Broken Horns
The forest floor is cool against Claire's cheek, sun-warmed ground no match for the fearful heat radiating from every inch of her body. Her wounds burn, sharp and dripping; her eyes brim with tears and her unwise fingers still clutch the flower.
Yellow and gold rise around her like a buzzing tide, each little bee-body blazing like a jewel in the sun's bright light—a mob nerving itself for the first strike, eagerly awaiting the violence that will follow as soon as some brave soul gives the rest permission—
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