Scurrying around like little bees, gold and black. Round and round, they make others happy. The witch shifts herself to take the form of a bee and joins their route, showing them the joyful art of dance.
Click goes each bead, falling into place. Different colors run along a thin translucent line, tailored to whom it will be worn. My heart sank as one line was cut, small spheres going in directions.
The cold machines roll thunder through the countryside, aimed, poised. They have never ventured this far before. The monsters perch atop the machine's cabins. She peers through the blinds, knuckles white against her broom.