- It’s time to say goodbye—the community at cicadamag.com is closing. Learn more...
Hello, CICADA Readers!
CICADA can be smart, funny, weird, hopeful, dark, defiant—it’s a space where teens can see their truths explored and celebrated. We frequently publish teens’ work, as well as fiction, poetry, comics, zines, and interviews by a variety of established writers and artists. CICADA is an intersectional, LGBTQAI+ friendly publication that strives to ensure that teens see their authentic experience reflected on its pages.
Thank you so much!
As you probably now know, the slam is closing. I want to start by saying this has been a wonderful journey that I’m so glad to have shared with you all and I’ll be sad to see it go. HOWEVER.
This does not have to be the end! As stated in @queenie_flower ‘s post “abandon ship”, there is a secondary slam archive in the works. Additionally, for those of you who were here to have a safe space and who wish to keep in contact, there is and has been for a while now a slam discord group. Here’s the link: https://discord.gg/D5HkXuU
I’ve set it to not expire but if somehow it does, you can contact me on tumblr as @/thepensword or via email at email@example.com . Please don’t be afraid to reach out if you need it.
It has been great knowing you all and I wish you the very best in future endeavors.
We don’t have to miss each other, just this site. Just this amazing chaos pit of creative people willing to share their words with the world (or, at least this corner of the internet.) @hayfevered, @Short_comedian, and I have made a temporary unofficial cicada 3.0 for anyone who’d like to stop by. It’s like the old site in an admin-run sort of way. This thing we’ve created here doesn’t have to end. Not if we can help it. @Autumn, you alongside the rest of Cicada have given us a place to let our voices be heard. Now you’ve given us he inspiration to keep it going.
we love you all, and at least this time we get a chance to say goodbye.
love queenieEdited by queenie_flower
“it’s funny, when i look at the sky without star charts
the only constellations i can remember are orion and the dippers
god, that sounds like an awful band name
but somehow, i can remember that dog days came to be
because sirius was high in the sky, the canine of the heavens,
canis major, malam ferre fortunam
now, the nights are long, sultry,
days waning like the moon
and i miss how the fire lit the underside of the trees
and we sat too close to it, legs sticky with sweat, glowing
soft orange near the flames
the cicadas sang louder than the radio.
did you ever point your flashlight at the sky, knowing
full well that after a while the light particles spread
but wondering anyway if extraterrestrial beings, life
in galaxies across the universe, would see it?
different cultures saw star clusters differently, like,
our andromeda could be someone’s white tiger
everyone sees the universe differently,
but there’s beauty in that.”
Me? Staring in awe at this?? It’s more likely than you think.
Seriously you have so much talent
"leave your wishes at the well; you don't need to build your own world
you will soon be big enough to climb over that mountain, or that molehill."
"the grass is green here, too--
please, stay with me.
step on the stones i left for you--
i promise they're sturdy.
i would fall too."
My South is an old tree in the cornfield, getting lost between the ears,
My South is bumblebees and those gnarled willows that overlook the creek,
it’s butterscotch pie and s’mores on the back patio,
the cool lake water, the broken bridge pylons.
My South is a crackling fire on rainy days and cold peach iced tea,
the crumbling barns, the cows and dusty hay bales in far green fields.
My South is not your South, red confederate flags raised high,
My South is not shotguns over the door and angry, bitter words,
it’s not barbed wire fences and blatant mistrust.
No, my South is confused. My South has been hurting for a hundred fifty years
and every day it fears that it will be forgotten. I watch my town die;
I watch stores go empty, hospitals close, churches fade away.
I used to hate my South. I was afraid of it’s ancient, stormy thoughts.
I forgot that I belonged in the hills as much as everyone else here.
(Or maybe I just never believed that this place could love me.)
My South is broken, and instead of trying to fix it, I’ll be leaving it behind.
Sometimes I think about coming back, but I know I never will.
I wish I could stay, keep My South the way it is now: old and lost and home,
before it’s gone forever.
“Ha, you are a fool! Diet Coke came from the devil’s ass crack! Real Coca Cola comes from the sweet bosom of god herself.”
”Then I’ll eat Satan’s ass.”
he handed me a life sentence
purgatory is my prison
maybe one day I will be transferred
maybe one day I will walk free
but for now
(or perhaps eternity)
I will remain half-empty
the air is my shackles
the sky is no longer the limit
there’s nothing more we can do