That fall, a storm hailed down unreasonable screaming winds and fists of pounding rain.
The temperature plummeted through a wet ululating night that blew in early winter. Morning saw all edges laced with frost.
In the city’s grove, the only place where live things, captured, still grew from earth, the trees thrashed, roots heaving at the soil.
City parks department always got the leavings. Their vans were prison surplus, blocky, painted happy green. The growing things weren’t fooled.
Parks crew arrived, started throwing tethers around the lower branches, hammering the other ends of twisted metal cables into the fast-freezing ground to secure the trees. Star shaped leaves flickered and flashed in butterfly winged panic. Branches tossed.
This story is from the March/April 2017 edition of Cicada Magazine for Teens and Young Adults.
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This story is from the March/April 2017 edition of Cicada Magazine for Teens and Young Adults.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
Queen Persephone
She has long red hair to her waist and she lives in a yellow house with the paint peeling off like the sunburn on her shoulders. Her hair is creased from a recent braid, undone, and it lies beside her on the grass so that her back is exposed to the afternoon sun.
Choosing Tenderness: An Interview With Topaz Winters
Topaz Winters writes & heals. She is in love with most quiet things & resides at topazwinters.com.
Cherry Blossoms
We are holding hands in the barrel of a gun. I am searching the briar patch for something other than apology, and she hands me cherry blossoms in the shape of defiance.
What Genre of Story Are You Living In?
Good morning, sunshine! It’s a regular day in the life, except you’re unexpectedly at the center of like five love triangles and/or your mom is screaming that you need to find a spouse who’s rich enough to support your ten younger sisters and/or the fate of the human race is suddenly resting on your shoulders. Clearly, you’ve entered a fictional world through some blend of magic, mystery, and staying up way too late last night reading. The only question is— which world is it?
Embrace The Monstrous: An Interview With Nino Cipri
CICADA: Both Jeremy and Merion gravitate towards all things fanged, tentacled, and undead. What kind of comfort/empowerment/affirmation can be found in embracing the monstrous?
A Lesson In Contrast
On a trip to the drugstore, a young girl’s eyes scan the shelves like a world war 2 sniper.
Worlds as Bridges an interview with Debbie Urbanski
CIC: In “The Thread,” the concept of soul mates is taken to a pretty chilling extreme. Why do you think this concept can be so damaging? What kind of power can be found in not “living the life everyone expects you to live”? DU: I think any concept that is applied equally to everyone is probably damaging. Because that assumes we’re all alike and that we all want the same thing. If you don’t want that thing, then you have to pretend to want it to be considered normal. Nowadays, thank goodness, we’ve become a lot more accepting of many of our differences. Yet with love and romance, we still seem to apply this one storyline to everybody’s life: you meet someone, you kiss etc., you fall in love, and you live happily ever after with them. How many times do we hear that story, in songs, movies, fairy tales, books, by the time we grow up? Not everybody wants that particular story, but it’s really hard to exist outside of a narrative that’s everywhere. It’s hard to feel normal and good if you’re not part of the story. On the other hand, it’s hard to pretend to be someone you’re not. It takes up so much energy. And it only gets harder the longer you do it. I don’t think it’s sustainable.
Dreaming
Clockwork hearts don’t dream, they inform me with bony smiles, their soft fingers patting my head, pinching sharp nails on my scalp, searching to tear something, some exposed wire or weakness.
Love Letter
I wish I could spill my pain into a bottle, funnel it through him.
A Sort of Poem By An Asexual
I can’t imagine wanting you to touch me the way lovers discover each other’s bodies at midnight.
