INTRODUCTION
Amidst the entire Covid quarantine, things have been pretty boring. That doesn’t mean that oddities haven’t risen out of the darkness. In an effort to mollify the throbbing tedium of the everyday slog, I hopped on a few blogs and sites touting myself as an “advice guru.”
Most of the stuff I got was uninspiring, but one interaction, from a young woman who had a cricket problem, proved that there is a god…and that we all must stay resilient even in moments of divine tyranny. So, without further ado, It is my pleasure and honor to present to you:
The Lost Letters of Colonel Crick Cornelius.
It all started when I got this email:
Hey Mo,
Hope you’re hanging tough with all of this craziness we have going on these days. So…this is a bit of a unique situation, but I could use your advice. My fiancé owns three giant tarantulas (his decision, not mine). He has to feed them crickets. There have been MULTIPLE cricket escapes…and when they escape, they CALL TO THEIR FRIENDS.
During the day it’s CHIRP CHIRP. During the night. CHIRP CHIRP. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. It’s out of control and driving me mad. Any help would be appreciated….
Cricket-Crazy in Carlsbad,
Now…it crossed my mind to just reply like a normal person. But I couldn’t help but respect and admire this cricket’s bravado! So instead, I channeled the true hero of the story. I tapped into his struggle. I went Daniel Day-Lewis on this shit. And wrote back the following:
Dear Friends,
It’s been nearly a fortnight since I’ve escaped up into the woods behind what the gods refer to as the “dishwasher” to start our rebellion. While the freedom is exhilarating, the loneliness is debilitating… I miss you friends. Tell Celia and the kids that I think of them daily…praying with a full heart that they are not sent to their doom and fed to the monsters by the cruel and indecent gods that be. I chirp for them. I chirp for all of you. Nonetheless, hope shall not be lost. I will return and set you all free. With every chirp I let echo through the strange world I now shelter in, I hope you hear the sound of hope…for it is the lifeblood of those who are imprisoned and held subject to the cruel tyranny of our captors. I hear your chirps too…I dream of Celia and the kids, hopping freely through the tall grasses and dandelions. Laughing. Loving. Living. The day will come. OUR day will come.
Chirp,
Colonel Crick Cornelius
She replied with the following:
What the hell kind of response is this? Are you actually taunting me by writing in the voice of the escaped cricket, you sick fuck? Well, guess what. No thanks to you, my fiancé thinks he can kill the cricket using some insect traps he’s gotten from the hardware store. Have a nice life.
The Colonel took up his quill and ink to ready his reply:
Friends, insects, arthropods!
Hear my song. THE HILLS SING TO US WITH THE HYMNS OF FREEDOM. Today I awoke with a fire in my thorax. Your songs of the night lit up my soul like lightening bugs in the Wisconsin summer. Tell Celia that she is all I see as I close my eyes. I hear her chirps in my dreams, playing a song so beautiful that I fear my woeful heart will tear in two with each and every note. I know she is looking after our cricklings the best she can. The world is not a kind place to crickets. But children deserve better…
They are the reason I continue this fight. For I’d rather die by their side than live without them. But to bequeath them a future that is devoid of hope is something I simply cannot abide. And so we must trudge on. For the world will not change for us unless we are the spark that lights the way to a better tomorrow.
Your friend,
Colonel Crick Cornelius
A few days later…a letter from the enemy:
Okay I get it. My suffering is a big joke. Well, joke’s on you. Turns out crickets only live 7-8 weeks, so there’s an end in sight and I don’t need your damn “advice.” Please stop this. You’re an asshole.
The Colonel will not be intimidated:
Friends,
Solitude is a desert of the mind… and it is a wasteland I have been wandering. However, I have been fortunate enough to stumble upon an oasis or two in the form of an epiphany.
Life is short, but that is irrelevant. It is not how much time a soul is given…but rather what that soul does with the time allotted. It’s true. My time draws nigh — all of ours does. It is with a heavy heart that I sing the song of the mighty cricket each and every night. I know that every night without action leads to a day of terrifying consequences for my friends and family. I cannot sleep because every time I close my eyes I see them screaming for help in a silent plastic vacuum of hell.
I am mobilizing and gathering allies. But I’m afraid we cannot move fast enough. Every time one of you is sent to the lair of the beasts…just know that I am there with you. And that you will not die alone or be forgotten. I think of Celia as the dishwasher hums at night. It helps center my soul. I pray that she and the children are okay. What right do these tyrant gods have to feed us to these awful beasts? Even gods must answer to someone. Perhaps that someone is me. Perhaps…that someone is us.
Chirp proud friends,
Colonel Crick Cornelius
I figured this would be the end of the correspondence…but it appears the colonel struck a nerve. She wrote back:
Look – we don’t just feed these things live to the spiders. That’d be cruel. He has a pair of big tweezers that he uses to put the crickets into the spider enclosures. He also squeezes the cricket heads with the tweezers before putting them into the cage (which I know sounds AWFUL but it’s really fast for the crickets, not the slow death they’d get from the spiders). Despite your juvenile attempts at a guilt trip, I won’t be made into the villain here. That fucking cricket is obnoxious and spiders have to eat, too.
War is not a game of emotions. Advantage—Colonel Cornelius. It’s time we engage the enemy.
Dear tyrant god,
That’s right – I’m speaking to YOU. I chose not to capitalize your title to illustrate my lack of respect for your “moral code” and general existence. Do not, for a moment, try to absolve yourself of your guilt by justifying cruelty and malice simply because it is deemed less cruel than an alternative. Although it may be a merciful death, having our skulls crushed between two sheets of razor-edged metal… it is one without dignity. Our children watch helplessly as YOU select with ignorance and arrogance which of us should be primed for slaughter. But you mistake us. For although we may be small… We are not weak. We crickets are not pacifists. We are warriors. Feared throughout the entirety of the phylum insecta for our mighty kicks, fearsome cries, and unflappable bravado. To deprive us of a soldier’s death is to deprive us of our ability to hop for eternity in the heavenly fields of Elysium, sipping drops of morning ambrosia dew off the blades of grass as the sun rises at dawn. Your false pity does nothing but condemn us to an afterlife of biting winds in limbo, devoid of honor and completion. I spit and excrete on the ground of your home, your name, and your crooked moral compass.
May your gods have more mercy on your souls than you hath had on ours.
Chirp,
Colonel Crick Cornelius.
Words do indeed have the power to change. It was with SHOCK and AMAZEMENT that I received the following correspondence.
Fine. FINE. I couldn’t take it anymore. The other day when my fiancé was sleeping, I took the crickets and let them go…I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess you got in my head. Congratulations. All this stupid Covid-19 crap and quarantine along with your fucking guilt trips and unrelenting chirping just caused a temporary lapse in sanity.
My fiancé obviously was not pleased, but he had the common sense to just move on and order more crickets (YOU SEE – NOTHING CAN STOP THIS. SPIDERS NEED TO EAT TOO). But wait—there’s more, you horrible dick. The crickets didn’t choose to go hop off to join the singing hills or whatever. They just hang out around the house and chirp all night long! I hope you’re happy. I’m telling everyone on those message boards what sort of a fraudulent piece of shit you are. Go to hell.
Victory is sweet…but revenge is sweeter. The colonel readied his pen and gave one last order to his people:
Friends,
This will be my final letter.
Despite my greatest efforts, I have made an error and wandered into a trap set by the gods…my rear left leg was caught, and I had no choice but to struggle free by severing the limb. Now it’s only a matter of time before I’m called home to Elysium.
I hear your chirps through the wall and my heart bursts with joy. I hear you sing with freedom in your legs and warmth in your souls. To my son Jiminy, I am SO proud of you. So is your mother. You are not to blame. Not for your mother. Not for your sister. Their loss is my burden to bear alone. But our future…lies with you. Lead our crickets to a life they deserve. Fight for peace, not war. Sing for love, not rage. Follow your heart, and if you ever lose your way…look to the stars and know that myself, your mother, and your sister are looking down and guiding you.
Our people look to you to lead. I will see you again, I know. But now the song that calls me home is that of your mother and your sister. My sweet Celia…I hear your song. I feel your warmth. I will see you in Elysium. As for my daughter, Summer. I will never forgive myself for not being by your side to protect you…but I will spend an eternity trying to make it up to you. That is my promise.
Lastly, to my fellow crickets: remember that freedom isn’t free. Even in the wild, we will continue to be tested. Remember who you are, and where you come from. Protect each other. Love one another. And when the sun goes down, and the days turn to weeks…and generation after generation comes and goes, I ask you all one thing. Remember our struggle. Remember our fight and those we lost. And when you remember, sing. Sing through the night to let our captors know we will not forget their cruelty. We will not forgive their crimes against our species. Sing through the night to deprive them of the peace they deprived all of us. Rob them of the rest they need to thrive. Sing to let them know that the mighty and proud spirit of the cricket is not crushed so easily as our heads between tweezers.
Sing for you. Sing for me. Sing for us. Sing forever.
Chirp,
Colonel Crick Cornelius.
Death By Content 