Where Stillness Had Fangs

The woods are alive with sounds of birds and the rustle of leaves — brittle and soft. Though it sits in the middle of the woods, the shack is lifeless; quiet and still. Its rickety clapboard exterior is intact, interrupted only by a warped and dusty wooden door and windows. We move forward. The door strains against us and its rusty hinges; forcing inward, we hold our breaths. At first, just a glimpse, but with one more shoulder thrust, we’re in. Snakes. They rattle and reverberate — an echo ricocheting through the shack. Their rattles intensify and rise upward. They move, yet some lie in stillness. Undulating muscles propel their long bodies forward or coil. For a breath, we go still — feet fixed, lungs locked.