Creeaaaak and a low mooooaaan. Birds sing their good morning across the narrow opening. Small flying creatures buzz behind my head like nascar drivers looking for the next hit of pollen. Thunk – something big hit the glass door behind me.

I hesitate to turn around. My skin prickles, fear escaping through my pores. I anticipate a giant monster eagerly stalking my uncovered neck, waiting for the right moment to strike. My insides gurgle in protest. I can taste the metallic bile rising up to meet my tongue. The sweet and bitter fragrance of citronella mixes with my own perspiration. It does nothing to keep the giant monsters from getting near – just the small annoying blood suckers.

My eyes grow larger as they take my head, neck, and shoulders in a corkscrew to bear witness to my newfound nemesis. As the monster enters my field of vision, I see its yellow and black war paint – not friendly colors, my mind reminds me. My legs brace, ready to bolt as soon as they get the signal. My breath, completely lost.

My focus begins to sharpen on the porch monster, and my mind starts to translate the images like an office of WWII code breakers – clack, clack, clack – furiously trying to understand what it means. One jumps up, “I GOT IT!” They yell, tearing the paper from the typewriter and whipping it through the air. My shoulders receive the message first and they begin to soften. My neck widens, my ribs release their grip on my lungs and breath returns. My tunnel vision expands as I realize the monster is just a very fat, pollen-drunk bumble bee.