When Cicadas Cry

NYC Midnight Flash Competition (2025)

5th place for the first round

3000 writers from across the globe, 60+ groups

Prompts were: A barn, Box of Raisins, Historical Fiction

I’ve seen more Kansas sunrises than I can count, from the scorched banks of Eureka Lake.

I spend most mornings shiverin’ with my fishin’ line at full cast ever since Momma cooked up the last of our chickens last winter. Truth be told, I’d rather be fishin’ than shovelin’ chicken shit outta the coops.

My sister, Jolene, thinks diff’rent. She might never forgive Paw for slaughterin’ our old milk cow, Daisy.

Now we know what Paw meant when he said, “Don’t go namin’ the livestock.”

If I’m lucky, Momma will have my catch nice and fried up before Paw gets home from sellin’ firewood all over town. 

As the Kansas sunrise sneaks through the prairie tallgrass, the bobwhites stir. Sharp bands of burnt-orange light coax the crickets to quiet down and pass things off to the bullfrogs, keepin’ the lake noisy after sun-up.

Just when I’m about to give up and head to the barn with nothin’ but a sob story, my hickory pole jumps. Hope shoots through my shoulders like a firecracker.

I set the hook, hollerin’ loud enough to send the mornin’ birds flyin’ outta the sycamore trees.

“Momma and Paw are gonna be more tickled than a rooster in a henhouse!” 

I wrestle the catfish onto the dry, cracked bank and run my line through its gills to carry it to the barn. The cool smell of wet stone and lakeweed fills my nose, and I can’t stop grinnin’ from ear to ear.

I sling the bullhead over my shoulder. On the way back, I start thinkin’ of Momma’s crispy corn meal, hot from the pan. This catfish will give us enough hope to stretch a week, maybe. 

The barn’s musty air is laced with the sweetness of old hay. There’s still a whiff of manure left over from Daisy. That smell keeps my sister out in the yard, remindin’ her of the day Paw put Daisy down.

Momma’s sittin’ by the barn doors with ten stacks of dry-rotted firewood beside her. She’s wearin’ her yellow sunflower house dress, hopin’ customers meander down our dirt road that twists like a copperhead. Her long brown hair rests softly on her shoulders.

Momma always looks nice, even when she’s cleanin’ out the pig pens.

We ain’t had a customer in months. Paw says folks buy out of necessity, not convenience durin’ these hard times, so they cut their own firewood. The times he’s referrin’ is the Depression—at least that's what they call it on the radio.

I hear our doorbell—cicadas screechin’ along the road through a dust cloud. I flop down my bullhead on a bale of hay and walk over to Momma.

“Mornin’, Momma. There go them cicadas.” I say, squintin’ through the cloud of dust the visitor kicked up.

From what I can tell, it’s a new, red Tin Lizzie. Paw says he’s gonna buy one of them Model Ts as soon as he saves up enough.

“We sell them firewood, Momma?” I ask. But she don’t say nuthin’, still gazin’ at our pastures.

My heart jumps in my throat when I see Momma cryin’. I only saw Momma cry once, and that was when my sister was born. 

“Momma?”

“Go clean them damn catfish ‘fore your daddy comes out,” she snaps. She quickly wipes the tears from her weathered face.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Momma’s always smilin’, even with the way things been this past year. I gotta be honest—somethin’ ain’t right.

I’m cleanin’ my catfish when Paw comes in, dressed to the nines, carryin’ two loads of firewood.

“Hi, Paw. Done in town already?” I ask. But my question don’t get no answer from him neither. He keeps pilin’ wood, then comforts Momma.

Their coldness turns a pit in my stomach, but I try to stay focused on guttin’ my catch. Paw smells like aftershave—like he’s gettin’ ready for church.

I realize I ain’t seen Jolene since I came back.

“Momma… where’s—”

Before she answers, the cicadas start wailin’ again. The pit in my gut eases. Maybe Paw’s dressed up ‘cause someone’s finally comin’ to buy all our firewood. Maybe he’s just gearin’ up to lay that salesman charm on thick.

A shiny blue Model J glides up the drive, kickin’ up dust and stirrin’ the cicadas into a frenzy. Texas plates. It’s a long way to come for some firewood. 

Paw greets a man he say’s a grape farmer from Texas. He drops off boxes of raisins, says they’re a gift. Then Paw calls out: “Come here, boy, meet these nice people.”

I drop the bullhead innards and wipe my hands on my pants. When I step outside, I see a suitcase packed neat and tight. Momma’s cryin’ like her heart broke.

“You gonna help Mr. Smith on his farm, okay, boy?” Paw says.

“How long, Paw?”

“As long as it takes.”

I wasn’t raised to talk back.

“Yes, sir.”

That’s when Momma rushes over, nearly knockin’ the wind outta me, sobbin’ into my neck.

“I’ll always love you. Believe that.”

“Of course, Momma,” I whisper, confused.

“Go on.”

There’s a pretty, blonde lady holdin’ open the car door. A peacock feather sticks out from her straw cloche hat. “Come on, honey,” she says.

“I gotta wash these guts off my hands, ma’am.”

She chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ve smelled plenty of fish guts in my day.”

Halfway into the car, I freeze. “Where’s Jolene?”

Paw and Momma shake their heads. “Don’t worry ‘bout her, now.”

I climb in, feelin’ about as baffled as a pickle in a mason jar. The inside smells like sharp leather and cold metal. Too clean. Not meant for me.

As the car pulls away, I glance back at Momma bawlin’ like somebody just died. Maybe it’s ‘cause I’ll be so far away?

Once we turn on the hardball road, I see it—a wooden sign, tilted to the right, white paint flakin’ off the edges.

It reads: Children for Sale – Inquire Within.