The Cicadas
Isabella Apostolides
Last night I saw the cicadas come out of the ground and they wailed and wailed and wailed and before I got annoyed, I took a deep breath and unhooked my ears, hanging them on the rack where I left my nose when I cleaned out my cat’s litter box.
I move my hair over where my ears were I hate how I look without them but I can’t bring myself to be annoyed, especially with how special tomorrow will be, not for me, but for a lot of others. Once every 27 years seems special Afterwards, I’ll go into the fields, clean it all up. This is the first time I will do it, so I just think that I’ll probably remove my nose beforehand but I’m so tired, so I opt to just go to bed.
The vibrations shaking my house wake me up earlier than normal. My eyes spin in their sockets so I stop them with two index fingers, a little bit of pressure locks them into place. Outside, the first couples are arriving, hovering over the vibrating cicadas. They want first picks. The more prepared couples hold buckets, standing in large rubber boots, with large rubber gloves on their hands holding small white pieces of paper.
Slowly, the vibrating cicadas group themselves, the expectant couples waiting in between. The next part happens so suddenly, and no matter how many times I’ve imagined it, it is still hard to believe as the cicadas go still. The wailing and the vibrations, all gone, And then all at once They crack, breaking apart, tearing apart.
The first group I see are of eyes, the gooey slime that encases them all over the ground, and it’s the same with the noses and ears, penises and vaginas, sexless torsos and blank heads. Parents split up, wading through the goo, sifting through to find the features they want their child to have. Someone runs too fast and slips, coating their whole body in pinkish goo and soft, rubbery cicada shells The violence of it all is overwhelming. I watch as one lady tosses a vagina into the bucket her husband is holding ten feet away. There is squelching I can’t hear, sounds heard for the first time since my own creation.
Tomorrow I will do my duty and clean the fields, but today I watch as parents fight to create their own version of perfection, each person themselves made in an image.
Isabella Apostolides graduated from Rutgers in 2024 with a degree in English. She’s from Middletown, NJ. She likes to write pieces that might skitter across your brain and give it a little tickle.
Isabella wrote this poem in a course taught by Joanna Fuhrman, who selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.