The Beasties in the Grass and Sky
There is a moment when the sun stops shining that yellow lemon-bright scented cherry aura and when the creatures living under the stairs and bowels of the earth creep from hidden crevices on six legs, cloven-hooved and baring gnarled teeth, looking for scrumptious aphid-worms while we, ourselves turn out the turgid orange porch light and double lock the rickety wooden deadbolt doors. Night isn't what we call it; it is "their night." Mist-clad cloud demons rain from green-grey ink, screaming through the sky, yearning for fresh tears from the eyes of first-born calves. They sustain themselves on these tears and breed the dew-devils on morning grass that dance among our sleep-encrusted mucus-tinged eyes. Not for laughter's sake are they cruel, but for pity's sake that they keep each mewling female calf alive to witness a new day before the slaughter of their kin, left alive and breathing in aluminum pens bolted together by the yellow jaws of plaid-skinned fat cats.
For every nightmare Cloud Demon, there were a dozen Dew Devils amongst the morning blades of grass cracking their briny knuckles across dry soil beds, coiled and primed for the first step of an unwitting toddling child. Grabbing at shoelaces and clawing at hangnails amongst the green, they topple the two-year old masters and mistresses of plantations deep amongst the Louisiana tobacco fields. Upon their little body's impact, an explosion of pollinated dust pebbles lets loose into a Devil's maw, with which they fill tiny mason jars adorning their belts, saving them for sinister purpose of which one knows not. Toiling the day for skinned knees and weeping mothers and fathers, evil Dew creatures only make their escape at the strike of twelve, and swiftly clear way for their brethren in the later half of daylight.
These other hobs and haints are worth mentioning, but perhaps another time when your stomach can handle it.
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