othering

by Andrea Damic

You call us Locust.

We are many.

We eat the remains of what we find, scavenging trash cans, to feed our young. Some of us survive on blood, while others feast on their prey, unable to suppress their predatory nature.

We speak in tongues, echoing in a chorus of sounds. If you listen carefully, you can hear our wings' vibrations or a gentle drumbeat—the pitter-patter of our little feet. Sometimes, we pat on surfaces, tymbaling like our beloved kinfolk.

You might hear us chirp—weeeee-whoa.

You might hear us buzz—whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, as dew sticks to our feet. Or stridulate, as we attract mates and ward off predators.

We are travellers, singers, dwellers, earth eaters.

We hurt, we fight, we die. Some of us cannibalise their sick offspring, but we take no pleasure in these acts. It’s how we stop disease from spreading through our colonies—how we survive. When we’re not fighting over pesky territorial disputes, we seek harmony with the rest of the living world.

We migrate to climates that soothe us most—when given a choice. Sometimes we flee our habitats—when given no choice. But we come from order, and support order.

We do our best to fit in, but it’s tough with our unique bodily features—being eight-footed with flashlight-lit eyes, or fuzzy-furred (most are wall-climbers); some are lustrous and bioluminescent—admire-worthy jewels while some have blurry mosaic-like eyes (360-degree vision giving us bragging rights—Predators Alert! Prey! - Be(a)ware!); but some are blind (yet, you don’t hear us complain as we sense the finest reverberations).

We celebrate our mating calls—often with chirping melodies or through composite dances attracting females. Some of us offer sperm packets by using light ceremonies, even "nuptial gifts" like our own body parts (we are not picky like that); sometimes we get ‘a bit’ aggressive when hearing the call (after all, it’s our species' survival at stake). Our customs are different because—

We are different, no doubt about it.

We come in all shapes and sizes, colours and features.

Sometimes we get squashed, watered, set on fire, and sprayed. If we are lucky, we’ll only be shunned. The latter is a minor snag - in the long run…jump…walk…crawl.

We burn, suffocate, and bleed.

We are uniquely similar and familiarly dissimilar but we like to think we belong, after all

we share a common ancestry.

Photo of Andrea Damic

BIO: Andrea Damic (Sydney, Australia) is an artist, writer and editor for Pictura Journal. Her literary art has been published or is forthcoming in Bending Genres, Bright Flash Literary Review, Ghost Parachute, JMWW, MasticadoresUSA and elsewhere. Andrea won SmokeLong Quarterly's Trainwreck Micro Competition (Sep 25). Her debut hybrid collection of art, poetry and prose, All the Losses, is scheduled for release in Feb26 through Alien Buddha Press. She believes there’s something cathartic about seeing your art and words out in the world. In her imaginary free time, Andrea can be found fiddling with her website https://damicandrea.wordpress.com/ and other social media platforms.