Henry the Transdimensional Time-Traveller

Chapter 2 - The Talking Bee

It took Henry several moments to realize he was not dead. He came to this conclusion because of two things: 1. He was breathing. 2. There was a bee hovering in front of his face.

It didn't surprise him as much as it would have in his younger years. He had led a pretty surprising life: He had come came face to face with not one, but a whole police force of an alien race, had killed a giant bat with a cheese sandwich, and married a girl called Ginny whose last name he never got around to remembering. The more surprising thing than the bee hovering in front of my face was the fact that he didn't seem to be standing on anything.

After he accepted that fact, he breathed a little easier.

He seemed to be nowhere. You will never understand the concept of being nowhere until you are, in fact nowhere. And I don't mean his car broke down in the middle of a deserted motorway at night and he needed a desperate fix-up, I meant there was absolutely nothing besides himself for miles around. The only thing that he could possibly seem to see was his own floating body above a mind boggling expanse of nothingness. And the bee.

Why there was a bee hovering in front of his face was a mystery to him. It didn't seem to be doing anything. It was hovering, in stasis, above his face, in a state of perpetual silence. He tried to touch it, but then he couldn't move his hands, or for that matter any of his limbs. The only thing he could do was breathe. It was most disconcerting.

"Henry," a little voice said, and if Henry could have jumped, he would have. Instead, his heart thumped a little harder in his chest.

"Who said that?" He demanded, only he didn't seem to be speaking with words. His thoughts jumped out into the air, echoing off the expanse of nothingness that surrounded them.

"The bee, " the bee said. "The one right in front of you. The only thing in existence here."

It seemed to be stating the obvious. In fact, Henry felt an alarming rush of stupidity take over him.

"Oh. Hi, bee. You can talk."

"Thanks for pointing that out. I had a little trouble realizing that."

"Sorry," He said, feeling sorry.

"No, really. I didn't know I could talk until you mentioned it. Thank you. Do you want to know my name?"

"Yes," He replied, not knowing until this moment that bees could have names.

"I don't have a name," the bee said. "It's curious, how bees don't have names, but humans do."

"Because we can talk," He said to the talking bee, feeling a little more stupid the more the conversation progressed.

"I am aware of that. However, I would like to have a name."

"Rigby" He said, immediately, and suddenly felt responsible for having named the world's only talking bee.

"I like it. Rigby. Rig-bee. You are quite funny."

"Thanks," He said, feeling his chest swelling (hypothetically). He regarded the bee, whose wings were unmoving, held to either side of its small, fragile body like a picture. It was facing the other way, and the only view he had of the bee was of a medium-sized stinger, that it could use to take his eye out with, if it so desired. As if reading my thought, Rigby said:

"I could take out your eye, if I so desired."

"You can read my thoughts?" He asked, astounded.

"Your thoughts aren't particularly private, not in this place." And with good reason, the bee added. If we could talk, the entire twelve-dimensional structure of the known universe would implode upon itself.