Icarus: Famously failed ambitions

"Inspirational quote" -Someone Famous

[shotgun-writer]

so apparently this place still exists

The sun was bleak and cold, running beams of light down the dilapidated streets and stripping away the black night into morbid early mornings. Down a particularly sordid road, where the buildings leaned too far forward and the road itself was thin and straight like a rusting pin needle, was a small detective’s office nestled in the shadows of the larger buildings. The office was small, bathed in peeling green paint, with heavy puffing grey smoke hanging on the air. It was a room with iron cabinets, and with ripped leather chairs, and with a hat stand adorned with beige and navy and black overcoats and dark pinched fedoras. A room with framed certificates, and previous cases stuck to the walls, and red string bridging those cases, and stained wooden floorboards, and a grand oak desk, and cracking shelves topped with hardback books; an office with one sole ceiling fan that succeeded only in perpetually churning the dust in circular motions, an office that groaned under its own weight when someone would move too quickly from one side to another and whose suffocating silence could only be pierced with the ringing of a doorbell.

[shotgun-writer]

You're an interesting human being - but that doesn't mean you're a good one

-Unknown

[shotgun-writer]

Prologue.

as always, feedback and criticism is awesome. P.S. I can't handle it...

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Everyone remembers what they were doing when they saw the face of god. My father still talks about it to this day in fact, recounting how it started out ‘just like any other’ with an ‘early morning in the clipper household and long lines of traffic dominating the streets’. I guess it was the surprise that caught everyone off guard; after all you don’t expect to see the eyes of the great almighty staring back at you when you look into your bathroom mirror one day.  Those deep powerful eyes that made you feel naked, exposing your true self to the one and only: the big guy upstairs.

At least, I think that was it.

To be completely honest, my memories of the event all seem a little hazy now. It was over five years ago after all, and my body was only just beginning to hit that awkward stage of puberty where every fifth word you said sounded like a mouse being beaten to death. I can remember my mum telling me how the vision completely changed her life, making her want to be a better person and help those in need. My brother got all philosophical and begun to sprout different conspiracy theories over what God actually was, none of them every really holding any merit of course. One thing I do remember, however, is the influx in Sunday Roasts we had after the event. It was delicious. Fresh chicken cooked until the skin was a golden brown, and superbly roasted potatoes stacked on top of one other and brightly coloured Brussels sprouts and Yorkshire puddings with their soft doughy centres and homemade stuffing, all covered in the thickest gravy I could’ve possibly imagined.

And we would always say grace. This part seemed to drag on a bit. I understood at first why we did it and I joined in with the ceremonious holding of hands and silent chanting that boarded on the creepy and unusual, but after five years of the same routine it all begins to feel just a little… Pointless? If I were being completely honest once again, I really just wanted to eat my food.

I’m not saying that I’m ungrateful for the integration of religion in my life, because I am eternally happy with the way things panned out and I really do understand exactly how lucky my generation is. Although my education took a little bit of a nose dive after the event, with the core subjects having to be stripped and changed (Religious studies started to take a much more focused role in most schools, while subjects such as chemistry, physics and engineering fell into disuse) and that resulted in many schools having to close down, due to being ill-equipped to deal with the newly improved curriculum. The entertainment industry also took a bit of a bashing and became a lot less varied. You see, once you find out that God is in fact real and will eventually condemn your immortal soul for every bad thing you’ve ever done in your life, you begin to censor the things to say in front of other people. All reality shows stopped almost overnight. All scientific documentaries also came to a halt, despite the fact that many scientists believing that religion and science actually do support each other if you were to look deep enough.

So I’m not saying that I’m ungrateful. It’s just… I don’t really understand what the big deal is? I never did, maybe I never will.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t actually remember what God even looked like, just what other people’s interpretation of what God was.

I’m sure I saw him though, I must have done. Not long after the visions started happening, a lot of people came forth saying how they never actually saw anything.

‘Atheists’ my father would mutter whenever they appeared on the news, ‘a bunch of non-believers trying to corrupt the next generation!’

‘Mhmm’ my mother would tut in approval as she shook her head at the television, her brow furrowed so intensely that her eyes almost disappeared in the shadow of her forehead.

And I would… I would… I would remain silent I suppose. I got the feeling that it was never a great time to voice my honest opinion, and I would stare at the television set as these crazed people were escorted into the backs of jet-black vans, the broad smiling face of Pope Kenneth plastered along the sides, their wide bloodshot eyes darting back and forth at the camera crews and news reporters, spitting saliva and ‘poisonous filth’ as my parents would put it.

There was no way that I was one of them. I was as sane as I could possibly be. I was the most ordinary person I knew and everybody who knew me would say so, a fact that gave me a secret comfort.

But when everyone else stopped dead on that day, horror and confusion pulsing through their bodies as impossible images flashed into their minds, I was sitting in my room playing with my toys, content and happy.

To be honest, I think that was the last happy memory I actually had.

[shotgun-writer]

We're on the same wavelength?

Reaching out across an intangible medium, Hear this call from a phantom-to-phatom. I'm stupidly scared beyond measure, And talking to you would be the greatest pleasure?

[shotgun-writer]

Write a story featuring only one character. (Intro)

I stepped inwards. I was greeted by a depressing blackness, the sole light source coming from the open door behind me. This did not last long. The door swung inwards as well, smacking against the frame in a decidedly finalised manner, as if to say, “this door shan’t be opening again.” I thought it best not to look behind me, as this would only provide me with the concrete realisation that my current predicament was likely to be my last. Instead I waited for several minutes. I had no obligation to move forward for the time being and, now I was in this absolute darkness, I doubted it would make any difference to anything if I were to move forward or not, mostly due to the fact that it was now impossible to move back. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have tried to assassinate the president.

[shotgun-writer]

Played-out Fighting.

Secrets are tantalising, but I'm fantasising about what was said when you're lying in his bed talking. This sort of thing causes rifts between friends, and to what end does morbid lying reach? I confess I'm leeching on good fortune but you should practise what you preach. To each their own, I guess.

[shotgun-writer]

Undefined Separation.

The platform was bare of distractions. A few men and women lined the back, keeping their heads low and their fingers grasped protectively onto the various assortments of luggage and bags. No one talked to one another; strangers remained strangers and close relationships were forced to endure the horrible strain of separation. Only the boisterous morning wind made a ruckus as it cascaded down the platform in invisible waves, hitting the patrons of the station like a child nagging for his mother's attention. But the patrons refused to listen, and pulled coat collars tighter across shivering necks, grumbling unheard curses beneath their breath. Sidney held his mother's hand a little tighter as the wind passed, instinctively pulling her down in a embrace of safety and familiar comfort. Rosaline smiled at her son and kissed him gently on the forehead, pressing her red lips against his white skin she felt his thinly veiled anguish surface in his shaking and quiet whimpers. She faltered.

[shotgun-writer]

A limited imagination.

The sockets burned brightly with industrial white light like a pair of headlights piercing the tangible darkness. The lights rested on a circular ball of metal, which was connected to a frail assortment of wiring and aluminium tubing. The neck. It swivled delicately to the right, swinging the head precariously from side to side. The lights momentarily cut out, blinking against the darkness of the storeroom. Mountain high boxes draped in dusty sheets came fluttering into view as the dark receded away from the powerful blast of light.

[shotgun-writer]

Mercutio.

I’m living out someone else’s love story But I’m just a bit part character I hope I get my lines right I’m just so pivotal to the show

[shotgun-writer]

Pride is a sin

but what's life without a little corruption?

[shotgun-writer]

Awkward elegance.

I’m good with lines on paper

Bu words in practise

Catch on cliched dry throats

And stumble under and over

Through strained teeth and cracked lips

[shotgun-writer]

Lets go for lunch.

It was midday, and I was beginning to feel the strenuous exhaustion of a busy schedule. The train line was once again delayed, forcing me to trek the four miles up hill to Miss Turner's, finally arriving at her bleached blonde door drenched in unsightly buckets of salty sweat and accompanied by a rich aroma of over-the-top exertion that masked the complimentary smells of the expensive Georgio perfume I purchased that very morning: Summer fruit & lime. Miss Turner opened the door with a smile, her flowing white sundress catching the wind and blowing creased circular waves around her legs. 'Good morning,' she said. 'I'm late,' I replied, less as an actual apology and more of an observation of current events. Her smile grew even wider, if I thought that were actually possible. 'But at least you're here.'

[shotgun-writer]

Aggressive Progression.

The way she moves moves me to a state of Self hating, Berating and castrating myself long after stating She was the one. Now I'm done with these games and the shame of reprisal, Cutting these ties and the wave of emotions: Too Tidal to contain or ignore. It's a chore to adore you. Adored you. I could not afford to play this game of teenager life. You. Who played the game better than I. *Sigh*

[shotgun-writer]

I shook the Devil's hand.

He seemed awfully polite. He whispered in my ear, a forked tongue caressing my ear lobe. He said he'd catch me in a little while. What a terribly nice thing to say.

[shotgun-writer]

It's Just a Couple of Adventures.

Miss Turner’s house was bathed in black. The colourful walls of red and blue, that caught the morning sun and sparkled like jewels, were reduced to pathetic muted shades of grey. The garden, for lack of a better word, was an overgrown jungle of bushes entwined with unsightly spiked vines and covered in browning leafs. It provided an awkward journey to the front of the house, and I feared I may lose myself in the dark with no illuminated front porch to guide my way. But, with a determination I wished I did not have, I managed to navigated the green maze until I stood facing the familiar bleached blonde door, twigs and leaves sticking out from my ruffled 3 piece suit. I reached out for the doorbell, but abruptly stopped when I realised there would be no answer. Or, rather, I hoped there would be no answer.

Instead I put my hand gently on the panelled wood, feeling a cool shiver run up my arm, and pushed with a small amount of weight on my fingertips. The door relented and swung open in a decidedly boring manner, nothing akin to the beautiful flourish Miss Turner would administer whenever I knocked, and moaned and creaked with strain and abandonment. Blankets of dust were whipped into existence as the door knocked into the wall, signalling my arrival home.

[shotgun-writer]

I never wanted to be an astronaut.

I must have been a weird kid, not wishing to aim for the stars while my peers dreamed of exploring the unknown and quite frankly dangerous empty void that was outer space. While children my age ran around with fish bowls on their heads and holding their breath until they started seeing red spots, I was off reading books of an educational purpose and giving too much of my time to my studies.

I wanted to be sensible. Even from a young age I knew about finances and the pitfalls of growing up. I had my parents to thank for that. My dad, who could only be described as an unworldly realist, was a banker for the New World Order, and would tell me countless stories about my future and what he thought was best for me.

And wanting to be the sensible grown up I thought I should be, I listened to him. Without question I took everything he ever said to heart, assuming his words were pure gold. My father: The Banker Philosopher.

My mother, on the other hand, was exactly the same. It provided me with a well rounded & nicely balanced upbringing, according to my parents.

[shotgun-writer]

Perfecting a Sunrise in your Eyes.

The way you look at her; that is true affection. You would take a bullet for her, you would rather cause serious physical pain to yourself than see a single tear drop roll down her face. Every moment of your life is kept busy in the constant pursuit of keeping her happy. You ask her about her day, you sit and listen to her qualms, the stresses of her life, with a twinkle in your eye. But you do not love her. Love is not about dramatising every situation, it isn't about foolishly putting yourself in peril to prove the validity of your emotions. You do not need to show off to those outside of your relationship, and have a quite frankly facial defect in the form of an alarmingly unusual sparkle in a place one should not find sparkles. Love is affection, but affection is not love. I should finish this piece, once I finally understand what love really is.