SKEDADDLE

The spiders had come from the forests, swarming hordes of the weird things flowing over the asphalt like a weird, lime green wave of legs and glittering eyes and hairy fangs.  It would have been almost pretty, if it weren't for the fact that they were the size of cats.  Well, kittens.  But a spider the size of a kitten, you have to admit that's more than big enough to put you off your dinner.  At first they just ran over the town, ignoring man and beast alike as they quested through the short, dusty streets and inspected things.  Everything, really.  It was creepy, but nobody really felt like they were in danger.  Big as they were, they were still small enough to get stomped.  A bunch of the neighborhood kids spent the rest of the day doing just that.  But that night the bravery faded as the rumors of swarming green spider attacks had started to flow freely over the phone lines and email chains, and people kept the kids inside with the windows shut tight.  Myself and a few of my neighbors took the arrival of thousands of abnormally large, lime green spiders as a sign that it was time to get the hell gone.  Sadly, my ex-wife didn't get the message to skedaddle.  I let out a whisper-sad sigh whenever the TV news shows footage of my poor old town, our little doomed town in the woods covered completely in brittle, green cobweb.