Iccarus

“You can’t go home again,” he thought, stumbling forward on a directionless jumble of sidewalk. His sight slants sharply about every point of focus. He remembers an old kaleidoscope he use to play with. He takes another stiff swig from of vodka. It goes down easier then he thought.

It is night, though somehow despite his state he perceives an array grays and ambers and blues in the darkness. He is reminded of Hopper paintings; distinctly urban volumes of light flooding a small room through an open window. He makes out the sky above the flat silhouettes of city row homes and sees no clouds. He feels a warm breeze against his thigh. His zipper is down. He leaves it where is.

He breaks by playground 2 or 3 blocks away from his parent’s house and bends at the knees and waits. The waiting is the worst, all wet and aching with your mouth gapped, anticipating an unpleasant release. But this one at least did not take too long. He vomit was a full, low heave rooted in the diaphragm and flows in one uninterrupted gush. Bathed in an uncomfortable afterglow, his nose pulls into focus for the first time in hours and looms ghostly between the black asphalt and the yellow puddle just ahead. It is his father’s nose. At least that’s what people always use to say. Something about the way it tapers into the brow. He wouldn’t admit it for a long time. When asked, he would something like say, “It’s probably just the lighting in here” or “I’m sorry I just don’t see it” or “Do you know my father? Really know him? Well, I can grantee you don’t know him like I do, so how about you just shut the fuck up.”

In recent years he’s been away from his hometown. It was a comfort for him. People had no point of reference to compare. When questioned his family background, he was ambivalent. He kept the descriptions brief. He changing the subject quickly to some great new project he had on his plate. Once, while lying naked beside a dark haired girl from a party, he grabbed her sharply by the wrist as she traced her finger down his face. They sat frozen for a long moment. Standing up quickly and pulling on his pants, he turned for one last look as he left the room. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just don’t normally talk about my family.”

He is lying on the sidewalk in a pool of urine beside a half finished bottle of Absolut. His stomach is empty. His breathing is slow. A fog materializes around him and above the sky transitions to day. A doorway opens and an older man stands staring. Kneeling down, he strokes the fallen boy’s head and sobs.

___________

An attempt at straightforward, no nonsense story-telling inspired by a late night walk back near my North Philly home late last year. I’m finally reading Slaughterhouse Five and felt compelled to revisit it after taking in Vonnegut’s simple, surreal style.

Tonight at 11:59 I will be getting the secret theme and style of NYC Midnight’s Short Story Challenge and thought this would be a nice way to get into the flow. The contest challenges writers to create a story of up to 2500 words on a given theme and style in one week. I’ll make sure to post what ever come out a week from now. Peace yall.