by Cristian Velasco

Soledad

He maneuvered within the labyrinth of maize crops with nothing but the gale of the night and a solitary star for company. A devious ground-protruding root disrupted a step in his walk which provoked a late night serving of soil with just a pinch of potent fertilizer. Up on his feet, he could not remember which way he was going or which way he had come. Come to think of it, he could not recall what had happened prior, or why he walked through the corn field during the pinnacle of night. In all directions, the grassland seemed to extend as far as the eyes went, as well as the darkness devouring it. The only thing visible from the immense field was the church, an ivory tower penetrating the blackened sky. A sense of urgency erupted in the form of an indistinguishable silhouette hiding behind the stalks and leaves.

Cristian woke while the sun was still young in the horizon and the bitter taste of morning breath still lingered in his palate. He’d like to believe it was from the mouthful of manure in his dream. Similarly, he could still hear the rustling of the crops as he brushed his teeth and clothed to go into town. Calling it a “town” would be stretching the truth. Soledad much rather resembled cultivating fields sprinkled with some 150 people, some homes, small business and a church in the center. He dressed in a red and black plaid shirt, blue jeans and khaki colored boots and was off.

He lived on the frontier: a dirt road dividing acres upon acres of produce yielding land accompanied by two cottages. One cottage belonging to the beloved father of the church, Angel, and the other to Cristian. The destination was about a mile westward from his cottage while eastward sought uncultivated fields for countless miles. The vegetation tended to be more vivid and vibrant this time of the year, but the overcast sky this early morning engulfed all life with a grayish hue. Sediments of rock and dirt cracked under his boots and scraped the stroll all the way to town. He enjoyed these tranquil walks between the fields, the rejuvenating herbal aromas caused by dew and the symmetrical scenery. These moments of natural beauty were perhaps the only valuable traits of Soledad.

Just as the deteriorating homes, his fondness of this place diminished each day. The strenuous work of picking fruits and vegetables in the insufferable heat took its toll. Just at the age of 20, he was inflicted with frequent pains to the back from the countless hours spent hunched over the crops. Work was seasonal which meant the flow of income was scarce for a portion of any given year. One day, feeling that 7 years was an adequate amount of time, he asked for a raise. The foreman obliged and incremented his pay from $2.25 to $2.34 “That’s what they think of me,” he thought. “They can’t even give me a dime.”

The church was an immaculate white tower that seemed to amicably shake hands with the sky. When contrasted with the rest of Soledad, the church was Cinderella and the remaining shacks were the ugly stepsisters. The town was so desolate and lackluster that flies, cockroaches and rats would think twice about infesting the place. The only thing that infested the town were the cow pies that always reminded no matter where one went, a lump of dung always seemed to be at arm’s length. Likewise, the townsfolk never left their homes without the Bible firmly grasped in one hand as if by some miraculous occurrence, the author would manifest in Soledad and hold a weekly book club and singing.

Cristian entered the general store, gestured good day to the proprietor and eagerly went to the periodicals. His nimble fingers flew across the pages until getting to the section titled Employment Classified Ads. Before Cristian could scour the newspaper for job openings, the deep-toned ringing of the church bells announced the end of Sunday mass, and the beginning of his torment. Pious and unrelenting, the townsfolk took every opportunity to lecture those like him about the dangers of not attending church and upholding the word of God. To the townsfolk, they were heretics and the greatest offenders in the eyes of God. The growing possibility of emigrating, along with the loathing for the town, resulted in Cristian’s sabbatical from all things religion. This of course did not resonate well with the people of Soledad. They displayed apathy and shunned his presence when in town. Even Festus, the local dunce who was convinced by the youth that brown cows produced chocolate tasting milk, was held in higher regards because he attended mass. While he frequented town gathers and other celebrations to make a fool of himself, Cristian was secluded in his cottage pondering the move to San Francisco for the fisheries or to the ranching work in Salinas. As Cristian grew older and the need for food, water and shelter became an ever so present threat, his stern religious upbringing was shot down, severed and now occupied the same place as the mulch. “God didn’t put this food on the table,” he would frequently say. “I did!” Not wanting to cross swords with a devotee firmly standing on a soapbox while delivering a spiel about judgment, Cristian placed a dime on the counter and scurried out and back the way he came like a rat with the tail between its legs.

The dirt road began to subside and gave way to a picture of the cottages at the horizon: Angel’s to the right and Cristian’s to the left; both dilapidated by the neighboring crops and soil brought on by strong currents of moving air. Getting closer, he could see the outline of a man incrementing in size. “Oh shit,” he thought with a disapproving gesture. “It’s Angel.” Angel stood there on the edge where the dirt road ended and the field began on the side of Cristian’s cottage. He sported his debonair attire: a white button up shirt with a black tie, khaki colored dress pants and well shined monk shoes. One hand raised in the air waving to Cristian and the other by his side holding a tome.

“Cristian, my boy!” he announced from afar. “Where have you been?”

“Please not today,” Cristian murmured under his breath at the sight of the Bible in Angel’s hand. As he continued to near him, he lowered his head trying to avoid eye-contact. It was all in vain. Angel, just like Soledad is, were too pious for their own good. His attempt to zip past Angel was thwarted by an amicable handshake.

“How are you in the year of our Lord 1933 child? Where have you been the entire day? You look a bit flustered. What’s got you shook on this Sunday?” Angel always spoke this way: referring to others as “child”, “son” or “daughter” even though he wasn’t much older than the flock who would scurry through the plains to hear him reverberate the word of God. Angel spoke quickly and tended to unnecessarily accent and extend the ends of sentences. His hair, parted and combed to the side, complimented his infectious smile. His overwhelming optimism and persistence were always a nuisance to Cristian.

“Nowhere, Father Angel. Just admiring the scenery,” Cristian responded while walking past Angel towards the sanctuary of his cottage.

“Now hold on son!” Angel proclaimed. “Where’s the fire!” His congregation usually thought him to be quick to anger, but this was due to his time devoted in preaching passionately. “This is the town of Soledad; unless you’re attending mass, there ain’t much you can do!” He said this with admiration as he held up the Bible. It became apparent to him of Cristian’s loathing for all talk of religion. “Why don’t you attend church, my son? The clergy want to deliver your soul from the Lake of Fire!”

“I don’t need the church,” said Cristian with a certain reverence of his own. “The church didn’t die for my sins. I don’t owe it anything,” These words precipitated Angel’s face to gesture from content to sternness.

“You know Cristian,” Angel’s voice softened while he stared at the sun waning in the sky. “There was a time where I too was hesitant of my religion.” Cristian was intrigued by Angel’s honesty. “After my mother’s passing, I was mad at God for taking her away. I was mad at Soledad for quickly forgetting her. I was mad at myself for not doing all that I could have,” In recalling his mother’s departure, Angel tried to conceal his tears. “I reserved myself in my home just like you have done so much these days. The Lord then blessed me with the insight to realize that we are susceptible to malicious spirits and specters in the face of adversity that deter us from the path of the righteous,” Cristian looked hard at Angel, trying hard to comprehend and care for what he was saying. Angel opened the Bible and began to read an excerpt. “Tell me Cristian, God forbid, if today was your last day on earth, do you think you would join our Lord in heaven?”

“Uh,” Cristian’s voice staggered with each word. “I don’t know. I hope to be.” Angel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black booklet and handed it to Cristian.

“You don’t have the patience for faith today, but perhaps you will in the future, my son,” he said, speaking from the heart. “You close your door, but He still waits with open arms.” Cristian took the small pocket sized Bible and opened the screen door to his cottage; leaving Angel outside.

Cristian threw the small black booklet into a cardboard box on the floor near his bookcase. The top shelf of the bookcase had volumes of Hubbard, McCarthy and Chboski while the box contained torn papers, useless notebooks, old newspapers and books he considered of the same quality.

by Olivia Lee

In Flesh and Bone Remain

There is a creature living beneath the floorboards. It breathes, it exhales its perfumed breath through the cracks in the floorboards, smelling of rose water and flour and cold cream. Like a lady’s hands. Soft, pliable, delicate. Working their way through the woodworks, winding their way up the stairs and slipping silently under the crack in the doorway of each and every child. Whispering, beckoning. Comforting. All children know of it, all know to fear the cold and stay in bed. All tuck their little heads beneath their quilts and lie still, quivering until daybreak and a mother’s kiss comes to chase the night away.
And so it goes, day after day. But it waits.
Each day the scent grows stronger, takes shape, becomes palpable, like a living thing. Some nights children reach out in the darkness and feel its touch in sudden bouts of warmth. Heat that peels the blankets from clammy skin and flannel and leaves them sticky and flat-backed on the sheets. Heat that persuades. Heat like the palms of a lady’s hands.
Only the coolness of the ground can bring relief. And so now the children clamber, from cribs and beds and mattresses, down ladders and bed-posts, down to the floor where they press their faces to the hollow boards and gasp at the aching coldness. And so they arrange themselves in any number of comfortable patterns, where the breathing is the easiest. They press their faces to the boards, breathing its breath up through the cracks to envelop like talcum-powder smoke. Then swallowing in, greedily, hungrily. Children shake as if in a nightmare, so terribly alone, cold on the floorboards.
Breathing slows. Blood congeals. The children twitch and a song emerges from beneath the floor, quiet in the stillness–
“From the stars you fell to me,
It’s been too long, it’s much too late,
You came to me in flesh and bone,
And now in flesh remai–”
But the voice stops, its song strangled away in its throat. Dawn has thrown its condemning rays across the floor, illuminating the rumpled blankets and soft toys and other odds and ends strewn across the bed. The child stirs in its sleep, blinks once, then twice. The eyes open and the head comes up expectantly, nods. The safety of a parent waits. Children crawl or toddle or flee into the hallway to the arms of a parent and the butter-bright glow of the breakfast table.
Is it gone? Perhaps. The memories have begun to dissolve into nothing, and the children forget the hands, the coldness, the song. Roses and cold cream, the unbearable swelter. All are replaced by a parent’s embrace or the jingle of a school bell. But the clock ticks. The hours wax full, the sun dips away under its canopy of trees. The faucet runs. And already the room fills with the smell of rose water and flour and cold cream.
Already it smells of a lady’s hands.

by Olivia Lee

The Muse

The Muse was there. She came the way she always did, curving frame outlined against the light of the window overlooking the city. The veins of her chamber pulsed rhythmically, reaching like vines from a balcony in a Veronian tableau, pulling and pressing against the membranous tissue of her cocoon. Deep inside, the cells beat with life, stretching and glowing translucent with the weight of its contents as the Muse grew within. First came the sloping curvature of the forehead; the butterfly lace of her eyelashes; then the diaphanous wisping of hair. Veins pumped strange fluids in and out of the multitudinous ducts and passageways that snaked over and beneath the Muse’s feet—even in utero, those were the most beautiful feet he had ever seen.

And now the Muse grew faster and faster, bones molding and shifting at astonishing rates, tendons climbing and linking and seeking in the dimness like ivy leaves. Then all at once she broke through, tearing at the crinkling edges as if it were only paper. A sea of creased and crumpled atrocities spilled out upon the oiled wooden floors of the room, each bearing the torso and limbs of a different woman. These were the abandoned ones, the paintings half-attempting at the beauty of the Muse. There was no gauzing of salt spray, no winsome clam-shell edged in pink, only bodies and streaming light and the pre-possessing Muse in all her splendor.

She paused for a minute, stepping lightly from the crumpled remains of the uterus, sweeping olive ripples of cloth falling in hypnotic drapes against the small of her back, parting to reveal a swaying backdrop of faded yellow, not unlike the rusted ochre of mud lining Venetian riverbanks in the fall, and yet not a step from austerity. Behind her, dust motes wavered in the folds of her gown, illuminated by the shafts of light filtering in from the windows behind her. Her silk-slippered feet padded softly like a cat over the crushed limbs littering the floor. The unfinished masses amidst her toes seethed at Leonardo’s feet, clutching at his robes. He spurned them, kicked them aside, and then they lay still as the Muse crept closer and closer, stretching out her milky white fingers towards Leonardo’s face, and her lips spread slowly into an inscrutable smile belying a secret or perhaps a revelation. In that smile, Leonardo saw intelligence, he saw the mingling of equal minds—

“Sir?”

The wooden door to his study was perched open, supported by a frail willow of a boy with a comical nest of curls. Leonardo looked about his study, peering at the chalk still in his hand. He yanked at a paper, flipped it over. It was another one of them—a torso, a face, but no mouth. Leonardo raised his hand to the boy and he bobbed out of sight, the door closing behind him.

Salai knew it too, that he’d been drawing again, and shuffled off for more paper. His master had been confined in his study the past few days and was burning through paper the way a rich man would. Maybe in the past he’d been in a position to indulge, but for the time being that was extravagant. Still, he was only an apprentice and the duty of an apprentice was to prep the master’s paper and the pigments until somehow, someday, he earned the right to actually put chalk to paper and draw.

Leonardo tossed the chalk and watched it hide away in the shadows of a stack of notebooks. The faces of a thousand wordless women stared back at him from their papers, murmuring. Not one of them he recognized. Not one of them was the Muse, and yet again it seemed he’d failed at capturing her likeness. And he’d been refusing the requests of numerous esteemed families, asking to paint their portraits, but now Leonardo could not bear to look upon another twittering noblewoman. When he saw the Muse, he did not see layers upon layers of velvet and pearls and finery, but some other pigment whose properties remained unknown. This frustrated him, and once in a rage he’d strewn paint across her canvas and marred her half-drawn face. He paid his penance in chalk some hours after and drew her a halo.

After a moment of contemplation, Leonardo found himself taking out the canvas again. There she was—that oval face, that gossamer veil, but no smile. She had slept for months and that was evident in the angry slashes of vermilion at her neck, now crusted and flaking. Leonardo picked up a brush, gathered a set of paints, looked in the mirror. The Muse nodded.

The garden was small, walled on all sides by ageing limestone and marble, and in the corner was an apple tree. At the foot of the tree was a rabbit, all brush and cottontail in the glow of the dawn. The sun rose high in light of the first morning and this, Leonardo thought, was truly the Garden itself, complete with its Adam and all of its creatures. And here was its Eve, hung with olive robes and lacy veil, the feminine counterpart for the helpless artist. She smiled at him again—that peculiar smile—but touched her neck, which weeped rivulets of crimson. It dripped onto the skin of her pearly chest and he wiped it away with a cloth, and the skin knit together and healed itself. The Muse cupped her hands together and drew out a string of silver light, criss-crossing a constellation, forming it into a glowing mask in the likeness of Leonardo’s face. The artist opened his hands to her and she placed a single star in his palm, with which he began to crush into a pigment.

Up above in the sky the sun swiveled out of view and was replaced by a pendant moon, which shed swaths of color upon the leaves of the apple tree. A large black wolf bounded over the wall of the garden and took chase with the rabbit. They began to circle the tree in infinite continuum, neither gaining nor losing position as they chased. Leonardo understood their inner workings and watched as they rounded the trunk, with each revelation exposing a little bit more of their insides, first a bit of skin, then a sheet of muscle; a rib; a skeleton. And each time they circled the sun rose again in the overarching sky, illuminating once but not twice the vast tapestry of planets filtering through the apple tree leaves. Leonardo pinched the intricate networking of light together, stretching and cross hatching the outline of the Muse’s face. Somewhere behind him the rabbit caved to the wolf and both collapsed into a heap of bones, and around them fell clumps of fruit. Flies swarmed about them and grew drunk on their juices, before lifting off in great buzzing clouds among the weeds. The apple tree shriveled and died and the carpet of grass grew brittle and gray, until the only life left in the garden was Leonardo, the stars, and the Muse with her phantasmagoric smile.

Salai knocked on the door. Unnecessary, he knew, but it had been months since his master had come out from his study and he could have counted on his fingers how many times he’d actually seen the man. Commissions had been backing up by the dozen, and frankly they stressed him out beyond belief.

“Sir, they’re asking for you.”

The door to the study creaked open.

“Sir, your pigments—”

Leonardo lifted his head and squinted up at the door. That boy again? He directed his gaze towards his canvas. Now the reddening streaks from before had disappeared and the face of his beloved Muse was revealed in its entirety, from the delicacy of her intertwined fingers to the smoothness of her skin. Those eyes still bore the sentience of before and that smile, it hid the same enigmatical silence of the garden. Salai knocked again and Leonardo rose to answer the door, but not before encountering an odd apparition in the corner of his eye. Startled, he sat down again, but upon seeing the mirror he touched at his robes, then the wispy tufts of hair. A feeling started with his eyes, crinkling the skin around the frame of his nose and slowly drawing down to his lips, before looking into the eyes of the one opposite to him. He saw intelligence, knowledge, personality, and it moved him to part his lips in a smile.

And the Muse smiled back.

by Duha Maher Nabulsi

What’s Fasting?

It was Mid- July; the hottest month of the year. The recollections of the call to prayer going off rang through my memories as I rushed to finish up what I had in my hands. I tried to gulp down water in time. Once the sound of prayer stopped, I put down what was left. That was it. No more food or water for the next 17 hours. Today marked the first day of Ramadan.

Day 1
I was lucky enough not to have to start fasting for Ramadan while school was in session, or else I would have fallen asleep in class–or worse–been very tempted to eat all the chocolate chip cookies and bags of hot Cheetos the other students would have munched on during lunch. Worst of all, I might have even been tempted to drink some cool and refreshing water during all the humidity. But lucky me, it was my day off and I had spent the majority of it sleeping; which is what most people usually do during Ramadan to help with the passing of time. I had received messages from my friends asking me to go out and eat with them, which I refused for obvious reasons. I was too exhausted because I hadn’t eaten all day. I got the same reaction that every Muslim is tired of hearing, “Oh my god, I feel bad for you”.

To non- Muslims, this may sound miserable; no food or water as long as the sun is up for a whole month. I’m not going to lie, it’s really not that great, but it’s also not that bad either. It’s a joyous month for us to both grow in spirituality and to have amazing late night family meals. Ramadan meals aren’t like normal meals, as mothers not only cook enough food to feed an entire country, but they cook special dishes made just for The Holy Month. Much to most non-muslim’s surprise, the main thing that I struggle with isn’t the fasting from food itself, but the patience it takes to do it right. We don’t only fast from food and water, but from other behaviors as well. For example, you’re not allowed to curse–and if you do–it’s considered as breaking your fast. So, for someone who has no patience, this may be one of the hardest things to do.

Day 15
I’ve gotten used to fasting by now, I’m even okay with missing breakfast. I was about to head to work, but made a quick stop to my bathroom to brush my teeth a few times before leaving. One of the perks of fasting: bad breath. Yeah, I know. Gross right? I didn’t want to be talking to my customers at work with my breath stinking. Before starting my car, I had to say a few prayers to myself: “Please god, give me patience as I drive to get to work.”

Then I took a deep breath, slowly pulled out of my driveway, and hit the road. I was soon met with a car in front of me who seemed like a new driver.

“Are you serious?! Dude come on! The sign says 50 miles per hour and you’re going 20. Why are these people even allowed to drive?”

I had started to tailgate the driver until a lane opened up next to me, which I signaled to merge into. I pressed on the gas pedal to speed up into the lane, and looked over through my left window to shake my head while looking at the passenger.

“You little shi-” I caught myself. I had almost broken my fast. As I sped away, I shouted to myself in the car, “Oh Lord, give me patience!”

I finally made it to work, where I was scheduled to come in at 5:30PM. What’s the first thing I did? Went straight to my breaker, Jennifer, and told her to give me a break at 8:50PM so I can finally eat and drink.

“Why can’t I send you to your lunch break at 7?” Jennifer asked.

“There’s no point. I can’t eat until 8:57. I’m fasting” I replied to her.

“Fasting? What’s that? She asked.

Oh great. This was the millionth person I had to give a speech to on what fasting is. I then proceeded to tell her what fasting was and what I could and couldn’t do.

With the same shocked expression I had seen many times before, she asked, “Wait. You can’t really drink water or eat? How do you do that?”

“Nope can’t do any of that. Honestly, don’t know. It’s really not that bad.”

“But not even water ?”

No, idiot, I just said I couldn’t drink anything. “Nope no water either.”

“Oh my god. That sucks! Okay I’ll give you your break at 8:50”

Working in a restaurant during Ramadan really does test your patience. The smell of pasta gets my stomach growling the entire time. It was exhausting, running around carrying heavy trays of food to tables, only to then look at how delicious the entrees looked. At one point, I ran some food to a table in Bianco. The way the glazed chicken breast sat on top of the creamy pasta started causing me to salivate as I passed it out to the customer.

He chuckled, “Finally, I’m starving! The last time I ate was about a couple of hours ago!”

Oh yeah? I haven’t eaten or drank anything for the past 12 hours. Who’s really hungry here?

“Enjoy sir!” I replied with the fakest laugh and smile and walked away.

The growls from my stomach started to get louder and louder as time passed, to the point where my coworkers could hear it. I quickly covered my stomach with my arm and walked away as if that would stop the obnoxious sounds it was making. I checked the time. Okay, cool. I had approximately 1 hour, 36 minutes, and 2 seconds left until I could eat. Yeah. Muslims get desperate at times when it comes to calculating how much time they have left before they could eat.

An hour passed, and there was no sign of Jennifer. Then 2 hours passed. Still, no sign of Jennifer. By now, we were finally closed.

Wow, I pretty much fasted over the duration needed.

Was this the first time it happened? No, not really. I’ve gotten a break an hour before sunset in the past and what a waste it was. There was literally no point in taking it at that time since I couldn’t eat anyway.

As I got off work and headed home, all I could think about was the feast I was going to arrive to. Seasoned rice with grilled chicken placed on top and sprinkled with roasted almonds. Sides of rolled and stuffed grape leaves with olive oil and freshly squeezed lemon juice poured on top. Next to that would be the piles of squash stuffed with seasoned rice, meat, and tomatoes sitting inside a tomato soup mix. All surrounded with sides of salads tossed in vinegar, olive oil, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Man, I couldn’t wait to be stuffed.

I pulled up into the driveway quickly, rushed to get inside of the house, and went straight to the dinner table. There, in front of me, an empty table.

Oh well, I guess mom put the rest of the food in the fridge, I convinced myself. So I hurried over to the fridge, gripped onto the handle tightly, and swung the door open with a bright smile. Again, nothing but ingredients. Slowly, that smile began to disappear as I frantically looked around the fridge in search of some food being stored behind other things–but no–there was no food.

You have to be kidding me.

I was over everything. I wasn’t hungry anymore and just went straight to bed.

Day 30
Ramadan was finally coming to an end. The next day, we would be celebrating our holy holiday, Eid Al Fitir. Everyone was making their preparations to celebrate by shopping for Eid outfits, but what was I most excited about, you ask? I could finally eat my 2 pounds of mac and cheese and bags of hot Cheetos at 2 in the afternoon if I wanted to. Also, I could cuss out dumb drivers without having to censor myself.

Many people might ask, “So what is the purpose of Ramadan anyway?”

Well, let me ask you this: how many times do we put our hands towards our mouths on a daily basis? A lot, right? By stopping ourselves from eating and drinking for the day, we start to feel hungry and thirsty and pay attention to the pains of that. We are able to empathize with those who can’t even get the chance to break their fast because they simply don’t have the means to do so.

Believe it or not, Muslims don’t fast just for fun–we do it for a purpose. Throughout Ramadan, we are reminded of some of our faith’s most important principles: discipline, self-control, gratefulness, and most of all–patience.

A few days later, after Ramadan
I took in everything I learned throughout Ramadan and began to apply it to my daily life. You could say that I’ve become a peaceful angel….

“Oh my god, you little shit! Why are you on the road, you can’t even fucking drive!

by heather oxley

Icarus Rising

They say that when Icarus was born, he ran before he could walk. Pudgy legs and a bright grin, he hopped and skipped, always going too far, too fast for fear of stopping. He ran and ran and ran, always too afraid to be left behind, too afraid to fall, to slow down.

They say that when Icarus was a young boy, he fell in love with the color blue. The blue of his mother’s eyes, the blue in the wildflowers outside his house, the blue of wonderful, expensive clothes, the untouched dye that stained his fingers for consequence of his curiosity. But most of all, he fell in love with the blue of the sky. The pure blue stretching everywhere and just out of reach. He would climb the trees, the sturdy and withered branches, until he was perched on the very top, his hand outstretched. A flash of earth brown against a blue he almost thought he could touch.

They say that one day, Icarus fell from that tree. Arms outstretched like wings, too shocked, too afraid, too in awe to think of screaming. When he hit the ground, the hand that had stretched for the blue blue blue sky laid awkwardly at his side. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything except of the warmth of the sun, soft and calming and burning as a caress. He could only stare up at the blue of the sky, and the brilliant gold of the sun.

They say that after that day, Icarus wanted too much. He stayed, locked away in his room, studying and crafting and testing. A young man with a desperate need to fly, to run, to touch that alluring sky. He was ambitious; an open flame of want. Every day, he would lounge outside until his skin burnt, until his arm grew tired of reaching for the sky, until he began to learn to fly before he learned how to walk.

They say that Icarus fell in love with the sun. For how could he love anything else? How could he dream of loving something as tame, as soft and mundane as humans? No touch, neither feminine nor masculine, could compare to that sky. To the passionate caress of the sun. To the winds that coaxed his arms up, up, up, until he felt nothing but heat and weightlessness.

They say that Icarus had to be descended from a god, for who else could fly like the birds up above, as free and sure? For who could love the sun and shun the earth? His wings were magnificent; glistening and attractive, fit for the boy who loved with all of his being. The sun’s warmth seemed to reach for him that day; a promise for the love that Icarus already possessed. A love that, unbeknownst to those on the ground, was pure and curious and longing and needing. For how could Apollo resist the man who lived so viciously that he learned to run before he could walk?

They say that for a shining moment, Icarus was with his beloved. Finally within reach, Apollo cradled him close; the man who burned as he did. The two, together, blazed. Icarus lost in his blue sky and Apollo shining gold, gold, brilliant gold.

They say that Icarus was up there for years.

They say that it was only a moment.

They say that Icarus spent his entire life in his lover’s arms, bending the laws of time because how could such simple rules apply to them? Icarus and his burning, blinding, intense love, and Apollo with the human who was too much like a star to let go of.

They say that Icarus was never meant to fly that high. Even with a bird’s wings, even with a bright grin and a love as big as the sky. Icarus was, fatally, human. And Apollo could not hold him close forever. So, as inevitable as running and climbing so foolishly, so ambitiously, Icarus fell. 

They say that when Icarus left Apollo, the sun died. Black grief consumed the world as the lovers parted. But just as it seemed simply a moment while Icarus and Apollo were together, the sun’s lifetime of grief lasted only minutes for those below.

They say that Icarus was a shooting star against the dark sky. A smudge of charred black against a sun coming to terms with its loss. That by the time the sky was a brilliant, shining, Icarus blue, the young man with a bird’s wings was broken on the ground with a smile on his face.

They say that Apollo still grieves. Stills hides and dies for a lifetime to remember the love he had. For even though gods are loathe to lose their hearts to humans, they say that Icarus wasn’t fully human. Who could love that viciously? Live that foolishly?

They say to beware of Icarus’ fate. To clip your wings and stay on the ground, away from the blue and gold, away from tempting warmth and passion for fear of being consumed.

They forget that even Icarus was afraid of falling.

They forget, time and time again, that Icarus did the impossible. He fell in love with a god and a god fell in love with him.

They say that Icarus is a cautionary tale. 

They are wrong.