The Oracle

Word prompts to use for doodling or writing

coffee smell

horizon

foggy mornings

juke box

lighthouse

bonfire

recipe book

windmill

gas station

wildflowers

bookmark

cave explorations

rosebushes

pine cones

nightlight

rocking chair

hitchhiking

lemon tree

vintage dress

bike ride

art museum

ghost town

blackberries

harvest moon

picture frames

dreamers

flower garland

ring bearer

color change

Well, one time, a fellow student of mine was running late to class. As she reached the edge of the building, she saw her professor making it to the front steps (super long rectangular building here). He looks up from walking and he sees her. He then points to his watch, gives her a well-meaning “Look who’s late” face, and walks on inside.

What he didn’t know, though, was that this particular student was like freakishly good at bouldering and related climbing skills, so she was just like “Fuck it” and SCALED THE BUILDING!

She tapped on the window of the 4th floor classroom (the floors had like 20ft ceilings, so, she was quite a ways up there), nearly making one student piss himself. They opened the window, she rolled through, onto the floor, and slid into her seat about five seconds before the professor opened the door to the classroom. 

a very rough draft I did for a class assignment. Based off this post which @twinheroes tagged me in. The assignment was to read a short story by a writer we like and note their craft technique and mimic it in our own story. I used Anne Carson and her use of poetic language, no dialogue, present tense, and short sentences. Because I don’t do any of that in my own writing, so I figured I’d try to push myself. 

 It’s a dangerous thing, the heat of the sun. Sweltering until it makes a man mad. It’s a dangerous thing, falling in love. Pounding through each pore until it makes a man mad. 

Apollo watches the young man. The soft underside of his feet indenting the earth. Icarus paces around his father’s mind, eyes glancing up to catch the sunlight. Apollo gladly gives it. As Daedalus sleeps, the sun god manifests near them. Waits for the mortal to sense him. I’ve felt you, he says without turning. In the warm caress of the light, he continues in a voice that nearly brings Apollo to his knees. I’ve waited for you. Then finally his eyes, more ethereal than any god’s, meet his own. The smile that teases his lips tug Apollo closer. Since when does a mortal render a god speechless? 

That’s how the god of the sun came to love the earth. Icarus embodies it. Embodies what home should be. Each sienna ringlet on his head. Each blink of his earth colored eyes. The warm brown of his sun-kissed skin. Like he was made for Apollo to worship. 

Day after day. The tar and feather wings were almost ready. With them, their escape. With their escape, the end of them. 

Take me with you, Icarus demands. The certainty in his voice leaves no room for Apollo to say no. As if he would have. We’ll have to plan it, Apollo says. He looks at the sleeping old man. He won’t let you go so easily. 

Apollo warns him. Warns Icarus of the descent. A descent into a possible death, into madness, into love, into his arms. You’ll catch me, is all he responds. With a smile that beams brighter than Apollo ever could. Apollo nods and kisses his cheek. I will catch you. 

He watches. He watches them fasten the wings to their backs. Watches father and son take flight. He watches his lover reach for him. Each beat of Icarus’ wings are a proclamation of love. The old inventor screams his warning. They fall to deaf ears. Apollo reaches for Icarus. He burns the feathers away. The closer they get, the more destruction. Singed feathers float in the wind. Hardened tar melts. Wings cry over the sea. Just before they can touch, Icarus falls. His hands still reach. A scream echoes with the wind.