Lynxie didn’t bother building webs. Spiders who built webs relied on stupid creatures to blunder into them. No, it was far better to be clever and trick one’s prey into coming near enough to pounce.
It was high noon, and she was admiring the way her perfectly green skin matched the color of the leaves on the rosebush when she saw it. A fat black fly was preening its wings on a nearby rosebud. All eight of her legs tensed with anticipation. She hadn’t eaten in a few days and was starting to feel weak. She needed this meal.
“Hello, fly,” she called.
The fly froze, one leg hovering over its translucent wing. Its many eyes looked frantically for the source of the call, but she was too well camouflaged for it to make her out.
“You’re looking very black and shiny today,” she said serenely.
The fly lowered its leg slowly and fluttered its wings.
“You must be king of all the flies,” she crooned, “with your shimmering eyes and vibrant wings.”
The fly puffed out its abdomen proudly.
“But why,” she asked, a note of eloquent sorrow in her voice, “why do you sit on that browning rosebud? That cherry perch detracts from your beauty. Nay, green would suit you far better.”
The fly glanced down and considered the petal beneath its sticky feet. It inched toward a leaf, toward Lynxie. She sunk onto her legs, ready. “The king of the flies deserves a better throne,” she said softly. “A nice verdant leaf is what you need.”
The fly lit into the air and hovered for a moment, deciding. She followed it with her shrewd eyes; she held absolutely still on the leaf. The fly circled, and then landed on a particularly luxuriant leaf.
She pounced.
