Beneath the Snake Grass

The children frolic through the flowers and the green grass of summer, chasing the fuzzy butterflies. So happy they are, free of the house and chores, they jump and play. Cheeks vibrantly flushed with the euphoria of a beautiful day, drawing, unbeknownst, to their plays end.

Their parents warned them not to stray and follow the gypsy moths; for they are her messengers of bereavement and their loss.

So much closer now.

She rests and waits beneath the snake grass, a smile of craving creeps onto her bark-covered face, inspecting as they approach. The happy little ones are fat and plump from their considerate parent’s affectionate care, a privilege she so eagerly can’t wait to relieve them of.

A few steps more.

Stepping onto a stray log, near the snake grass, creates an upwards flood of the lovely moths, making the children squeal with delight.

Closer.

They skip and sprint, springing their arms forth to try and catch the winged wishes.

Just a few inches more…

The eldest, which should’ve known better, jumps over the snake grass and catches his death wish. The warning not taken, the lesson now never learned, escapes with the last breath; like a squirming moth within her clutches. The others soon follow, they squirm, scream, and flail; until completely still.

An echo of bellowing laughter cuts the silence of the moment as she hums and sings, “Never chase a gypsy moth into the snakes grass, the beldam awaits to feast on children at last.”