Week 11, (I) Title: Sky bound
He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure. This newest machine is a thing to behold: a pair of wings to give mortal man the power of flight.
As he attaches the device to his arms and shoulders, his father says, “Remember: not too high…”
“I know, I know, if I go too high the sun will melt the wax, too low and the water will dampen the feathers.”
He gives his father a hug, holding onto the thought that they’ll be together again soon; even though the opposite notion sits heavy beside it in his heart.
He runs at the wind, moves his arms and lets himself be carried up and away. It’s an amazing thing, to soar, fast and free, the crisp breeze wild against his face.
But he doesn’t allow himself to savour too long. He needs to be careful, his father’s warnings ever-present in his mind, the potential grip of hades sitting in every heart-beat. He’s hyper-focused on the minutia of his movements; going faster when he sinks too low, and pausing when he moves too high.
He keeps going and going and going, seemingly forever over the endless sea. And the constant vigilance tires his head, just as the weight of the structure tires his body. The strain urges his arms to drop, rest, sink downwards, and he pumps harder to fight against it.
And he’s still moving, the cold does well at keeping him awake. But he’s tired, so, so tired.
*
He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure.
He watches in confusion. What an odd dream, he must’ve heard his father working and thought about the journey ahead as he slept. But still, heeding the omen, he asks,
“Is there a way to make it lighter? It is a long way.”
His father hums for a minute and begins reworking the model.
With the lightened load, he flies much easier than in the dream. But the air on his face feels remarkably the same.
As he keeps going though, he finds no shore, long after he should have. Still he continues, until the sun is pulled across the sky and the moon pulled up into her place.
*
He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure.
This is odder than a dream, surely, he thinks. Perhaps the work of the Gods. Still he doesn’t mention it, just says,
“Maybe add some weight to the left flank, so my stronger right side doesn’t send me in a circle,” and when he notices the heavier previous structure adds, “And could you make it lighter for the long journey?”
His father gives him a puzzled look, but nods and makes the changes.
This time he is discovered by the guards. He swerves and dives to avoid their projectiles, cursing the lack of agility in the device’s movements; hades has a grip on his lungs for sure. He twists, and twists, and twists again, falling, flying, panting, as the weapons come close, too close.
There’s white-hot world-consuming pain: and everything fades to black.
*
He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure.
It is certain then. He’s trapped in a repeating day.
“I should set off from a different place, so I’m not caught.”
Moving the structure to another area he comes across a man dressed unlike anyone he’s ever seen: even clothes from other lands are not like these- legs clothed in a bizarre blue material and torso in a strangely shaped top of a colour unknown to his eyes.
“Are you tired of this yet?” The man asks.
“Who are you?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter. You are the important one. You have a choice to make: you can keep repeating this day forever, or you can fly, high, higher than any mortal man has flown. Let the sun melt your wings and let yourself fall.”
“What? Why? Why would you want me to do that? Why would I do that?”
“Because it’s the only way out.”
*
He flies out across the sea. And wakes to see his father working.
He stays on land, refusing to use the device.
And he wakes to see his father working.
With heavy heart, he suggests his father be the one to try out the invention.
And he wakes to see his father working.
He seeks out the strange man, to make a deal, to anger him, to kill him.
And he wakes to see his father working.
He tells his father of the happenings. They together make a list of possible solutions, possible options, possible trials.
And he wakes to see his father working.
And he wakes to see his father working.
And he wakes to see his father working.
*
He lives, maybe a life-time, or two or three, like this, inside the same day. Sometimes he talks to the strange man, with his strange clothes and strange words:
“There’s a saying in my day: the house always wins.”
He thinks he understands the meaning though. It was not enough for them to kill him by catapult or force. They want it to seem a personal failure: for all of time to know- that they must know their place, for if they reach for the sky they will fall down.
*
It’s a sad lesson, he thinks, as he flies out over the sea. One he doesn’t want to believe. As he soars, he wonders: is this madness, is it exhaustion, is it the cold certainty of cruel capricious logic, or is it simply plain human defeat.
He drifts higher and higher, a bittersweet joy fills his lungs. He expects heat on his face. But it’s cold, very cold. Another lie. The air pinches at his body and his breaths are painful.
The wings don’t melt. Instead, frost-painted, they stiffen.
No strength for sound, he laughs silently.
And ponders Hades’ embrace.
He falls and falls and falls.
As he attaches the device to his arms and shoulders, his father says, “Remember: not too high…”
“I know, I know, if I go too high the sun will melt the wax, too low and the water will dampen the feathers.”
He gives his father a hug, holding onto the thought that they’ll be together again soon; even though the opposite notion sits heavy beside it in his heart.
He runs at the wind, moves his arms and lets himself be carried up and away. It’s an amazing thing, to soar, fast and free, the crisp breeze wild against his face.
But he doesn’t allow himself to savour too long. He needs to be careful, his father’s warnings ever-present in his mind, the potential grip of hades sitting in every heart-beat. He’s hyper-focused on the minutia of his movements; going faster when he sinks too low, and pausing when he moves too high.
He keeps going and going and going, seemingly forever over the endless sea. And the constant vigilance tires his head, just as the weight of the structure tires his body. The strain urges his arms to drop, rest, sink downwards, and he pumps harder to fight against it.
And he’s still moving, the cold does well at keeping him awake. But he’s tired, so, so tired.
*
He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure.
He watches in confusion. What an odd dream, he must’ve heard his father working and thought about the journey ahead as he slept. But still, heeding the omen, he asks,
“Is there a way to make it lighter? It is a long way.”
His father hums for a minute and begins reworking the model.
With the lightened load, he flies much easier than in the dream. But the air on his face feels remarkably the same.
As he keeps going though, he finds no shore, long after he should have. Still he continues, until the sun is pulled across the sky and the moon pulled up into her place.
*
He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure.
This is odder than a dream, surely, he thinks. Perhaps the work of the Gods. Still he doesn’t mention it, just says,
“Maybe add some weight to the left flank, so my stronger right side doesn’t send me in a circle,” and when he notices the heavier previous structure adds, “And could you make it lighter for the long journey?”
His father gives him a puzzled look, but nods and makes the changes.
This time he is discovered by the guards. He swerves and dives to avoid their projectiles, cursing the lack of agility in the device’s movements; hades has a grip on his lungs for sure. He twists, and twists, and twists again, falling, flying, panting, as the weapons come close, too close.
There’s white-hot world-consuming pain: and everything fades to black.
*
He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure.
It is certain then. He’s trapped in a repeating day.
“I should set off from a different place, so I’m not caught.”
Moving the structure to another area he comes across a man dressed unlike anyone he’s ever seen: even clothes from other lands are not like these- legs clothed in a bizarre blue material and torso in a strangely shaped top of a colour unknown to his eyes.
“Are you tired of this yet?” The man asks.
“Who are you?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter. You are the important one. You have a choice to make: you can keep repeating this day forever, or you can fly, high, higher than any mortal man has flown. Let the sun melt your wings and let yourself fall.”
“What? Why? Why would you want me to do that? Why would I do that?”
“Because it’s the only way out.”
*
He flies out across the sea. And wakes to see his father working.
He stays on land, refusing to use the device.
And he wakes to see his father working.
With heavy heart, he suggests his father be the one to try out the invention.
And he wakes to see his father working.
He seeks out the strange man, to make a deal, to anger him, to kill him.
And he wakes to see his father working.
He tells his father of the happenings. They together make a list of possible solutions, possible options, possible trials.
And he wakes to see his father working.
And he wakes to see his father working.
And he wakes to see his father working.
*
He lives, maybe a life-time, or two or three, like this, inside the same day. Sometimes he talks to the strange man, with his strange clothes and strange words:
“There’s a saying in my day: the house always wins.”
He thinks he understands the meaning though. It was not enough for them to kill him by catapult or force. They want it to seem a personal failure: for all of time to know- that they must know their place, for if they reach for the sky they will fall down.
*
It’s a sad lesson, he thinks, as he flies out over the sea. One he doesn’t want to believe. As he soars, he wonders: is this madness, is it exhaustion, is it the cold certainty of cruel capricious logic, or is it simply plain human defeat.
He drifts higher and higher, a bittersweet joy fills his lungs. He expects heat on his face. But it’s cold, very cold. Another lie. The air pinches at his body and his breaths are painful.
The wings don’t melt. Instead, frost-painted, they stiffen.
No strength for sound, he laughs silently.
And ponders Hades’ embrace.
He falls and falls and falls.