I slowly unzipped the icky plastic bag. In the bag were 30 lively, desperate, fast crickets. Crickets that were 2 centimeters long! That is big for a cricket! I hate Cleo's "friends" (the crickets). I gingerly reached into the bag and grabbed a cricket. I was fishing around and occasionally touching a loose limb or two. But, I just couldn't get a hold of a cricket. Then I had no idea what was accruing then: I watched in horror as a brown little body was wriggling out of my bag. "Dad, the cricket!" I yelped. He clenched his fists around it but it escaped. Then I quickly reacted and smacked my hand down on the cricket. "What do I do!? What do I do!?" I was screaming now. I definitely did not want a cricket loose in our house! "Squish it. Come on squish it!" My dad yelled. My mind was racing all thoughts were coming through at once! The poor cricket. It will get all over my hands! Would I be a cricket killer? Oh, why this! "I don't-" SMACK! I looked up just in time to see my dad raise his hand. Ahhhh! I crushed a cricket. I squealed in disgust when I saw my hand! At least the cricket didn't get loose in our hand.
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