I tell stories

At night, I dream of Icarus.

We’re on a clifftop, overlooking the waves that killed him.

He’s here because I’m scared. Of leaving, of moving. Of losing. But that’s just me. He comes to everyone, eventually.

“Take the leap,” he says. “Trust me. If the choice is to leap or be stuck in the tower… always leap.”

“You fell,” I said. “I know this story. You went too high and your wings melted away. You drowned.”

“Yeah, I did that.” He looks at me with wine-dark eyes. “That’s what everyone remembers. What they forget is that before that, I flew.”

One swallow doesn’t make a summer. Still, it’d be a start.

I remember them chippering and sickle-winged, hurling themselves across the sky. But several years ago, they left. And just like summer, they never came back.

Now, we have the same grey day, every day. Occasionally the air is lively with drizzle. I’ve lost track of how long it’s been February.

Sometimes, people trundle past in creaking carts, their belongings tied to the back under pregnant tarpaulins.

They’re summerhunters. Going south to find the swallows.

But not us. We’ve stayed here this long. And maybe the sun will shine tomorrow.

Every day, I see a new shore.

When I stepped foot on this island, I didn’t know it drifted. Space and time, on a 365-day cycle.

I also didn’t know it wouldn’t let me leave.

I’ve seen dinosaurs walk. Volcanoes fire. I’ve seen dead, flattened forests. Twin moons hang in an alien sky.

But the worst one is the one with the crowds.

Hundreds of them line the lake edge, and for the whole day, they stare at me.

I scream ‘help’ to every side, but they never move.

I know I’m a prisoner. I don’t know if I’m theirs.

—–

This is the other side of Across the Water

Even as a youngling, Mamma took me to see the island man.

He stands on the distant rock, spends all day shouting at the crowd. No-one can hear the words. Next sun-up, he’s gone. Him and his island.

Mamma said he spoke the meaning of life. That was before she got brainsick and died. Her body still moved, still spoke, but Mamma was gone.

I tried really hard to hear that year. Mamma was my meaning, and I’d lost her.

I heard nothing. But even if you don’t know the meaning, you can know one exists. For now, that’s enough.

—–

There’s another side to this story, and it’ll go up on Friday.

I am the Boltcutter Man, and I destroy love.

Couples come to the bridge, stick a padlock on the rail and drop the key.

A splosh, and young love is symbolised unbreakable.

Until Muggins here comes along with his boltcutters. Sorry, kids. That’s city ordinance.

I cut through my own. Me and Michelle.

I found another, with her name and some lucky guy called Rob. I left it. See, I still kinda love the girl. I want her happy, even if not with me.

It’s not much, but something only I can give her. Because I am the Boltcutter Man.

It started in ancient Greece, with Apollo and my great⁹⁹-grandmother.

Cassandra, they called her. Cursed to know the future, yet never be believed.

It’s been passed down through the matrilineal line like some genetic abnormality.

But these days, it’s not really a curse. If I ever meet Apollo, I’m having his kids.

“£300 on Golden Chariot in the 5:30.”

The bookie almost snorts. “That nag? Don’t bother, love. He couldn’t go any slower if he was missing a leg.”

“It’s a gamble,” I say, and hand over the cash.

He’s running at 500 to 1. Maybe I’ll buy a house.

—–

The prompt here was ‘modern-day Cassandra’, and it’s the second ‘Cassandra’ story I’ve written.

You can read the other one here: Cassandra

Since Bobby became the first person to escape from college rock alive, he’d become quite the celebrity.

“Tell me what happened,” the host said.

“I met Her. Loved her from the start. Denim cut-offs, long blonde hair. We shot pool, spent summer nights holding hands. But that small town was chokin’ us, and we had to get out.”

“Why?”

“You don’t need reasons.” Bobby put on his sunglasses. “You just need the road.”

Interview done, Bobby returned to rehab. Doctors were hopeful – he’d stopped rhyming town with ‘bringin’ me down’ – but it was a long road back from Highway 61.

—–

Frankly I have no idea what was going through my head when I was writing this one. Something clichéd with guitars, from the look of it.

It felt pretty satisfying to finally set fire to the place.

Despite everything, I still got nostalgic as I walked around for the last time.

The kitchen, where Mom had spent ages trying to keep us fed. Dad’s floppin’ chair, directly facing the TV. Still with a depression perfectly moulded to his behind.

Sally’s basket. I loved that dog.

But the rest of this house is just bad memories. That can burn.

As I walk away, I hear the screams start. Guess I could have let the folks out first, but they’re getting old. They said the same about Sally.

My name is Cassandra, and you probably don’t believe that either.

Apollo cursed me to know the future and always be thought a liar. I predicted the fall of my city, and my own murder. I was laughed at.

As I died, alone, my soul walked to Olympus, where I found Apollo on his golden chariot.

“You will be forgotten,” I said. “Your believers will dwindle, your power will fade, and you will be nothing but a voice on the wind. People will sell trinkets where your temples once stood.”

He laughed at me, too. “That will never happen.”

Heh.

—–

This is actually one from the original 30, but there’s a story going up next week which is related, and I want to link them. So you get a bonus!