Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Death by Earwig

My grandmother used to hang the laundry out to dry. Extra clothes that didn't fit on the clothesline were draped over the bushes. I loved the odor of sage, rosemary or lavender invading my clothes. I grabbed some clothes and took off for the weekend to visit my boyfriend. It was a scorcher. I wiggled into my damp cutoffs grateful for their coolness. At a complicated 5-way stoplight in downtown San Jose, an earwig, or nipper, as my grannie called them, crawled out of the seam of my jeans and angrily began to pinch me. I screamed, and tried to rip off my shorts— while driving, running a red light in the process. Horns blaring, cars careening. I finally bashed it into my hip. And I smeared the sucker. Luckily I also didn't get smeared in the process. Death by earwig would be so very hard to explain.

11/23


first draft
My grandmother always hung the laundry out to dry. Extra clothes that didn't fit on the clothesline were draped on the bushes. I grabbed some clothes and took off for the weekend to visit my boyfriend. Upon leaving, I grabbed my cutoffs and put them on. At a complicated 5-way stoplight in downtown San Jose, said earwig, or nipper, as my grannie called them, decided to crawl out of the seam of my jeans, and pinch me. I screamed, and tried to rip off my cutoffs, while driving, running a red light in the process. I finally bashed it into my hip. And smeared the sucker.

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