The monarchs fluttered about the bright orange milkweed blossoms. The color of their wings matched it perfectly, like a sunset shining from the bushes.
“This is going to be the perfect centerpiece for our presentation.” Penelope held the camera steady as she crouched forward. She scanned the ground, careful not to snap any
Gaela clacked down the street, heavy on her four legs after a long workday. Even her prickles ached. Her tabular dinged and a message floated up. She scanned the holographic text hoping her 338—er, 335—kids hadn’t eaten one another again. Because that’s what happened when there wasn’t enough money.
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Their footwork was flawless. Their abdomens vibrated at just the right rate. They executed each turn with precision. Every eye was on the golden dancers, mine most of all.
I was halfway to proving my hypothesis about bee communication. PhD, here I come.
Dr. Young shrugged. “At least this bee hologram
Miles—scarab beetle and humble photojournalist—strained to listen. He glanced at the surrounding trees, spectral colossi in the moonlight. A fallen log sat rotting, just ahead.
“I don’t hear anything.”
Calvin—atlas beetle and journalist—stood stock still. His three horns curved upward in a graceful silhouette against the dark horizon.
Bright signs decorated with gleeful peaches and grinning ears of corn advertised a local fall festival down the road. Tempting. Justin was more than ready for a break. The constant whoosh of hot air blasting through the car’s open windows for three days made for two cranky children. Cranky father, too.
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