Cicada Serenade

Their song was majestic. Mesmerizing. I loved to lie spread-eagled in the tall grass beneath the mighty speckled maples, oaks and willows in the vast fields, listening to their bizarrely-hypnotic hum, feeling the booming buzz electrify my pale freckled skin and ignite the fuzzy blonde hairs on my lanky arms.


It was early May 2038 and the pharaoh cicadas were spontaneously sprouting all across the Eastern United States for the first time in seventeen years. Where I lived, a little fisherman-style village called The Wharf in Reston, Virginia, was one of the older neighborhoods in the area, lending itself to a particularly hearty emergence of Brood Ten (X).
It was astounding to think that these tomato-eyed, jewel-winged, dopey-flying, outspoken little critters were the same age as me-born in the last week of July 2021. For all but the last six or so weeks of their lives, they tunneled underground as tiny nymphs, feeding on the liquid sap of tree roots.


Then, suddenly, in the spring of their seventeenth year, when the soil-temperature reached the magic number of sixty-four degrees, they surfaced all at once, by the millions or even trillions, just to sing, mate and die, in rapid succession.
It was wonderful and tragic in a sort of Shakespearean way, how suddenly their lives blossomed then ceased. They spent nearly two decades waiting, waiting, waiting in the barren dark, not only silent and blind but virtually alone, for a mere fleeting blink of glory at the end-for a single season in the sun, spreading their orange-laced wings for the inaugural time, singing louder than lawnmowers, mating singularly and monogamously, laying eggs in the wispy treetops...
Then, quite literally dropping dead, falling to the bases of the same saplings that provided their sustenance, giving their delicate bodies back to the granulated soil from which they emerged, fertilizing their home-base for the next innocuous generation.


How beautifully-heartbreaking it was, yet poignant with purpose. Cicadas never had to wonder what their goals were-it was wired in their instincts and DNA. Cicadas didn't have to worry about dating and breaking up, dating and breaking up, over and over and over again until their hearts were nothing but bleeding scraps of carnage, lying in the blackened dirt. Their paths were simple, clear, obvious. They were guaranteed to find their soulmate in a timely fashion, without the ceaseless and painful rigmarole that plagued the lonely teens of the local high school, South Lakes, home of the blue-green-and-white Seahawks. Courting was straightforward for them: the males sang their ostentatious one-hundred-decibel magicicada septendecim chorus, intrigued and interested females would approach and gingerly flick their wings in consent, and that was that-they were a couple.


While some cicadas mated more than once, roughly ninety percent stayed loyal to their one true love. It was a real-live Hallmark movie.


It was this awkward, shy, sixteen-year-old, eleventh-grade musician's dream come true.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Samantha Mina graduated at the top of her class at the University of Virginia (UVA), majoring in Poli-Sci, Anthro and English, and has since worked in law, government, human resources and office management. She served as the Director of Support for Arnold Air Society and holds lifetime memberships in various academic honor societies. In addition to the award-winning Spectrum series, available online and in bookstores nationwide, she has poetry, short stories, research, essays and artwork published in several literary magazines and journals. Her debut novel was honored in the American Fiction Awards. Her personal story and acting were featured in Discovery Channel's Mystery Diagnosis Program, airing internationally. She lives in Reston, Virginia, a few miles outside the nation's capital, but regularly traverses the country for her book tour.