The Not so Fully-Turned-Grass

Legend states, here is where those wonderful bodies of green grass once stood, dancing with the wind, singing with the being in the sky, an entity never seen before. Fresh air once blew as the smell of happiness drifted upwards, carried throughout the land. It fell as rain drops, landed, and remained. The green grass came alive.

And that the dark woods once held laughter until it arrived, the corrupted soul living amongst the shadows pretending to possess the smile from all those that entered, stalking, lurking, causing misery to her children, ready to suck the life from beneath their feet.

Drunk from tears, she hovered over them raising fist and spitting words of fire from the pits of hell-a stomach full of intoxicated liquor. Heat from anger rose and fell causing about a great color change to all green grass numbering in the thousands if not millions.

Day and night un-kind words filled the sky darkening it causing the sun to run away. Fall comes quickly here.

New grass possessing eyes seen before plead for head-starts to escape these woods. They quickly learn however, there are no favors here. Souls of the new grass contain feelings of forgiveness and hope but quickly abandon these children leaving behind screams of despair because of screams of despair. Tiny voices beg for answers, wanting to know their role in their color change.

There are no favors here.

In a sea full of brown, a not so fully-turned-brown grass stood up and screamed out amongst the folded leg brown grass, “Mother what have I done?” For her color, being in-between, had caused about a disorder of mind. The question implied a favor of sorts-the woods would need to come alive once again shining light on those who entered and those who remained, symbolizing care.

The intoxicated thing stared downward at the not so fully-turned-grass and thinking of nothing in particular,  devoured it.

The remaining grass stayed in their position to afraid to see, hearing was enough.

Hearing was enough.



Their once green legs now brown remained crossed with their heads beneath their knees, thousands of them if not millions.

According to the legend, every century a child of the brown grass, not so fully-turned escapes.

It’s never been proven.