Once In A Lifetime

It was a once-in-a-221-year-event, the simultaneous emergence of two different cicada broods. One was the 13-year group. The other, the 17-year variety. So, as predicted, a trillion cicadas emerged, one-by-one, from the warming soil. Sam and Waldo were two such cicadas.

"Can you believe it?"

"What, Sam?"

"We're In the southeastern United States."

"What a racket."

Cicadas make noise through a special organ, a tymbal.

"What?"

It was increasingly hard to hear.

"HEY, WALDO?"

"YEAH."

"I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SAY IT."

"WHAT?"

"I DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU...BUT AFTER 221 YEARS, I THOUGHT IT'D BE A LOT BETTER THAN THIS."

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Happy Trails

The wind in the woods sounds like a river. It whispers across my face, soft and sweet and holy.

Dave packs the tent and I roll our bed bags. Soon we’re hoisting packs, tightening straps, stomping the last of the embers from the night before. Remembering bittersweet songs, old stories, and the secrets we’ve left behind with the trees and the stars.

The day warms. A robin twitters. Cicadas hum in the pines. Dave whistles the Happy Trails tune as we start down the path. And so the end begins, and I clutch this small, quiet death in my soul.

From Guest Contributor Jayna Locke

Cicadas

Gary’s gasping two-hand tap against the wall earned second place in the breaststroke. Pete had less time to breathe.

First in the butterfly - their final high school triumph shared.

Later, they met in the shower. Whispers were overpowered by streaming water.

Gary’s kiss goodbye burned as a beloved's should.

“You’re sure? My heart...so damn broken.” A lump choked his every word.

“Me, too.” Gary held him. “But we’ll be one thousand miles apart.”

Later, Pete laid in the tall grass behind the aquatic center. Silver-voiced male cicadas polished their mating song in desperation, chanting for a miracle.

From Guest Contributor Embe Charpentier