The Call of the Cicadas

I knew it was coming. I remembered 13 years ago when they last tried to take over our world. For weeks, they ruled the air as we scurried to safety, flailing our arms to ward off their aerial attacks and screaming when they grabbed us with their six legs. Most horrible, though, were their inhuman cries, which rose to a fiendishly-loud buzzing crescendo a few days after their arrival. Eventually, the terror relented, but we were warned they would be back. We had not seen the last of them. Far from the last of them.

And, three weeks ago … they returned.

They scratched and clawed their way from their underground lairs and crept to the surface. Most did this while we slept, cloaked within the secrecy of night. Within hours, they shed their exoskeleton, revealing a revolting-looking, many-legged, winged, albino creature with huge, curled wings. Incredibly, it got more horrible, as the white thing-from-another-world somehow “dried,” revealing their monstrous orange eyes. Their shell casings piled up in our yards as they proliferated and eventually took wing … and then the buzzing began.

I write this from the relative safety of my house. Only, my home has become a cell. Outside my prison walls, they are everywhere. At night, they scratch and claw at my windows while thousands perch in trees. Waiting. Watching. Plotting. By day, they explode forth to the air, and deafen me with their horrible, incessant cries. It grows louder through the daylight hours, reaching its peak in late afternoon. I cannot accurately describe the sound … it’s as if an enormous weed-eater hovers just above our world, waiting to be lowered and mince us to death. It never stops. Unrelenting. Punishing.

Unstoppable?

I worry the soundtrack of my life is now one of madness. Perhaps that is their plan. As best as I can tell, they do not bite. They do not sting. Their weapon is more insidious. More powerful. A psychological WMD. A relentless assault on the mind.

The talking heads on the news tell us the invasion will be turned away in mere days, but I cannot believe them. There are simply too many. When I peek out the drawn shades, the demonic orange of their lifeless eyes greets me. To meet their stare is to look deep into the heart of insanity. Perhaps, I have looked too often, gazed too long; allowed them to corrupt my soul through the windows of my own eyes. It is these thoughts that haunt me. I cannot rest.

Lately, they have started to pair up, resulting in what appears to be a super bug, twice as long as the normal ones. This cannot be good. I think they are starting to breed. They are making more. Oh, the horror. The horror.

But, hey, the fishing’s great!