“What did they build in New York?” Cicadaman asked. “Some kind of World Trade Center? Cool! I sure hope nothing happened to it!”
Photo by Dylan Schmidt
On January 1, an entity calling itself “Cicadaman” appeared in Bakersfield, California after a 102-year absence. As a local celebrity and recreational mayor, its absence had created a “notable gaping hole” in the “true soul” of Bakersfield. Before its disappearance, Cicadaman featured in a local news article, stating, “I’ve got quite the feeling about these next few decades…I’m skedaddling.” Upon re-emergence, the “gangly” creature entered a local Walmart at 7:43 a.m. to “assess the state of the economy.” According to 20th century interviews, its early life during the Second Industrial Revolution and World War I led Cicadaman to become “rather concerned with the well-being of the working class.”
After a stroll through the produce aisle, it released a screech which deafened at least two nearby employees, stunned another, and “pissed off” a woman in her thirties. Megan Convenience, dog mom of two, claimed, “I only wake up this early to get a little peace before my eight-to-ten job. Yeah, that’s 8 a.m. to 10 p.m., buddy. I gotta buy my thirty-cent noodles and my forty-dollar organic dog food before the phone bill hits and I’m broke for the week. Then I clock in at the Dollar Tree next door.” Convenience also noted that she had “never seen such a kerfuffle in the store before,” a claim which employees declined to corroborate.
Following a brief altercation with Walmart security, the Bakerfield Police Department took Cicadaman in for questioning. Sheriff Brute A. Litay remarked, “It’s just like these critters to go and make a fuss in our good town. Cicadas ain’t even from here!” After the sheriff failed to prosecute the cryptid on the grounds of “causing a disturbance,” they released Cicadaman with a warning. It found temporary respite at a homeless shelter, where it confided in one of the sheltered youths.
“I don’t know what I expected,” it said while frowning. “But it wasn’t this! How are folks even alive? It’s seven dollars for a handful of berries. It’s five bucks for a bag of shrinkflated chips. Back in my day, people were struggling — but at least they were unionizing! I found a dead guy behind the counter in the bak- ery department in the third stage of decay. Who’s letting this happen?!” Upon learning that the 47th President of the United States was only slightly younger than the creature’s century-long rest, it once again screeched in anguish. “It feels good to be understood by a member of the older generation,” said Nadia Dam, an eighteen-year-old foster youth who recently graduated to houselessness.
Regarding its next steps, Cicadaman said that it looked forward to getting in touch with modern society, including its publicly-acclaimed grandson Mothman. By joining forces with the youth and working class — “an ever-expanding caste of American survivors” — it expressed a desire to form a coalition against the foreboding socioeconomic horizon. It emphasized its role in raising alarm about this crisis, saying, “If we don’t start making a ruckus soon, these maniacs will put us all in jail — or worse! Don’t stand by while your neighbors get squashed like bugs. Cicadas survive because we swarm in numbers. And if you aren’t there for your neighbors…you might find yourself alone when they come to crush you.”
Liz Owens is an anomalous figure that the MQ found wandering the fog circa November 2024. While not a frequent contributor, she aids the paper as the new Dark Hand of Distribution. She busies herself being an unwriting Literature/Writing major and contemplating the downfall of society. Perhaps one day she will publish a fantasy novel — if only she could stop herself from joining writing-oriented clubs.
