Earlier in the year I challenged myself to write a short story about childhood that was under 500 words. I might make some more stories like this, feedback is welcome! It was a summer day and we were sitting out on the porch. Me, Richie, and Nicky were trying to see if we could start a fire using Nicky’s glasses. He said he saw someone take their glasses and use the reflection from the lens to start a fire on Survivor. Richie called him a liar so he told us he would prove it. We were all hunched over a pile of grass while Nicky was trying to angle his glasses above it, the sun was beating down on the back of my neck and Nicky gave me a hard shove that knocked me over. “You’re blocking the sun!”, he said. That was when I noticed the inchworms. There were maybe five of them on the top of the staircase. They were an electric green color and moved in a funny way, scrunching then stretching. I pick one up and let it crawl on my hand, scrunching then stretching. Richie and Nicky saw this and picked up some inchworms too. I saw Nicky and smile and he motioned to us. “Watch this,” said Nicky. He took his open hand, holding two inchworms, and squeezed it shut. When he opened his fist the worms’ gooey remains were pasted to his palm. Richie laughed, “Ew that’s so gross!” He then followed Nicky’s lead and crushed the inchworm in his hand, making gagging sounds and wiping the guts on Nicky’s shirt. He retaliated by smacking his palm onto Richie’s arm, smearing the goo on him. They went wild. When they were done laughing they turned to me expectantly. The inchworm had almost crawled the length of my hand from my thumb to my pinky, scrunching and stretching while tickling my palm. The little worm raised his head up and waved it around as if to say hello. I didn’t move. “Come on, do it!” “Unless you’re too chicken!” I feel my face growing red. “Yeah, you too chicken?” I was not chicken, I had to do something. I figured maybe if I close my fist but didn’t squeeze down on the inchworm it could live. Nervously, I closed my hand and made a show of waving my fist around that made Nicky and Richie happy. I opened my hand sideways to try and drop the inchworm on the ground but nothing fell out. I turned my hand over and saw the squished inchworm stuck to it. “Aw come on, you barely crushed it!,” says Nicky. “Yeah, that’s weak dude,” says Richie as they start snickering at me. I feel anger rising up to my throat and glare at them. “Chicken! Chicken!”, they scream. I look at my palm and realize the worm is still alive, the tiny face was still moving. I tell them this and Richie leans closer to my hand to look. I smack him, crushing the worm onto his cheek. He screams and lunges for me, tackling me onto the wooden floor of the porch, inchworm smeared on his face.
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WriterHarriette currently attends Emerson College as an undergraduate student. She dabbles in short stories, nonfiction, and journalism. Archives
July 2020
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