MR. SIEGFRIED'S CENTIPEDES
 

Mr. Siegfried lived through the Great Depression. He survived three divorces and raised four kids. He worked as a firefighter for over forty years. He was not afraid of his bills, failed dreams, painful experiences, or uncertain situations. He had no fear of ill health, family upheaval or the loss of a friend. Mr. Siegfried was not scared of anything really.

 

Except centipedes.

 

It frustrated him, his dread of the centipede. He did not freeze in the presence of any other creature. Neither the bear nor the bunny phased him, nor the snake nor squirrel. Not even the bastardly ostrich raised a bead of sweat. Mr. Siegfried did not fret the unseen, the supposed critters who could eat one’s brain out or sicken the soul within. It was truly the centipede’s harrowing, unblinking eyes, spindly legs playing wriggly relay whenever crawling, and that ceaseless chirping that rattled him.

     He knew the centipede was from Lucifer, with no similarity to the sacred library of creatures formed by the hands of God. It did not have two or four legs! It lived only to kill the holy and innocent. The centipede could not be domesticated, a sign of rapture for certain. All of this was unheard of in the Bible. Like the sweet charmer the antichrist would be, turning the people from God, the centipede slithered its way across the world.

     Yet as sure as his last days were near; a centipede came to live in his home. He would crush one only to turn up another just days later—and perhaps the same one. For ages he wondered what he had done to warrant a turn toward Hell; why had Lucifer stumbled through his door? ...

 

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