Sabrina Imbler

But when Zook and her team returned to Kauai in 2003, they found crickets abounding in the fields. The males still went through all the motions, scraping mute wings together. But their wings had slickened, rid of the corrugations that once allowed them to sing. The culprit was a mustard-colored fly, Ormia orchotriae.

Only slightly larger than a pea, the fly cannot attack the cricket like a typical hunter. Instead, it is a parasitoid. The fly listens for the cricket's song with its highly specialized eardrums, which waggle like a teeter-totter to triangulate the insect's location.

Only slightly larger than a pea, the fly cannot attack the cricket like a typical hunter. Instead, it is a parasitoid. The fly listens for the cricket's song with its highly specialized eardrums, which waggle like a teeter-totter to triangulate the insect's location.

Only slightly larger than a pea, the fly cannot attack the cricket like a typical hunter. Instead, it is a parasitoid. The fly listens for the cricket's song with its highly specialized eardrums, which waggle like a teeter-totter to triangulate the insect's location.

Then the fly unloads a heap of maggots atop the cricket's back, babies that burrow through the exoskeleton, and curl up inside the cricket as if its body were a womb. The maggots develop inside this walking, singing incubator, and when they hatch, they erupt out of the body and eat their way out. In singing their old song, the male crickets had unknowingly condemned themselves to a gruesome death.

Then the fly unloads a heap of maggots atop the cricket's back, babies that burrow through the exoskeleton, and curl up inside the cricket as if its body were a womb. The maggots develop inside this walking, singing incubator, and when they hatch, they erupt out of the body and eat their way out. In singing their old song, the male crickets had unknowingly condemned themselves to a gruesome death.

Then the fly unloads a heap of maggots atop the cricket's back, babies that burrow through the exoskeleton, and curl up inside the cricket as if its body were a womb. The maggots develop inside this walking, singing incubator, and when they hatch, they erupt out of the body and eat their way out. In singing their old song, the male crickets had unknowingly condemned themselves to a gruesome death.

The crickets had lost their song and might now survive into the future, for generations the mute flatwings hopped around the island, freed from the flies but scarcely able to find mates. But in 2018, biologist Robin Tingitella overheard a population of Pacific field crickets in Hawaii singing a new song.

The crickets had lost their song and might now survive into the future, for generations the mute flatwings hopped around the island, freed from the flies but scarcely able to find mates. But in 2018, biologist Robin Tingitella overheard a population of Pacific field crickets in Hawaii singing a new song.

The crickets had lost their song and might now survive into the future, for generations the mute flatwings hopped around the island, freed from the flies but scarcely able to find mates. But in 2018, biologist Robin Tingitella overheard a population of Pacific field crickets in Hawaii singing a new song.

It sounded nothing like the species' signature chirping, but rather like a cat's low, throaty purr. To the careful ears of female crickets, these calls are crude imitations of the old one. The alchemy of the first, crafted by eons of evolution, remain lost. But these new songs, however coarse and tuneless, may be the cricket's ticket to the future.

It sounded nothing like the species' signature chirping, but rather like a cat's low, throaty purr. To the careful ears of female crickets, these calls are crude imitations of the old one. The alchemy of the first, crafted by eons of evolution, remain lost. But these new songs, however coarse and tuneless, may be the cricket's ticket to the future.

It sounded nothing like the species' signature chirping, but rather like a cat's low, throaty purr. To the careful ears of female crickets, these calls are crude imitations of the old one. The alchemy of the first, crafted by eons of evolution, remain lost. But these new songs, however coarse and tuneless, may be the cricket's ticket to the future.

When I wrote about the Hawaiian crickets for my day job, I recognized what seemed like parallels between us. We were creatures who had traded some original ability to sing for something else. survival, and a newfound masculinity. But I am not so obtuse as to conflate our situations.

When I wrote about the Hawaiian crickets for my day job, I recognized what seemed like parallels between us. We were creatures who had traded some original ability to sing for something else. survival, and a newfound masculinity. But I am not so obtuse as to conflate our situations.

When I wrote about the Hawaiian crickets for my day job, I recognized what seemed like parallels between us. We were creatures who had traded some original ability to sing for something else. survival, and a newfound masculinity. But I am not so obtuse as to conflate our situations.

I had no life-threatening predators around to silence me, no flies dumping a litter of maggots on my back to remodel my body into a nightmarish womb. Thinking about our situation side by side only reminded me of my luck. I had simply fallen a little out of love with karaoke. What once had been an outlet for rage, love, and desire had now become a site of discomfort, even fear.

I had no life-threatening predators around to silence me, no flies dumping a litter of maggots on my back to remodel my body into a nightmarish womb. Thinking about our situation side by side only reminded me of my luck. I had simply fallen a little out of love with karaoke. What once had been an outlet for rage, love, and desire had now become a site of discomfort, even fear.

I had no life-threatening predators around to silence me, no flies dumping a litter of maggots on my back to remodel my body into a nightmarish womb. Thinking about our situation side by side only reminded me of my luck. I had simply fallen a little out of love with karaoke. What once had been an outlet for rage, love, and desire had now become a site of discomfort, even fear.

It was no longer a place I could go to lose myself. In fact, I was running out of places to lose myself. Perhaps this was the point of stopping drinking, but it did not halt my yearning for times when I could step into a karaoke room, pick up a mic, and become someone else for a few minutes. Now I'm much more myself. This is sometimes a relief, sometimes a restriction.