• theplantnews

Icarus’s Curse

By Georgia Svourenos


As she gazed at his unconscious body, lips parted and lightly snoring, she couldn’t overcome her sudden need to touch him. Since the moment she laid her eyes on him, almost a decade prior, she felt an attachment, a cord permanently suspended between them. Sometimes that cord was taught and tight and he was present. Other times, that cord was limp and loose, for such a long while at times that she would wonder if the cord disappeared. Inevitably, be it days, weeks, months, or even years, the cord would be reinforced, stronger than before.

What they had was a weakness, a disease. This isn’t normal, she would tell herself. But then she would look into his eyes or hear his unmistakable laughter and forget all about her worries; she could laugh with him until her last breath. Then she remembered a story she was told as a child. A story about a boy with wings crafted by feathers and wax. His father had warned him not to fly too close to the water, for fear of water touching the wings and dismantling them. He told his beloved son to avoid the sun, as well, for fear that the heat would melt the wax that held the feathers together. He should stay in the middle, stay safe.

He would eventually succumb to hubris and fly too close to the sun, his fate

foreshadowed by his father’s warnings.

She sometimes felt like that boy, flying too close to the sun, responsible for her own demise.

She wasn’t scared, she simply savored every moment a little more until she, too,

would be enclosed by the crashing waves.


Recent Posts

See All

Creative Writing November 2021

It’s all it is, really. After the year has culminated in its phantasmal climax, there is nothing… But I joke. It’s time to harvest, can and pickle all the goodies that this year brought for you! And y

The Bees' First Sting

By Tea Barrett Contributor Coats over costumes like clouds covering the sun, Sneaking sweets out of your sack. The evening always ends too early, Until the sugar crash hits. The autumn air nips at you

Confessions of a Cashier

By Kayla Joy Friedland Contributor between the buzzing and beeping and sweet potatoes rolling beyond the carpet and to your feet where you greet me with squiggly lines for eyebrows that look like your