I am 8 years old. I see a 9 foot viper nearby, ra
I am 8 years old. I see a 9 foot viper nearby, razor sharp fangs gleaming in the sunlight. It slithered closer. Human, why are you here It hissed. I…got lost I whimper. It revealed a line of razor sharp jaws. AHHHHHHHH! I yell. What the fuck? I say. Child, You should not be saying that!! It said in anger.
The sun beat down on my neck, turning my eight-year-old skin a delicious shade of red. I’d been chasing a butterfly, its wings a kaleidoscope of colors, and somehow, in my chase, I’d wandered far from the familiar path. The woods, usually a place of wonder, now seemed a tangled web of shadows and whispering leaves.
Then I saw it. A serpent, coiled like a spring, its emerald scales catching the sunlight. Nine feet long, it was, with a head as thick as my father’s arm. Razor-sharp fangs, glinting like shards of glass, pointed from its gaping maw. Fear froze me.
“Human,” it hissed, its voice a low rumble that vibrated through the air. “Why are you here?”
The words caught in my throat. “I… I got lost,” I whimpered, tears stinging my eyes.
The snake, if that was what it was, raised its head, the fangs now fully extended. It opened its mouth, revealing a row of teeth that seemed to stretch for miles. “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” I screamed, my voice raw with terror.
“What the fuck?” I blurted out, the word tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop it.
The snake recoiled, its emerald scales turning a shade of angry green. “Child,” it hissed, its voice laced with fury, “You should not be saying that!”
I stared, bewildered, at the talking snake. “But… you’re a snake,” I stammered.
The snake’s eyes narrowed. “I am a serpent, you impertinent whelp!” it roared. “And I demand respect!”
I gulped. I’d never seen a snake get angry before, let alone one that talked. My fear took on a new dimension, one of awe and bewilderment.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, trying to regain my composure. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The snake, still visibly upset, stared at me for a moment. Then, with a sigh, it said, “Fine. Now, tell me, what brought you so far into my domain?”
I told him the story of the butterfly, how I had been chasing it, how I had lost track of the path, and how scared I was. The snake listened patiently, his anger seemingly subsiding.
“You’re a foolish one,” he finally said, his voice softened. “This place is dangerous. But I suppose you are lost now.”
He then, to my astonishment, did something unexpected. He uncoiled himself, revealing a path hidden beneath the foliage. “Follow this, child,” he instructed. “It will lead you back to the familiar trails. And try to be more careful in the future.”
I thanked him profusely, and then, with a heart full of relief and a newfound respect for the talking snake, I followed the path. I didn’t look back, but I could feel his eyes on me until I was out of the woods, the familiar sounds of the village a soothing balm to my jangled nerves.
As I walked, I couldn’t help but wonder if my parents would believe my story. But that didn’t matter. I knew what I had seen, and I knew what I had learned. The woods held secrets, and sometimes, those secrets were more terrifying than any fairytale monster. And sometimes, they could be quite unexpectedly helpful.
