Icarus on Daedalus

From 5 millaria in the air, the sea appears to stop churning an dlooks as smooth as a glossy piece of blue pottery. The coasts and shorelines strike jagged edges into the deep azure shard of clay. It is quite impressive. As one flies higher still above the water, it seems to grow paler, and conversely, the sky seems to grow darker blue. Of course, this transition is slight and hard to notice while slowly climbing in altitude, but when falling head-first toward the water, it's much easier to notice.

As it's told, my story is a tragic tale. It is often used as a morality lesson: Children, listen to your parents' advice; it could save your life. And parents, well, don't strap flimsy, make-shift wings onto your child and expect them to fly.

I blame my father. If you know my father, then you're doing better than me. If he stuck his head out of his workshop for long enough to have a conversation with me, then I felt lucky. For the most party, though I avoided him. When he was working on one of his projects, I knew better than to bother him. Whether it was armor for this king or a sword for this god, I knew that I was much less important to him. But I never complained.

Then he decides to piss off King Minos and get us both thrown into the Labyrinth, an endless maze of my father's own creation. You can bet you ass I complained then. Being cramped in the dark recesses of that eternal dungeon for months was torture enough, but in addition I had to listen to my father. "I'm sure it's this way. Oh yes, I remember building this trap. Wait, this is not how I designed this on my blue-print: oh, I could just kill those builders!" He would drone on and on for hours while he was trying to find his way out. After a while I almost believed that he was going to wrong way on purpose because he loved his architectural masterpiece so much. But eventually we got out. I remember it was just before dawn and I still had to squint because the sky was so bright.

The my father gets this idea in his head that we should fly -- literally fly -- off the Isle of Crete to escape King Minos. I suggested just building a boat, but my father was paranoid; he was convinced that King Minos would find us. And besides, my father was not one to take criticism well, especially not from me.

So, he builds these two sets of wings for us out of sticks and string and wax and Zeus-knows-what-else. Then he ties them on and tells me, "Stay close to me." Not once did he mention anything about melting wax, not once! But after being cramped in the Labyrinth for what seemed like an eternity, never more than a pace behind my father, I had to use my new-found freedom.

I soared. I felt the cool air on my body, and I had never felt as good. I could stretch my legs. I could smell the salty sea breeze. I could be a kid. And so, yes, I did disobey my father. Yes, I flew off into the great blue, doing barrel rolls and loop-de-loops. But for once I was actually having fun.

So, when I saw Apollo riding his fiery chariot across the sky, I decided to go say "hello." I should have known something was wrong. When Apollo saw me, he had a surprised look on his face and he was shouting something. Of course, I didn't know that my wings were melting off and that he was shouting for me to turn back, so I kept flying up and up and up. When I got within earshot of him, it was too late. I fell faster than Helen of Troy's panties, screaming all the way down until the very second I hit the water.

They say my father wept for me and searched for my body, but I doubt it. They also say that he build a temple to Apollo and put my wings in it as an offering. That I can believe. Leave it to my father to turn my death into another one of his building projects.