Worm.

a melodramatic tale of sorrow and of woe


Abysmal dark, pouring rain. The cold and biting water arrows sting my face and I strain to see in front of me. It hurts too much. Blasted Indiana spring, the worms are out again. Adventurous and desperate, they brave the perilous sidewalk to escape their drowning homes of earth.

I bend down and the rain pelts my back. The worm at my feet inches forward, persevering to the drumbeat of the thunder. My finger reaches out and pushes him onward; he writhes away. Good, he's a feisty one. I scoop him up and watch as he wriggles and explores the terrain of my hand.

He's nervous though, and as I pick up a second one, I see that worm excrement covers my hand. But I don't mind, it's just dirt anyway. When I bring the worms inside, some girls scream and so I put the squirming invertebrates on the back porch. With a twinge of sadness I wonder if they'll make it till morning.

But in the morning the rain has collected in residual pools, small and stagnant. Drowned worms float there, dead and bloated, thwarted in their attempt to reach safety. By the end of the week the courageous caravans have become mere blots on the sidewalk, their very skins serving as their last sarcophagi.