The Cicada
There was another buzz throughout the air, one generated by another—much smaller—individual. Kuririn wiped the sweat from his brow as he hurriedly flew to his destination, the remains of Gingertown. A grand, swelling force was ahead of him and against his better judgment he propelled himself with the aide of his bukûjutsu technique toward the ominous ki. Amongst the man’s growing apprehension, however, laid a shimmer of hope: the ominous force was engaged in combat with another grand presence. He prayed this force was more benevolent than its black adversary.
Finally, the former Orin monk found himself above the ruins of Gingertown. In an upright position, Kuririn locked his sight on the city far above. The streets and parks were littered with cloths, cloths with no man, woman, or child to wear them. Curing under his breath, Kuririn’s gaze was caught by the source of the furious thunder he had been hearing since miles past.
Two indescribable lines clashed throughout the soulless streets of downtown. It became apparent that these forces were leading the warpath that had been scarred into a quarter of the city. Even Kuririn’s enhanced senses could not describe to him the true forms of these superpowers. Teeth and fists clenched, Kuririn shifted his efforts to his ears, finally hearing a familiar, demonic battle cry amongst the booming thunder. Kuririn was positive now that the second ki he felt, his minute shimmer of hope, was well warranted. A streaking yellow beam of light, outlined with a jagged edge of violet and rings hung around the beam of matching color, pierced from the colliding lines. A pizzeria was lost in the ensuing evasion.
‘Ma-Makankô-sappô!!’ Kuririn exclaimed with a studder to himself. Had Piccolo fired his signature technique? No, Kuririn quickly realized, the ki of that technique had felt like that of the Namekian, but it was in fact only on the surface. The swelling force, Kuririn recalled, had initially felt like that of Freeza and his father, then Vegeta, and even at one point Tenshinhan and Son Gokû, but to his horror the reality was that this melting pot of ki belonged to one individual.
Finally, accompanied by a crackle, one of the forces was knocked away from the other through three office buildings and finally into a laundry mat. Standing in the small crater worn into the street by the colliding forces was a caped man, about seven feet in height and green in skin. With a silent cheer, Kuririn dropped down behind his alley.
“Great job, Piccolo!” Kuririn congratulated. His acquaintance did not turn to welcome him. “Who the Hell is this guy?”
A moment past before Kuririn received a grunt signifying his acknowledgment; Piccolo Daimaô would not remove his eyes from his foe. An unfamiliar sound suddenly struck Kuririn. Faint at first, the sound grew closer and closer. Finally, detecting the disturbing of rubble, Kuririn locked his sight on the figure ahead of he and his companion. Dust and debris filled the air, clouding the orange dôgi-clad monk’s sight. Finally the shadow of the figure took a tall and lanky form, devilish horns adorning what would be his head and a slithering tail dancing through the air to his right.
“W-what the Hell is it?”
Piccolo did not answer, instead only staring his shrouded foe down.
A heavy breathing permeated through the falling debris, now accompanying the squeak of the darkness’ footsteps. In fear of closing his eyes, Kuririn pushed his auditory senses harder, trying to make the behemoth’s sounds out. It—whatever the Hell is was—finally stood at the edge of the first buildings new entrance. Heavier and heavier the breathing grew. The squeaking at ceased, but remained did the descending dust and debris. Finally, Kuririn could describe the labored breathing.
‘Bweh’.
It was a simple combination of ‘wet’, a hard ‘b’ sound starting it off in place of the customary capping ‘t’ sound. The noise continued to draw out longer. Whatever the Hell this thing was, it took some time for it to breath. The drawn-out breathing took root in the forefront of Kuririn’s mind until, after the longest of times, a new sight caught his attention.
Light, blinding light.
The shadowed figured unleashed a terrible and blinding light. Kuririn had just barely caught what appeared to be the creature’s hands—fingers separated—flying up toward its face. The entire city was enraptured in this creature’s light for several moments, just long enough—Kuririn realized—for it to make haste.
Once the light had faded and his eyesight began to return to normal, Kuririn caught Piccolo with his fists torso-level, clenched tightly. A loud “Damn it all!!!” rang through the lifeless warzone.
When Piccolo’s roar had subsided Kuririn wondered with a wipe of his brow why the force had escaped. Using Tenshinhan’s Taiyô-ken it had blinded the clean-shaven man and Piccolo, simultaneously masking its ki effortlessly. Not even the haunting squeak of its footsteps or the labored ‘bwehs’ gave clue as to where it had gone.
“What the Hell was that thing?”Kuririn finally asked.
Ignoring the question asked of him, Piccolo could only spitefully utter “I was too cautious…or maybe not cautious enough…”
Downtown Gingertown returned to silence once again. After some time had passed Kuririn felt the approaching ki of Trunks and Vegeta. Tenshinhan soon became apparent to him as well leaving Kuririn to only hope Piccolo was waiting for them to arrive before telling his story.
Kuririn cautiously took a seat on the curb of the street as he waited for the others to arrive. Piccolo had yet to move from his spot, and this was apparent to the thirty-one year old. The years had changed Piccolo and Kuririn could hardly recognize him as the ‘Piccolo Daimaô-sama’ who had defeated him in the twenty-third Tenka’ichi Tournament’s round of eight. Kuririn had only last seen Piccolo a few hours before after the Namekian, Tenshinhan, Trunks, and Vegeta had been felled in battle. The memory was only a bitter one as he cowardly allowed his fear to prevent him from helping his friends. The Artificial Humans spared their lives, obviously feeling no threat and as Kuririn believe, led Piccolo to swallow his own pride. After three hundred sixty-one years Piccolo Daimaô and Earth’s God would reunite.
Kuririn could certainly sense that the man that stood before, despite looking like Piccolo, sounding like Piccolo, and recognizing him as an alley, was almost not Piccolo. Whoever this was, Kuririn reckoned, he was sure as Hell glad to have him on their side.
A buzzing noise caught Kuririn’s attention, leading him to gaze into the sky called him by the blazing sun above. Rather than Trunks, Vegeta, or Tenshinhan he was greeted by a cicada. A sign that summer was on its way, Kuririn commented aloud that the little fellow was a few weeks early. Allowing his gaze to follow the cicada, Kuririn witnessed it land on the brick railing of one of the city’s many decorative plant boxes. The cicada crawled off of the brick onto the soil where finally it burrowed itself to emerge only when it was ready to shed its skin.
The Cicada (8/26/2010: The Cicada II added)
The Cicada (8/26/2010: The Cicada II added)
Last edited by JulieYBM on Thu Aug 26, 2010 8:15 pm, edited 1 time in total.
She/Her Re: The Cicada (Revised as of 7/31/2010)
Hey look, a second installment? These are really just short stories, rather than just installments in a continuing saga...or are they?
I'll likely revise this installment too, but I wanted to toss it up. Once again, this is my first time writing this sort of piece and it hardly matches what I envisioned it would.
***
The Cicada II
Cicadas are often seen as a sign of summer.
Bob’s shackles clanked and clunked as he crossed the courtroom floor. The creaking of the old wooden floorboards complimented the music of the metal shackles as the orange blob made his way from the defense’s table to the stand. A sketch artist would later release a piece of what was clearly a young pumpkin man in an orange jumpsuit looking solemn on the stand as the jury in the background whispered away about the sight. The judge brought his gavel down to silence the courtroom. Across the room on the side of the people sat a young woman, she could not have been more than sixteen. She looked like Hell.
A clicking noise filled the courtroom as several hundred townspeople filed into the room tightly like a can of sardines. The electricity had been failing all week and the courtroom that summer day was no exception. The townsfolk had turned to fanning themselves with homemade wooden fans and wiping the sweat from their faces with their handkerchiefs. It was the dog days of summer, but no man sweated more furiously than young Mr. Bob.
“We have come together today to hear the facts of the case, gentlemen,” the judge addressed the jury. “I will have no gossiping in my courtroom, understood?”
Mr. Foreman spoke for the jury, confirming their understanding of the situation.
“Good, now we shall proceed.
Docket #456, the People v. Mr. Bob.
“You may precede, Mr. Oil.”
“Your honor,” Mr. Zumi of the defense quickly interjected, “My client has been grievously mischarge. His relationship with the ‘victim’—”
“—Was completely inappropriate, your honor,” Mr. Oil retorted with a turn from counsel to the judge.
Mr. Zumi fired back an indignant response which led into a back-and-forth shouting match. The even more heated courtroom burst into an uproar as supporters of both sides angrily cursed the other out, racial slurs piling on. Judge Waka pounded his gavel on its mark, calling for order. Moments passed and finally the courtroom had settled; tensions in some ways louder as both parties were forced to simmer down.
“The defendant has been called to the stand as the first witness by Mr. Oil and he may continue,” the judge commanded.
Questioning got underway and it soon became apparent that the people were trying to railroad Mr. Bob.
“Where were you on the night of May 1st, Mr. Bob?”
Bob stared intently at his interrogator. Summoning up his strength amongst the hostile court, Mr. Bob finally spoke, “Lover’s Lane, sir.”
“Were you alone?”
The pumpkin-headed man wiped sweat from his brow, cleared his quivering throat, and replied, ‘No, sir.”
“Who, then, were you with that night?”
“Why,” Bob’s lower lip quivered, “Ms. Margaret, sir.”
Even before Bob could finish her name, the man from the very inside end of the front row on the people’s side, rose and shouted “That orange bastard had illegal and immoral sexual relations with my daughter!!”
Facing down the accusatory finger, Bob shook his head slowly and weakly.
Mr. Oil went for the kill, “Your honor, it is clear by the written and unprovoked verbal testimony of the victim’s father and even the defendants own words that on the night of May the first one Mr. Bob was involved in a heinous act of rape, likely not even statutory.” He was like machine gun, unrelenting, “I move we drop this charade and cease wasting the People’s time and tax dollars by—”
With a slam of his gavel the Judge reminded Oil of his authority, “Mr. Oil, I will not be lectured in my own courtroom on the basics of economics as applied to the legal proceedings of a trial. Mr. Bob has the right to a fair and full trial.”
As far as Bob was concerned, as far as any man who knew a damn about his town, he knew his goose was cooked. A full trial he may very well get, but nay should he receive a fair one. His kind were still heavily discriminated against in these parts, and despite the honesty of his relationship with Ms. Margaret he knew her hateful father would never permit their love to blossom in the peace of regularity.
The jury was just as spiteful. All of them were likeminded fellows, never mind friends of Margaret’s old man. Even if they hadn’t been on good terms with the ol’ bastard they would sooner give a veggieman to the firin’ squad than spite the ol’ gaffer himself.
Amongst the quickly re-embroiled courtroom Bob swore under his breath, having nearly bitten into his own lower lip.
“What was that, boy?!” Mr. Marvin asked, slamming his right fist atop the railing.
Bob’s patience and his own self-loathing had reached an end. Rising from his stool, breaking his hunch, the pumpkin man stood proudly. “You heard me, damn it!”
The courtroom had exploded into an uproar again. Gavel, cheers, slurs…it didn’t matter, Bob was riding the adrenalin. “I love Ms. Margaret—your daughter—you hateful, spiteful, coldhearted son of a bitch! I’m not going to take this shit from you people anymore.”
Ms. Margaret shot up to her feet at her beau’s passion.
“Son, say anymore and not even I wi—” the Judge was worried. In the end he was but one lone man. With the mayor just as bigoted as the rest a single county judge with no influence outside his jurisdiction he wouldn’t be able to call in anyone of higher power.
“I don’t give a damn anymore, your honor!” Bob’s body was a bobbin’ in place, his shackles a shake. After quickly turning to the judge as an acknowledgement he shot his gaze back to Ms. Margaret.
Crying her beau’s name, Ms. Margaret reached out for his embrace. The hate-imbrued Marvin turned to his daughter and with a slap across her face told her to sit back down.
Hearing her shriek, Bob jumped the stand railing with a curse for the old man. Men joined in from both sides of the aisle, beating each other amidst a heated stewing pot of hate. Bob knocked old man Marvin back, crashing down upon the bleacher. Punch after punch, Bob unleashed his frustrations on the old man’s face.
After moments no man that day could have recounted, Ms. Margaret pulled Mr. Bob off of her father in a sobbing mess. Amidst his dispelled rage a heavy-breathing Bob caught side of the scared young woman he had sworn to himself to love, protect, and honor. This was their chance. With the courtroom astir Bob and Margaret could make their run for ‘it’. ‘It’, which they had sought for many fortnights now. Bob took Ms. Margaret by her arm and made a dash for through the heated mess of man-on-veggieman. Like through a thick bog the two ran for their freedom from this Hell they once called home.
Running desperately down the corridor toward the stairwell the two lovers stopped only for a moment’s passionate kiss. Opening the double-doors, Bob and Margaret took sight of the spiraling stairs that would lead them to the first floor. Amidst their panicked and heavy breathing they heard an unfamiliar sound. Was it a squeak? To Bob, a workman his entire life, it was reminiscent of a stapling gun. The echo of the stairwell carried the mysterious sound well.
Swiping beads of sweat from his brow, Bob looked to his love. With a nod of concurrence, they made their way down the stairwell, the unknown be damned. As they rushed down the stairwell their ears caught a strange and labored breathing. As a tall figure’s shadow entered their line of sight from around the corner, the squeaking steps stopped.
I'll likely revise this installment too, but I wanted to toss it up. Once again, this is my first time writing this sort of piece and it hardly matches what I envisioned it would.
***
The Cicada II
Cicadas are often seen as a sign of summer.
Bob’s shackles clanked and clunked as he crossed the courtroom floor. The creaking of the old wooden floorboards complimented the music of the metal shackles as the orange blob made his way from the defense’s table to the stand. A sketch artist would later release a piece of what was clearly a young pumpkin man in an orange jumpsuit looking solemn on the stand as the jury in the background whispered away about the sight. The judge brought his gavel down to silence the courtroom. Across the room on the side of the people sat a young woman, she could not have been more than sixteen. She looked like Hell.
A clicking noise filled the courtroom as several hundred townspeople filed into the room tightly like a can of sardines. The electricity had been failing all week and the courtroom that summer day was no exception. The townsfolk had turned to fanning themselves with homemade wooden fans and wiping the sweat from their faces with their handkerchiefs. It was the dog days of summer, but no man sweated more furiously than young Mr. Bob.
“We have come together today to hear the facts of the case, gentlemen,” the judge addressed the jury. “I will have no gossiping in my courtroom, understood?”
Mr. Foreman spoke for the jury, confirming their understanding of the situation.
“Good, now we shall proceed.
Docket #456, the People v. Mr. Bob.
“You may precede, Mr. Oil.”
“Your honor,” Mr. Zumi of the defense quickly interjected, “My client has been grievously mischarge. His relationship with the ‘victim’—”
“—Was completely inappropriate, your honor,” Mr. Oil retorted with a turn from counsel to the judge.
Mr. Zumi fired back an indignant response which led into a back-and-forth shouting match. The even more heated courtroom burst into an uproar as supporters of both sides angrily cursed the other out, racial slurs piling on. Judge Waka pounded his gavel on its mark, calling for order. Moments passed and finally the courtroom had settled; tensions in some ways louder as both parties were forced to simmer down.
“The defendant has been called to the stand as the first witness by Mr. Oil and he may continue,” the judge commanded.
Questioning got underway and it soon became apparent that the people were trying to railroad Mr. Bob.
“Where were you on the night of May 1st, Mr. Bob?”
Bob stared intently at his interrogator. Summoning up his strength amongst the hostile court, Mr. Bob finally spoke, “Lover’s Lane, sir.”
“Were you alone?”
The pumpkin-headed man wiped sweat from his brow, cleared his quivering throat, and replied, ‘No, sir.”
“Who, then, were you with that night?”
“Why,” Bob’s lower lip quivered, “Ms. Margaret, sir.”
Even before Bob could finish her name, the man from the very inside end of the front row on the people’s side, rose and shouted “That orange bastard had illegal and immoral sexual relations with my daughter!!”
Facing down the accusatory finger, Bob shook his head slowly and weakly.
Mr. Oil went for the kill, “Your honor, it is clear by the written and unprovoked verbal testimony of the victim’s father and even the defendants own words that on the night of May the first one Mr. Bob was involved in a heinous act of rape, likely not even statutory.” He was like machine gun, unrelenting, “I move we drop this charade and cease wasting the People’s time and tax dollars by—”
With a slam of his gavel the Judge reminded Oil of his authority, “Mr. Oil, I will not be lectured in my own courtroom on the basics of economics as applied to the legal proceedings of a trial. Mr. Bob has the right to a fair and full trial.”
As far as Bob was concerned, as far as any man who knew a damn about his town, he knew his goose was cooked. A full trial he may very well get, but nay should he receive a fair one. His kind were still heavily discriminated against in these parts, and despite the honesty of his relationship with Ms. Margaret he knew her hateful father would never permit their love to blossom in the peace of regularity.
The jury was just as spiteful. All of them were likeminded fellows, never mind friends of Margaret’s old man. Even if they hadn’t been on good terms with the ol’ bastard they would sooner give a veggieman to the firin’ squad than spite the ol’ gaffer himself.
Amongst the quickly re-embroiled courtroom Bob swore under his breath, having nearly bitten into his own lower lip.
“What was that, boy?!” Mr. Marvin asked, slamming his right fist atop the railing.
Bob’s patience and his own self-loathing had reached an end. Rising from his stool, breaking his hunch, the pumpkin man stood proudly. “You heard me, damn it!”
The courtroom had exploded into an uproar again. Gavel, cheers, slurs…it didn’t matter, Bob was riding the adrenalin. “I love Ms. Margaret—your daughter—you hateful, spiteful, coldhearted son of a bitch! I’m not going to take this shit from you people anymore.”
Ms. Margaret shot up to her feet at her beau’s passion.
“Son, say anymore and not even I wi—” the Judge was worried. In the end he was but one lone man. With the mayor just as bigoted as the rest a single county judge with no influence outside his jurisdiction he wouldn’t be able to call in anyone of higher power.
“I don’t give a damn anymore, your honor!” Bob’s body was a bobbin’ in place, his shackles a shake. After quickly turning to the judge as an acknowledgement he shot his gaze back to Ms. Margaret.
Crying her beau’s name, Ms. Margaret reached out for his embrace. The hate-imbrued Marvin turned to his daughter and with a slap across her face told her to sit back down.
Hearing her shriek, Bob jumped the stand railing with a curse for the old man. Men joined in from both sides of the aisle, beating each other amidst a heated stewing pot of hate. Bob knocked old man Marvin back, crashing down upon the bleacher. Punch after punch, Bob unleashed his frustrations on the old man’s face.
After moments no man that day could have recounted, Ms. Margaret pulled Mr. Bob off of her father in a sobbing mess. Amidst his dispelled rage a heavy-breathing Bob caught side of the scared young woman he had sworn to himself to love, protect, and honor. This was their chance. With the courtroom astir Bob and Margaret could make their run for ‘it’. ‘It’, which they had sought for many fortnights now. Bob took Ms. Margaret by her arm and made a dash for through the heated mess of man-on-veggieman. Like through a thick bog the two ran for their freedom from this Hell they once called home.
Running desperately down the corridor toward the stairwell the two lovers stopped only for a moment’s passionate kiss. Opening the double-doors, Bob and Margaret took sight of the spiraling stairs that would lead them to the first floor. Amidst their panicked and heavy breathing they heard an unfamiliar sound. Was it a squeak? To Bob, a workman his entire life, it was reminiscent of a stapling gun. The echo of the stairwell carried the mysterious sound well.
Swiping beads of sweat from his brow, Bob looked to his love. With a nod of concurrence, they made their way down the stairwell, the unknown be damned. As they rushed down the stairwell their ears caught a strange and labored breathing. As a tall figure’s shadow entered their line of sight from around the corner, the squeaking steps stopped.
She/Her