When Crickets Cry

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That night, even the crickets cried. You'd have to be blind not to notice the dark gloomy shadows forming over my house. Momma's tears looked like they'd taste like salt. Full and fresh. Too bad tears are sad, at least this time. Yes, this time the tears were sad ones. Her forehead was scrunched up tight like the bumpy feel of our picket fence. But her lips were round and smooth while they trembled at the sight of blood. Oh the blood! It was flowing everywhere. From the cracks on the tile floor to the fibers on daddy's freshly pressed shirt. The red was so rich on the white it reminded me of the cherries in the summer against the cotton table cloth.

Maybe grasshoppers wept with the crickets too. They too could see the shadows growing bigger as the knife crashed to the ground. The reflection of the steel made pretty light shimmers that danced all around the kitchen. They even danced on my face. My sister's face, although her face was stone. Jaw dropped. Shocked to the point that I'm certain I'll never see her smile again. But I was smiling. Daddy came crashing down, just like the knife. But he had no light shimmers. Just stillness. Complete stillness, that was only interrupted by momma shaking him. Her salty tears mixed with his cherry blood. Do tears remove stains?

Crickets, grasshoppers and ants cried. Maybe ants were too small to cry. Or too small to notice the storm in my kitchen. Now momma's hair was dancing. Black grass flying wild over the body of a dead man. My sister's face was still the same, her eyes stuck on the blood-dripping knife. And I was still smiling. After all, momma still had the black and blue spots he painted on her skin. My sister's lip was still bigger than most lips, a feature he decided to modify. My new eye makeup doesn't go away; daddy helped me put it on with his fist.

Crickets, grasshoppers ants and snails. Yes snails. Slow, slimy ones that make the leaves yellow on the berry tree daddy planted. They cried. Momma cried. My sister cried. But I smiled. You'd have to be blind not to notice the sun shining over our house.




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Wierd...but good. I thought it was really good...and too short to really do any critiquing on. Oh well. Will there be a continuation of this?
Graffiti is the most passionate form of literature there is.

- Demetri Martin




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Sam- it doesn't need any continuation. Some pieces are perfect when they are short and powerful like this one.

Whoa....great job. At first I didn't understand what was going on, but once I figured it out, I was hooked. It was extremely well-written and I liked all your descriptions/phrasing- they were quite clever. All and all, it was a very impressive piece.
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"Most of us have far more courage than we ever dreamed we possessed."
- Dale Carnegie




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Its quite relzxing in a way! Really! I loved it. I cant wait to see some more of your work.




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God, I really liked this. It's really good. I don't know what to say. It has this weird muted effect on me, don't really know how to describe it.



if ya mention chickens, i have to show up, that is the law.
— alliyah