Cyma and The Locusts by Hannah

Today marks the 10-year anniversary to the death of the terrible and terrifying Cyma. Ten years ago, in 1877, she had disappeared. No one knew where she had gone and why, but today, as The Board of Private Security of the Wicked; we will release the dramatic story of Cyma and her locusts. If you read on…I warn you…. this information is something you must not dare to address or share with anyone. The wickedness can overcome you…

The history of Cyma is quite extraordinary. She was born as a demi-god, from a shy human mother and Hades.  Her life in the scorching rock of the underworld was dreadful and upsetting. Cyma had a tall figure and wavy red hair.  She had brown eyes and freckly bruised tan skin. Her feet were extremely large. Cyma’s face, however, was innocent. Hades once noted it was from her mother. Her lips were a dark red and dimples appeared in her cheeks when she rarely smiled. She was a young girl in the 1850’s with an intelligent mind. She could get drawn into stories about monsters and gross animals of sorts.  It was surprising that a girl living in  the world of the dead loved information about biology in the living world above.  Cyma would talk to the dead scientists who lived in the underworld, and would listen to their stories of the flowers in gardens and birds on apple trees.  The stories of creepy crawly things appealed to her the most. The dead would tell her about the creatures with millions of legs and the ones with wings that could fly. She would hear about the pinch of honeybees and the fluttering wings of colorful butterflies. She liked to imagine them in her mind. At points she would dream about them crawling up her arm like tiny pets. Dreaming was when Cyma learned how to laugh. At 15 years of age, she escaped to the bright sunlight. She wandered in people’s gardens and pondered the living lives of the noisy buzzing creatures of spring. But Hades caught her on her distant walk.  Grabbing her by the neck, as she made gargling sounds of pain, he whispered in her ear, “Life is what the gullible can’t resist. You are sharp girl. Use it wisely.” These words changed her life.

Afterward, Cyma had changed.  She started to understand that she could use her cleverness for much more than being curious. She started to have brainy vocabulary in her wicked dreams. She noticed the ability to harm others and how to create things no one could visualize. She felt the power of evil in gritty delight from her dark room. At the end of each day, when she put herself to bed, she whispered herself to sleep with three sets of four words.

“I am not gullible. I am not living. I will stay dreadful.”

Years had gone by since she explored the innocent world of colors and harvest. She was curious and anxious to see the loveliness of life once again. She climbed out of her sorrow and escaped to see the world one more time. She first ran into a farm under a chestnut sunrise. There were tall stalks of bumpy corn and ruby red apples hanging on trees and piled in wooden buckets. It had become fall and the trees surrounding the small house nearby were the colors of gold and orange. “So, I may be innocent and gullible. But my intellect tells me that life in the seasons of the earth would soothe my heart. I did so love the biology of the creatures and plants…” she paused and noticed what foolishness had come out of her mouth. She let her words rush out some more, “…dreadful I am not nor gullible.”

A scruffy man in overalls noticed her in his fields soon after.

“Hungry?” He questioned.

“Oh, me?” Cyma was startled. She turned to see the strong farmer on the porch. “Yes.” Cyma said. He then handed her an apple from the bucket by his feet.

“Damin, you?”

“Cyma. Thank you Damin. The apple is appetizing.”

“You got some good manners and vocabulary, too. You wanta see the farm?” His voice had a weird slur.

“Please.” Cyma answered. Damin laughed and held out his hand.

“You sure are polite.”  He then showed her around. Cyma was delighted. Soon after, love was first felt in Cyma’s heart.  Damin’s farm was where Cyma first felt tranquility.

Some say the wickedness left her soon after while others say weeks but what I will say is that it did leave her, no doubt about it. It swarmed out of her head, ears, mouth and nose. The feeling was let out. Dust and wickedness blew around her bedroom. There were spirals of red, yellow and grey.  The evil inside her gut was set free. Insects made up the swarm, locusts to be exact. With her cape she ran around the room pulling them in. “Don’t leave me!” She shrieked. They swarmed around in the fabric of the cape held in her arms. “You can not leave me. I am good at being wicked. Father told me so.” They buzzed an answer back, “You have found love dear friend, no more are you wicked. But do keep us safe. We are helpful to the hearts pain. You may not be wicked for your love for another is strong. Wickedness can overcome you again.  Do keep us safe.”

When Cyma returned to Damin’s farm, to express the love she found in him when they met they day before, she was surprised to find a blonde, a really beautiful one to be exact, dressed in a large dress and bonnet, sucking some corn out on the porch. She had the cuff of her dress hacked up to her knees and large old boots hung around her ankles.

“Howdy!” Her voice had the same slur has Damin’s. “You need anything?” Cyma felt like she had been blown up like a bubble, filled with air of anger to the world and the humans of foolishness. Sobbing she dropped to her knees and scrunched he long hair in a knot on her head. Her sharp fingernails pierced the top of her head. She then screamed a terrible scream. It was high and vibrated in her ears. Wind and dust seemed to blow around Cyma’s head and in her nose and mouth. Slowly she melted into the ground. Pain flared into her body as she closed her eyes and let herself go.

Her eyes flared open to her room in the underworld. She lay on her bed and her body tickled. Calmly she watched the locusts that had been hidden in a box crawl up her spine and stomach.

“Hello friend,” the hissed throughout her body and in her ears, “wickedness has overcome you….” They moved up to her face, “wickedness has overcome you…” Slowly one by one they crawled up her nose, ears and mouth. They filled her body back up. “You are wicked once more…” they cried. In her bed Cyma lay, “I know…I know exactly what to do with you.”

The locusts in her body giggled and hissed. Standing up, Cyma whispered, “Leave me, I am wicked with or without you.  Go do all harm to what I hate. Destroy my friends.” Cyma took a big breath and blew. All the locusts flew out and up to the fool’s paradise of earth.

These years of history were during the locusts’ victory. Their hate destroyed the crops of so many. They duplicated and swarmed. Cyma was enjoying it all. Like a boss she had the power to order them from here or there. “I love you,” she would hiss, “I love you my locusts.” Cyma did not realize that death would be reaching her however.

In 1877 the locusts disappeared. They had melted with Cyma. Cyma was not murdered nor was it an illness. Truly it was a mistake. Cyma had simply tripped on a rope that lay on the stone of the underworld. And in Cyma flew, into a boiling pot of lava. The locusts had flowed her down.

The End

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