BUGS
Cicadas and the Sun
Word Count 409
At first I could not understand why everyone was so excited about the cicadas. They're coming, they're coming, wait for it, they're coming — then suddenly the ground was riddled with bullet holes and the air filled with insect sirens. Out crawled the nymphs who stuck themselves to the foliage shoulder to shoulder, much the way the cockroaches used to coat the counters and floors of the houses we rented in Austin during the late 70s, only the cicadas do not run when you slam the door and turn on the lights. Instead, they wildly shrill their unceasing raucous chorus, an aural carpet-bomb of car alarms and can openers.
Are they really so much better than any other big, greasy-looking bug?
Something Bit Him
Word count 1184
The Husband stops me in the hallway. “I’ve got ticks in my bed,” he says. Maybe he wants to abandon the guestroom and return to the bedroom formerly known as ours. That’s how I think during our divorce.
He looks up from his smartphone. “A whole mess of them.” He shifts the suitcase strap higher up the shoulder of his blue Hugo Boss jacket. He flashes his conference smile. “Big meetings in DC,” he says. “I’m getting closer to the power source.”
I avoid looking into his dark, electric eyes. “Good for you,” I say.
Days later our nine-year-old, Milo, comes into the kitchen scratching either side of his stomach. Hanks of dark hair, like his dad’s, cover his square face. He scootches between me and the pancake pan. Bubbles grow and pop in the circles of batter.