Hornets’ Nest
None of us notice the hornets’ nest per se, but we all hear a whine in the lounge. It is distracting when we try to watch the television, but we are too tired in the evenings to mention it to one another. Until Gill arrives. ‘How long does it take to make one?’ Gill stands at a distance. The rest of us stand even further away, behind her. Gill has the authority of someone who only drinks tea from a mug with her own name on it. ‘It hasn’t just suddenly appeared,’ she adds. ‘It’s not, like, magic.’
A short story by Charlotte Turnbull.