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Cicada Days
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i can feel something inside me say
[ *  *  *  * ]
Today was the first day of rest after the fact. The busiest day yet, funnily enough. The household's everybody tended to the household's everything. That left nobody to tend to everybody. God's children ran themselves ragged and aground, remaking their lives in His image. Repentance, forgiveness, the orders of the day. Church service, volunteer work as always. Therapy sessions for the babes of the house. Answering the door for dubiously-coincidental passerby reporters. Packing boxes for the charities already collecting.

They already seemed to anticipate it. Seemed a moment too soon yet several days too late. Latanna occasionally let her thoughts drift, let herself wonder if something besides God's unknowable plan was culpable for the possibility of atrocious, unearthly evil having been inflicted onto her class... She'd berate herself after the fact, of course.

Eternal vigilance against moments of mortal weakness. That was the key. Latanna would not allow herself to be consumed by original sin.

Only now, late at evening did she rest.

Only no, her work was not yet done. E-mails, assignments... Certainly there was no longer assignment to be turned in. Latanna's grades had been returned and promptly faxed off to Brigham while hand-wringing and gossip-mongering over the dining room table. A grape vine had grown with the length to throttle by the noose. He said, she said, they all said. Yes, Latanna was certainly no stranger to the tribal wiles of social media's pervasive grasp. She was a bit more taken aback by the flood of speculation from her family elders, littering her Facebook feed with articles and opinion sections of questionable quality. But of course it wasn't at all apropos to discount the wise instinct, the instinctive wisdom of those who had many years on her, who had lived most of their lives under the specter of the infamous...

Survival of the Fittest.

Hannah, interestingly enough, had been the first to evoke the possibility by acronym, before the adult's conversations had mutated their genes genes to include the letters S, O, T, F.

Of course Hannah's correspondence continued, usually in the realm of the material. Skype conversations featured her face slightly left of front and center, Hannah had always been the sort comfortable taking on the spotlight with charming grace. There was much to be said, shared between the families, and it was only a few branches of the clan that weren't abuzz with concern and worry by this exact moment in time. Hannah and Latanna were both active participants. But, there was something to always be said for the sequestering of moments shared between one and the other. Privacy for the more sinewy, delicate moments and words. Thusly, shame upon the McAllister administration and the voters who supported his expanding of spying on private citizens.

But Latanna hadn't quite responded. Normally, as in, always Latanna liked to answer her emails regularly. Correspondences were best kept engaged through care and attention, after all. Morning, afternoon, evening, there was always time to spare, five minutes here and there to carefully partner dance with the keyboard until producing social capital with a flourish and a bow.

There had seemingly been no time today. Downtime was still rather busy: diapers to be changed, meals to be cooked, friends to be called, consoled, comforted... Ah, well. Latanna hated to resort to excuses, but it was what it was. She'd lost the battle in allowing herself to be derailed from her own meticulous constructs, the guiding lighthouses of her personal city upon a hill. Latanna did not intend to lose the war. She sat herself right down before her computer, turning on the faithful old beast and setting her fingers to the keyboard. She waited productively, envisioning responses, double-checking mental lists, efficiently scanning the time. Four and three seconds, adjusted, to six. Inexcusably late.

The desktop booted with a lurching moan and was brought to life. Her first e-mail, as it turned out, was Hannah. Dear Hannah. Precious Hannah. She was much too young, too delicate to be sunk into the morass of a national crisis such as this.

Someone was knocking on the front door. Latanna picked up the sound of reporters asking for a moment of time, and just the moment after she could imagine she smelt and saw them too. Silly. Pointless. The distraction was banished from her thoughts, and with brisk clacks and cracks she powered through Hannah's response.



Timely, efficient. Two on the dot to six. Adjusted.



A moment of hesitation seemed to pass before she quickly scrubbed some unsavory, unkempt sentences and hit send.

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... but we must pick ourselves up again... · V6 Meanwhile...