#216 Icarus

by Katharine Brown

The water blossomed into the air. Droplets hung suspended for moments that felt like hours. The mist gently fell against my face, blown by the soft summer wind. It must have been a large something that fell from the sky, to send up that kind of water. I shaded my eyes from the glare of the sun and peered into the waves.

“Did you see that,” my boyfriend sounded confused, apprehensive. “Did you see that?”

I nodded, still looking for the cause of the gentle plume of water now drifting across the beach.

“It was a boy. A boy fell from the sky. A little boy.” He sounded afraid now, horrified.

“That’s not possible,” I said. “People can’t fly.”

Across the thin strip of water I saw a figure burst from the distance, running towards the sea, his feet flinging their way through the sand. He didn’t hesitate at the water’s edge but pushed forward as if trying to reach the source of the spray. He was calling someone but his voice had an understanding that his heart did not; there would be no answer.

The lifeguards must have seen him too. They paddled out and waited, their boards bobbing in the aftershock of the waves. They waited for a long time. I packed up my beach bag as the sun began to settle in the sky.

On the way back to the car, I thought I could hear a voice calling on the wind.

“My son, oh my son!”

1 comment:

L.D. Rose said...

Nice work, Katharine! I can see how this was inspired from the painting. ;)