Tim softly read to me and I fell asleep on his chest.
I am so proud of Neville. I must have cried every time he was brought into light.