The Old Man woke in the middle of his dream to find something under his arm.
It was cold and hard. He clambered from bed, staggering from the weight of his bones. Looking down, he found the body of one of his cicadas, crumbled on the sheets. He picked it up, stiff and lifeless against his fingers. Around the house, the other cicadas sang, as if in lament.
He walked to the kitchen, one of the three rooms in his house. The others were his bedroom and basement, where the cicadas stayed when he slept. They didn’t need much room, and he didn’t either; he had used to live in an apartment, but when he started raising the insects, his neighbors heard them through the walls. They weren’t very happy. But this small house suited him just fine, and he liked being near the insects, so that he could hear them better, listen to their metallic lullabies at night.
He walked to the trash bin, the crushed cicada still resting in his palm. He imagined how it must have died; chirping, its black eyes watching as his body rolled over it. He closed his eyes and let its body fall from his hand. It landed soundlessly.
His day proceeded as it always did; he ate what little food he still wanted to, read for a bit, and then decided to let the cicadas out.
He went to the basement door and opened it. Slowly, one insect emerged, then another, and then more. He watched as they explored the room, their dark shells moving slowly across the floor. One crawled carefully over him. He was used to the sensation; the small, cold twigs working their way up his arm, digging into his soft skin.
There was a noise outside.
The Old Man froze, holding his breath. He hadn’t imagined it; he could still hear the movement outside, distant, but getting louder. He could hear it, a slight shuffling, a footstep. The Old Man rushed to the kitchen, lit a match, and returned. The cicadas scurried away into the dark corners, their sleek steel bodies illuminated in the dim light. When they were out of sight, the man put out the match and returned to the door.
He heard a knock.
It had been so long since he had heard that noise, the rapping of a fist on wood, that promise of something new. Who could be at the doorstep, he didn’t know; what family he had wanted nothing to do with him, and the nearest neighbors tended to keep away. But the Old Man felt excitement stir in his rusted bones, and he walked to the door. It squeaked as he opened it, its hinges rusty. He held his breath and peered out.
Instantly, the man covered his eyes. A blinding light had seemed to stab him, and he cowered there for a while before realizing it had only been the sun. Slowly, he took away his hands.
A teenage boy stood at his door. He was short but firm, his blue eyes and orange hair mirroring the sunset behind him. The old man thought shamefully of how strange he must seem to the boy, pale as a ghost and stunned by the light. Perhaps he would even notice one of the cicadas. But the boy just smiled, and the Old Man was awestruck by how youthful his face seemed, smooth and wrinkleless.
“Hi, mister,” the boy said, grinning. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was playing ball, and it fell into one of your bushes. I can’t seem to get it out. Could you please help me out?”
The Old Man tried to say something to the boy, but his voice had rusted in his throat, drowning under so many years of silence. He nodded instead, and let the young boy lead him out.
They walked through the lawn, the Old Man watching the sky. It was bigger than he remembered it, its walls painted a frightening blue and red and purple. He could remember why he had left it.
There was one thing the Old Man wanted out here, though, and that was to hear another human. He wanted to hear the boy speak again, to feel the warmth of his voice in the wind, the sound of innocence and childhood. After a while, the boy did speak.
“This is where it fell,” he said, pointing to a large bush. “I tried to reach in and get it, but I’m too short to pick it up. Could you help me, mister?”
The man tried to smile, his mouth unaccustomed to the shape. He leaned into the bush, reached in, but found no ball. As he pulled his head out to try to tell the boy, he felt a sudden thud against his back.
He fell. The pain glued him to the ground, his bones burning, immobile. Something had broken. He turned to the kid to see him running off, then saw another boy join him, then two more. They ran laughing and yelling into the woods, their legs becoming a blur of movement, their lanky bodies disappearing into the trees.
He turned to his house. An empty jug of gasoline lay open on the ground. The Old Man watched in terror as the orange tongue darted from his house, licking up the walls and furniture. It swallowed everything.
He lied down on the grass, helpless, his breaths short and unsteady. His eyes faced the sky, slowly drowning in smoke. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a thousand insects in the sky, their cold, metallic bodies fleeing from the flames. They flew over him, past him, their shells pressed against the sun. He thought he could hear them sing.
It was cold and hard. He clambered from bed, staggering from the weight of his bones. Looking down, he found the body of one of his cicadas, crumbled on the sheets. He picked it up, stiff and lifeless against his fingers. Around the house, the other cicadas sang, as if in lament.
He walked to the kitchen, one of the three rooms in his house. The others were his bedroom and basement, where the cicadas stayed when he slept. They didn’t need much room, and he didn’t either; he had used to live in an apartment, but when he started raising the insects, his neighbors heard them through the walls. They weren’t very happy. But this small house suited him just fine, and he liked being near the insects, so that he could hear them better, listen to their metallic lullabies at night.
He walked to the trash bin, the crushed cicada still resting in his palm. He imagined how it must have died; chirping, its black eyes watching as his body rolled over it. He closed his eyes and let its body fall from his hand. It landed soundlessly.
His day proceeded as it always did; he ate what little food he still wanted to, read for a bit, and then decided to let the cicadas out.
He went to the basement door and opened it. Slowly, one insect emerged, then another, and then more. He watched as they explored the room, their dark shells moving slowly across the floor. One crawled carefully over him. He was used to the sensation; the small, cold twigs working their way up his arm, digging into his soft skin.
There was a noise outside.
The Old Man froze, holding his breath. He hadn’t imagined it; he could still hear the movement outside, distant, but getting louder. He could hear it, a slight shuffling, a footstep. The Old Man rushed to the kitchen, lit a match, and returned. The cicadas scurried away into the dark corners, their sleek steel bodies illuminated in the dim light. When they were out of sight, the man put out the match and returned to the door.
He heard a knock.
It had been so long since he had heard that noise, the rapping of a fist on wood, that promise of something new. Who could be at the doorstep, he didn’t know; what family he had wanted nothing to do with him, and the nearest neighbors tended to keep away. But the Old Man felt excitement stir in his rusted bones, and he walked to the door. It squeaked as he opened it, its hinges rusty. He held his breath and peered out.
Instantly, the man covered his eyes. A blinding light had seemed to stab him, and he cowered there for a while before realizing it had only been the sun. Slowly, he took away his hands.
A teenage boy stood at his door. He was short but firm, his blue eyes and orange hair mirroring the sunset behind him. The old man thought shamefully of how strange he must seem to the boy, pale as a ghost and stunned by the light. Perhaps he would even notice one of the cicadas. But the boy just smiled, and the Old Man was awestruck by how youthful his face seemed, smooth and wrinkleless.
“Hi, mister,” the boy said, grinning. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was playing ball, and it fell into one of your bushes. I can’t seem to get it out. Could you please help me out?”
The Old Man tried to say something to the boy, but his voice had rusted in his throat, drowning under so many years of silence. He nodded instead, and let the young boy lead him out.
They walked through the lawn, the Old Man watching the sky. It was bigger than he remembered it, its walls painted a frightening blue and red and purple. He could remember why he had left it.
There was one thing the Old Man wanted out here, though, and that was to hear another human. He wanted to hear the boy speak again, to feel the warmth of his voice in the wind, the sound of innocence and childhood. After a while, the boy did speak.
“This is where it fell,” he said, pointing to a large bush. “I tried to reach in and get it, but I’m too short to pick it up. Could you help me, mister?”
The man tried to smile, his mouth unaccustomed to the shape. He leaned into the bush, reached in, but found no ball. As he pulled his head out to try to tell the boy, he felt a sudden thud against his back.
He fell. The pain glued him to the ground, his bones burning, immobile. Something had broken. He turned to the kid to see him running off, then saw another boy join him, then two more. They ran laughing and yelling into the woods, their legs becoming a blur of movement, their lanky bodies disappearing into the trees.
He turned to his house. An empty jug of gasoline lay open on the ground. The Old Man watched in terror as the orange tongue darted from his house, licking up the walls and furniture. It swallowed everything.
He lied down on the grass, helpless, his breaths short and unsteady. His eyes faced the sky, slowly drowning in smoke. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a thousand insects in the sky, their cold, metallic bodies fleeing from the flames. They flew over him, past him, their shells pressed against the sun. He thought he could hear them sing.
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Daniel Blokh is a 14-year-old creative writer living in Birmingham, Alabama. He wants Avery to give him his accordion back.