By Icarus, Son Of Daedalus
“Don’t fly too close to the sun,” they say. They don’t even know the half of it.
My story is used as a warning. It is in one breath associated with the folly of man and the dangers of hubris. And I’m not trying to diminish the fact that I royally fucked up. But why won’t anyone talk about how good my flying was up until the wings melted and I fell into the sea? Because up until I made that teensy mistake, I was rippin it through the sky like a bat out of Hades.
A little backstory: My father, Daedalus, was a master craftsman – only Hephaestus himself could create wonders more marvelous than he. For this reason, the great king Minos claimed my father as his own personal builder and locked him away in the labyrinth that my father himself had built. Okay fine, but how come I got locked up, too? I didn’t sign up for ANY of that. I was just a dumb teenager. Can you imagine how pissed I was?!
So we constructed wings made from the feathers of seagulls and candle wax and planned to fly out of our confinement. Pops had two rules regarding our escape plan – “Do not fly too low, for if you do your wings will be dampened by the sea and the weight will pull you beneath the waves. But ALSO – and this is key – do not fly too high, for if you do the heat from the sun will melt the wax holding your wings together and you’ll plummet into the aforementioned sea.
In hindsight, we probably shouldn’t have used wax.
Once I was dead, can you imagine my frustration, my absolute horror when I learned that my story had become a cautionary tale for emboldened youth, instead of what it should have been, at least partially – a thorough account of my sick barrel rolls, 200mph inverted flight and graceful loops? Folks almost never mention my flawless tailspins, hammerheads and positively godlike (yeah, I said it!) downward drift. I feel like people wouldn’t harp so much on the sun thing if they had seen me doing all that cool stuff. I was churning out tricks flawlessly – even the birds were dizzy!
As I ascended into the heavens and looked down upon the graceless and ignoble Cretans, I was struck with an idea of epic brilliance. I took a leak while I was up there and it flowed forth, from my pee hole, over the entire population. Even the old man had to chuckle at the sprinkle of piss raining down upon those Cretan delta dorks. But do people speak of this hilarious moment? Nope.
One last thing. I could draw in the sky by soaring through the clouds so fast they trailed behind my pointed toes. I drew a penis, obviously. It’s what the Ancient Greeks do. My body was a paintbrush and my canvas was the sky. But no one remembers my art. They only remember the fall.
In retrospect, it really wasn’t even that close to the sun! The gods are jerks. I’m not saying I didn’t fuck up, you KNOW I’m not saying that. I’m just saying I only fucked up the one time. Give me a break. The gods fuck up CONSTANTLY.
Now I’m dead, and my name will live on forever – but not for the loop de loops, or the low stealth flying, or the big dick in the sky, but for the one teensy-weensy little mess-up. I guess Greek mythology is a lot like Nascar: you come for the pageantry, but you stay for the crashes.
My only regret? That I never pantsed my dad as we soared above the sea.
Follow erma.fiend on instagram. Other than that I’ve been reading a lot of pulp fiction by Jim Thompson lately and enjoying it.