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Everything posted by hayfevered

  1. do not go gently into that good night. rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  2. i cant download the online issues and my heart feels like it's going to collapse.

  3. im definitely going to miss the hell out of this site. i dont know if it's closing midnight on the 14th or midnight the 15th, but either way im getting my goodbyes to the site in now.

    jess, sonder, archea, queenie, and i are trying to make a new cicada so we can have a new home for our poetry, but this definitely holds a special place in my heart. i came out as trans here first, and was accepted as i was wholeheartedly. getting to know everyone in the discord has honestly been the highlight of my summer and i have no idea what id do without everyone.

    being published a few times in the cicada issues was something to be proud of, and im glad i got to share that with everyone here. cicada is where i found my poetic voice. im so, so sad that this has to end.

    ive written quite a few goodbye posts in my time, but ive gotten attached to the community here. all the users and the admins and autumn and all the artists made this publication feel welcoming. in all honesty, i dont know if i would have survived my early teenage years if i hadnt found poetry and art. 

    thank you so much to everyone for sharing their writing with me, too. thank you for the rp threads, and the feedback on my work, and thank you for putting yourselves out there too. 

    thank you to the admins at cicada for giving us a new site and a chance to connect with each other. thank you for giving us 20 years of an amazing literary magazine, and thank you for listening and interacting with us. we owe it to you guys for maintaining this community.

    to everyone: thank you and goodbye.

    1. thepensword


      logan ilysm im gonna cry

  4. is anyone still listening?

    today is brought to you by the physical act of remembering. & remembering is a swandive from a cliff: you choose when to jump, or youre shoved, or the ground decides it's time & crumbles. but freefall is the shortest purgatory a living thing can experience & you might tell yourself this was a mistake, that hurtling into the expansive, apathetic blue of the sea would render you something ended. something breathless & floating. the headfirst weightlessness & regret & solid hope & wishing hard for what was always leaves a hole in your chest when nostalgia bites. then comes the water. the cold crashes into you like a freight train & you are something mournful. something wanting. grieve the past & things that were. honor them. important things will stick. you can make homes like you can make apples: from seed to sapling & maybe in a few years youve earned fruit, or a kind of belonging. a home is never more than a house plus memories. & this home may succumb to worms, or wood rot, or real estate, & you might package up remembering & leave it in your attic, but attics are made to be forgotten & rediscovered. this is its magic. learning how to remember is a little spellbinding thing & the first time you spiral: you loop & spin & widen & suddenly that attic is the most important thing you have ever tasted. remembering is roses, or at least tinted pink. never mind the worms. never mind the rot. this home lives in recollection, & souls, & the attics of new homes. important things will stick.
  5. discord

    @bluebird try this one https://discord.gg/K9QVnd
  6. ode to lancaster county

    lancaster county, familial birthplace, your thunderstorms lend me the peace of mind to continue. when i was younger, and wishing to be undone, i blamed myself for not loving god enough. i said i was rotten, and didnt know why. my eyes only knew how to glare because i was scared of smiling, or of not deserving to, or of letting go of that hurt, or of losing my identity if i did. im still scared of dying. that didnt change. and one day, after letting myself stop pretending to be godly, after letting myself love being rotten, just a little, you became a monument to learning the word hate. where would i be without your shame and your conditional love? i had no idea what passive aggression meant until you had a reason to teach me. you remind me how to glare, and how to be undeserving, and thats a kind of rotten too. you carry churches on your back like god is my fault, and sometimes i believe you. it is as if you have come from the past and youre upset the world is leaving you behind, and thats my fault too. you are not a kind county, a home, or gentle despite the rolling fields, neither a place for outsiders nor one to give up a warm body without a fight. you are as lonely as a postapocalyptic movie's deserts, and your cities beg to be left empty and standing and dirty just so theyd fit so perfectly at the end of the world. these cities are paved with bricks and paint and god. you arrive bearing washed out, low-contrast hues of green and undersaturated brown and every photo ive taken looks overexposed. i have marveled at your night sounds, at the tar lines clacking under the tires on the highway, and yet youve never been beautiful. the closest thing to beautiful is the full moon, orange with pollution, rising over the lakes dug out of the prairie and filled then with rocks and fish and water. youre the stadium that becomes a city every weekend, youre lincoln, or youre the storms in the night that put hail the size of my fist through the windows. you are a 754-block coping exercise. just as i let myself love being a christian's rotten shame, just a little, you are as oppressively godly as a rural town with 192 churches on a sunday. you are not made of tomorrows, or of opportunity, but you are definitely just green enough to think so. how frightening you are too, where i am scared of being gay but losing myself in the closet, and afraid of that too. oh, old cheney road, you are the apothecary's witness and a false sense of safety. it could only be the echinaceae, but laying in the ditch on the side of the road is halfway beautiful. without you i would have grown up more slowly, and learned to love myself a little quicker. with you i am nothing but homesick. this is why, lancaster county, you are made of towns of empty architecture and lonely streets, where only the animals and the crooked trees are content this is why you refuse to progress, why you cling to old, tired bigotry hastily rebranded as belief like an beloved, frayed blanket clutched protectively in a fussy toddler's hands. i have praised many things, but for me you are more unloveable than you told me i was. to my eyes, you are a thing waiting to die.
  7. yo hey i forgot about cicada oops but anyways im in nebraska until August >:[ look @ this art i did on my new comp tho hfjfjsksk radish is lookin SNAZZY


  8. Weekly Poll: What's your dream travel destination?

    ...this poll feels targeted hrhfjdjsk
  9. u ever feel like u Should Not vent because it doesnt help anything nd it just gets people worried when itd be better to just Chill Out and bury everythign in the front yard while rbing everything u can find from positivity blogs bc thats the Current Mood, babes

    1. thepensword


      hello i make my unhappiness everyone else's business and in venting i make it not be In My Brain anymore so venting is in fact helpful and you should go ahead and do it and not feel like a burden because You Are Not and I Love You

  10. Here's your chance to become a non player character

    @Fullmetal Sorcerer can i self insert into this campaign. i want to run the antique shop hi im logan i eat eggs with soy sauce/hot sauce/butter on them all at once and i dotn fucking wear shoes. im a fucking dumbass elf of undisclosed class and my wardrobe is exclusively comprised of short shorts, thigh highs, and shirts with english text poorly translated from Fantasy Japan or something (a favorite: neon pink with yellow lettering that says "seven days away. i think i Thought i heard you say"). i know which plants are what and i WILL make this known. u bet ur ass i have the full latin genus and specific epithet READY TO GO. oh u think u know things about the native flora? do u? move im gay and i can whip out plant lore as well. plant history. ethnobotany, bitch. ill munch a raw stalk of rhubarb in front of you to assert dominance. dont try me ill whack you with the antique youre trying to steal. speaking of antiques theres a section in the store thats specifically for street signs. there are a lot of them. somehow Elm St. is on at least 8 different street signs in the stacks. yes you may look at the swords here but none of them are for sale. theyre fucking mine. ill sell you matches from Fantasy WWII and a glock if you want it but yaint touching my swords. also theres a sign outside my shop that says "no pants or heterosexuals allowed". capri pants are ok but youre on thin fucking ice
  11. giving myself up

  12. tripping rough into wet sand

    i. huginn. muninn. from their throats comes a draconic hungry purr, clicking as if the noise catches and sticks before clattering to the ground like a car that doesn't want to start they spiral. you spiral. these aren't so different here though yours is a metaphorical thing less of feathers and updrafts and more like pencil sharpeners and pocketknives you are running low on peroxide. ii. memory. thought. you apologize to your past self your future self: for not being kind or good or happy or the type of person you needed when you were younger steak knife. pocketknife. these things, these blades, are the kind that flash in the sun and show you the meaning of the phrase 'eyes are the windows to the soul'. you suck the rambutan stone and you are, by default, at peace. iii. golden film reel. more sepia, really. colder. emptier the color of yesteryear's forecast when you picked up the habit of holding your sleeves by the hem when they might slip two nights. 977 nights. these things are different only by their edges by their endings and by their titles your past self is angry and ashamed and your present self is sick to disappoint him you are your own ticking. iv. you break patterns. they lend themselves to you, laid out and easy like a spread of block print like sandcastles you step square and firm right in the middle to feel the crumble or the hard, fast way completeness can end and then all you have is a sandcastle with a footprint in it. there are things that cannot be hidden. this block print brandishes old scars and tall socks. v. longevity is the mistress of anxiety. vi. when the sun sets, you dig through the sky searching for diamonds but you find pea gravel flung far past the string of buoys that tell you you've gone too far and to turn back lest your lungs burn up in a flare of oxygen the rope holds the buoys down like scars hold down your skin. you are something gossamer. vii. last night you stood freezing outside at two AM with your head back and eyes flung wide to embrace the stars in your irises. flashlight in one hand, pocketknife in the other the shadows cast threaded a coil of fear in your gut and your knuckles stretched white. you are made of this, of tendons and veins and smallness under the sky, the kind of smallness that fills your chest with helium and lead viii. you look hard for good endings but always stumble into begging for forgiveness instead
  13. i had a poem in my head

    past present future odin's ravens memory and thought clean who am i to say staring out a window slicing into rambutan slingshot and two nights (blade) forgive me please
  14. Weekly Poll: Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?

    @Apollo's Lover@Short_comedian@thepensword@queenie_flower@conradbirdie oh you know
  15. the heart function dont work on old posts but im saving this
  16. im so fucking close to winning two whole ass months yal

  17. greek iris

    here, in these heavy, yellow-bellied clouds swelled with the storm, pleased by the weight unraveled & mouthy comes thunder where spindle-weak fences pin down the hills & the hills let them, & the winds scream praises, & the barbed wires rename themselves please small suns dot the gaps between lightning fingers & the sky sobs yellow-green, like the stomach of a frog here, under these dripping prayers, sweetgrass laid limp over itself and dew-shining, i ride my bike to the end of the sidewalk & that, where the rain peels itself up from the concrete humid for the sunlight, greek iris in prosper & that, where i stop propped on one foot that is what love tastes like
  18. a galaxy rings your throat

  19. oh lore?

    "Bitch," was the first thing out of Rad's mouth as their focus shrank into their palm. "Ain't you familiar with common courtesy at ALL? If you's'a been slurped into my dimension, y'ain't've lasted five seconds." To fucking hell with it, they figured, and twirling their tiny focus around clawed fingers was admittedly a little easier while they undid Mop's glamour halfway to a gaudy walking stick size, bronze suddenly dripping off it in cascades of what appeared to be beads. Oh, perfect. The drama deity had a shiny-ass parasol to go with their flair for theatrics. "An' that's how it's done," they all but sneered, tapping their glamoured staff onto the ground with finality, spinning it by the handle to accentuate the bullshit aesthetics they'd worked into it. And because this was, of course, some kind of pissing contest, Radish spent more magic on upping their physical glamour; while they apparently refused to vanish their horns, the red desaturated from them while they molded their appearance to something more human. "Bitch" was repeated at Mop with a much more self-satisfied air of confidence. @thepensword@conradbirdie@queenie_flower (im crying i need to draw radish theyre so extra)
  20. oh lore?

    file at the end contains The Lore(tm) Prompt: something has just been summoned, and nobody has a fucking clue what to do with it or how to put it back, or what even went wrong. Current setting: Dark-ass storage closet where 2-4 friends had chalked up a summoning circle. It's suddenly very fucking cramped (thanks something), and oh shit the candles might set something on fire. What now? Ew, otherworldly hand. Right in the face. Y'all stop fucking screaming. Name: Radish (Rad) Age: Primordial Gender/Pronouns: good luck trying to keep up. stick with they/them to avoid 'i dont know what gender is but im going to try them all' confusion. Species: the demon that came out of the fucking floor Height: 5'3" Appearance: http://bit.ly/2DzOtkw Surprisingly humanoid. Blame it on chameleon capabilities, probably. Blonde hair, vaguely bluish-brown skin. Too-long sharp nails and teeth + stereotypical forked tongue, but very blue. Tall by the standards of wherever they came from, but by human standards rather short. Vows vengeance but can't change physical appearance in this dimension. Clothes resemble the uniform to a British guard at Buckingham, but in royal purple and without the silly hat. Later they probably discover the comforts of hoodies and jeans. Applicable Quirks: In literally any other scenario, Rad could unload almost any language they pleased. This good-for-nothing human dimension, however, limits them to English and Latin. At least Latin is great for spells. Quick Backstory: Underling of a hegemonic rule, they were one of the king's guards. Hey, at least it came with a nifty outfit. Weapons Abilities: Quarterstaff. Powers: Focus is an emerald in their staff, bronzed wood magically bent around it so it isn't visible. To use it, Rad's kinetic energy set is a series of martial arts steps that flow much like shadowboxing would. "Ow, FUCK." buckle up yall.docx buckle up yall.docx
  21. Some Angsty Shit

    aw brabe... :( <3<3<3<3 my good vibes are coming for you
  22. hewwo everyone! im doing alright and im feeling pretty safe bc my decoy worked and since my dad thinks it's broken im going to get it out of the house and say i threw it out...my qpp stella has my working phone so it's 100% safe and i hope i can get back to you guys soon. also i have silly art of my polycule to show u guys soon sdhskjdgksjdfs

  23. help

    i am made of twine, tightly wrapped around gods fingers turning them blue (or blackening, for gold oxide/ gold ichor, coursing through her veins) i have not the words to worship nor the voice to cry just rope, fraying, pulling tight around both ceramic lungs please god let me breathe
  24. Mama's face

    theyre boycotting the slam bc of the paywall sorry dude