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Cicada Days
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i can feel something inside me say
[ *  *  *  * ]
((Latanna Beckstead continued from Sometimes when we reach for the stars...))

The clear of her eyes filled with the somber tones of flames burning soft. It was said. That at the end times all candles would be naught but the light of God.

'... for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever...'

'... and...'


Sharpe stepped down, concluding an inspired speech that carried the harshness of brevity. The power in Kingman had disproportionate balance towards the quiet budgetary legislature of Parker, undeniable, but Sharpe still carried the broad, meaty air of political acumen. Latanna wasn't so sure she favored his rebuttal of the media, it struck her as gaffe. But she likely couldn't have done better herself. The speed of the government's rallying of the police, of the media, it had been admirably neat and effective by the judgement of Latanna's ever studious eye. On the national scale the optics would surely be...




Her thoughts fell silent as the crowd.

Latanna huddled, lame and meek by the ever familiar, all too familiar bench on The Green Belt where she'd almost always eaten for... what? Years of her life now? Her armpit was tightly wound around one of the bench arms as if cold metal could somehow be comfort. In her free hand her phone was held dearly as if scripture.

Ma and Pa had gone out of town on business consultation with Uncle Samuelson, all the way north in Provo. Her darlings, all so young, so innocent, so fresh from the nest though they were in middle school and high school... None of them had been home when the news had come, in a klaxon blair of police sirens from sea to shining sea.

She'd been doing student council work, reviewing, signing proposals. Sometimes she liked to pretend the half-eaten, ink-blotty papers she took home were sheaves worth of official documents on a congresswoman's desk, soon to be found in the Oval Office. When the news of disaster had dropped, she'd been naively stalwart. Had dared to continue on with a curious lump in her throat, thick as potatoes. Work had to continue. Great souls and great hearts did not falter from their duty when the unthinkable...

She'd found one paper, indistinguishable from the many.

Conrad Timothy Harrod. A nice, friendly, practical sort of voice. The sort who knew when to fold his hand and when to go all in, in the protracted poker game that was student politics. Latanna vaguely recalled he had a brother who liked foppish things like fantasy and dungeons and dragons. That information hadn’t even been intended for her. Just a brief spat of friendly eavesdropping.

All that was just a name, a cramped signature tossed onto paper that most people on God’s world wouldn’t have cared twice about.




She'd come alone. Nobody had responded to her texts yet. Lord knew how many names in her contacts were...

Five minutes of silence, ten. Fifteen minutes worth of walking from home to school. She hated counting the minutes, let alone the seconds. Each lost second dripped away painfully slow, a glob of sand in an hourglass eroding away.

She saw Roderick. Standing with his ever noble poise in the thick of the crowd. He was lit by flames, shadows cast across the crevasses of stone and marble he'd been carved from. She didn't want him to see her. Not like this. No, she wanted nobody to see her, the pathetic wretch of a girl obsessively wringing the laughably Americana-themed casing of her phone dry. She...

she was still strong. Still noble of spirit and intent. She just needed... Time. Something. Anything.

The preachers began to collect, their voices calling to God.

Her phone's voice called to her. A blurting yelp of a ringtone that she hastily squashed underneath her shirt.

She fled. Though she knew it was wrong, so horribly wrong, the only prayer her heart whispered into the flickering of the candlelight was that nobody had seen her.

((Latanna Beckstead continued in ... but we must pick ourselves up again...))
Edited by Cicada Days, Jan 31 2017, 05:57 PM.
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Carry the Fire · V6 Meanwhile...