The Rat Snake

Start your story with someone being presented with a dilemma.

This story is based on true events.

What a dilemma, I thought to myself, as I stared eye to eye at the snake. My limbs had frozen up, that way they do when terror seizes your heart and leaves no wiggle room. The snake began to move.

In one fluid motion, I was standing up, mid-stride backward, and away from the snake. My legs were vaguely sore from the weight I had been putting on them in my crouched state. My feet were used to standing on the bumpy texture of the rock, but my toes still stung from the prolonged squat.

I stumbled backward on the rock, flailing in the air trying to catch my balance and keep myself from crashing to the ground. The snake has pulled itself up onto the rock, slithering out of the clump of water reeds it had once hidden in, and it now rested on the sunny surface I called “The Rocks.” I could see it was no small snake. In the early summer heat, the snakes showed themselves all the time, basking in the new sunlight and presenting themselves to unsuspecting hikers.

At the time, a warm Saturday afternoon, I was used to these snakes. They were small and almost cute, with beige bodies and yellow stripes down their back and sides. Gardner snakes, (they were called Gardner snakes,) lived in my herb garden, curled up in the rotting wood barrels full of damp soil and resilient weeds. When I was younger, I thought they were called garden snakes, because they always lived in the gardens. When I was younger, I wasn’t scared of snakes, because I wasn’t scared of anything.

But the snake on The Rocks was not a Gardner snake. This snake was five feet long, with jet black scales and cold amber eyes. . This snake had a name to fit its color. This snake was a Rat snake.

When I was sitting on the rocks with the Rat snake, I couldn’t help but think about the only other Rat snake I had ever seen. He didn’t have a name besides “The Rat Snake,” but we all knew who he was. We being me and my family, of course. The Rat Snake came by every memorial day’s weekend on the dot. Those days were the start of the warm weather, the sign that the school year was ending, and the Summer beginning. It was also when the snakes began their migration. I didn’t really know if snakes migrate. But The Rat Snake did. Our backyard was part of his route, and he passed it every year on his way to his summer home.

Staring at the Rat snake in front of me, I briefly wondered if it was the same snake. Was this where he went every year? But I knew it wasn’t the same snake. I knew because three years ago, I found the snake in my yard.

I had gone into the yard for something or other when I happened to notice the tangled netting behind the quince bush. Upon further investigation, I saw The Rat Snake tangled up in it. I didn’t notice it then, but as my father would soon discover, The Rat Snake had accidentally decapitated itself in the garden netting.

We found its head a few feet away from the crime scene. We missed The Rat Snake next memorial day weekend.

The Rat snake before me on The Rocks, the one who was different from The Rat Snake in the net, began to slither into the river. I kept my eye on it, breathing heavily as I tried to calm myself. It disappeared into the shallows, out of view from my perch on The Rocks.

I had discovered The Rocks with my brother years ago. It’s deep in the woods across the road from our house. A ten-minute walk through the leafy ferns and grasses, and we found ourselves by a secluded river. The river isn’t perfect, far from it, but it was our only escape from the scorching days of the summer. The river itself was mostly shallow, never deeper than my waist but often at my knees. But in the center of the river were large rocks that poked out from the water. There, if you jumped from the peak of the rocks, you’d land in water seven feet deep. It was paradise for me.

There was only one problem: leaving The Rocks. The river floor was made of heavy stones coated in slick moss. A long walk to and from the middle of the river was hectic. Without water shoes, I had never been able to do it without slipping, tripping, or stubbing my toe.

Of course, this normally wasn’t a problem for me. I often had water shoes, but I took my time over the stones when I didn’t.

I didn’t have my water shoes with me that day. They were drying at home in the bathtub.

My black swimsuit clung to my body as I cautiously dipped my toes in the water. I scanned the river for the snake. I slunk into the river, waist-deep, holding my dry t-shirt above my head. No sign of the snake. I waddled as quickly as I could, shuffling over the slick rocks.

My right foot slammed into a rock. I slipped on my left, spiraling back into the water. My left hand stayed thrust above me, but it too eventually fell into the water. My shirt had been soaked, but I had to continue moving. I pushed myself up with great speed, glancing left and right, my eyes skim over the water. No snake.

I stood up, only to lose my footing and fall again. Giving up on preserving my shirt, I used my arms to steady myself and continue forward. I was almost through the stream, preparing myself to thrust over the fallen log and onto the shore when I saw it. The Rat snake was on the move, heading straight for me. I was petrified in fear. If I could go back to that moment, I may have run towards the shore or splashed my arms about to keep the snake from getting close. But instead, I stayed perfectly still.

The Rat snake darted past me, the end of its tail flicking my arm as it left. It was so fast, a black ripple in the water. I spun around to watch it leave and followed it with my eyes until it was out of sight again. My arm tingled where it touched me. I walked back to the shore. I hoisted myself over the old fallen log, dusty woodchips sticking to my legs. I slid my wet shirt over my body.

The walk through the woods was quiet. More than once I leaped in the air at a snapped twig, terrified the Rat snake was back. I let my mind wander in the woods. I let myself think about the Rat snake. The Rat Snake.