Cicadas (Thailand. Rewrite)

 

 

 

She could hear his abdomen, even from eight stories above. She knew he waited for her, dressed in new skin holding the bark of a mango tree. For thirteen years, she had dug and hid, dug and hid, a pale pearl of a nymph sheltered in flooding clay. Prematurely buried. She had fed on rootjuice and waited.

And now, the time for burying herself had gone. She no longer wore the tough soil skin of the past. The brightness of being was nearly unbearable. She was green and larger than herself.

She sat exposed, mesmerized by the equatorial sunlight and the sound of his clicking ribs. She could see him from here, just a speck, but she could tell even at this distance that he looked back at her. Through her ten eyes, he was a kaleidoscope of rounded cicada flecks, mirrored and moving in unison, calling her to the ground.

And then a closer sound. Behind her, ten of the same dark-haired girls with lightning eyes and cloud-colored skin reached a catastrophic finger in her direction.

She heard him again, dry-fly ribs rubbing together to blot out the sounds of metropolitan traffic and children. The vibrations called to her.

She looked down at the expectant mango tree and imagined the future she would create: millions of shimmery nymphs sprinkling from the branches, raining onto the soil below, christening the ground with their sparkling selves.

There was nothing for her to do now, except let go.

 

 

Back in the day, I wrote about submitting some of my flash fiction to Flash Frontier.  This rewrite of my original post was published in Flash Frontier’s November Issue, Eye Contact.

 

Also, I’d like to reiterate my Creative Commons love to Flickr user Roger Smith for the amazing photo!

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Sharing: The Secret by Denise Levertov

I just wanted to share a poem that really got to me today. Enjoy!

 

The Secret

by Denise Levertov

 

 

Two girls discover

the secret of life

in a sudden line of

poetry.

 

I who don’t know

the secret

wrote the line. They

told me

 

(through a third person)

they had found it

but not what it was

not even

 

what line it was. No doubt

by now, more than a week

later, they have forgotten

the secret,

 

the line, the name of

the poem.  I love them

for finding what

I can’t find,

 

and for loving me

for the line I wrote

and for forgetting it

so that

 

a thousand times, till death

finds them, they may

discover it again, in other

lines

 

in other

happenings. And for

wanting to know it,

for

 

assuming there is

such a secret, yes,

for that,

most of all.