So, I’m currently working on a few short stories to try to get my writing started and actually produce something worth reading.
The issue I am currently facing is that when I write, I don’t really have a purpose in mind, or a story, or anything remotely to do with a direction. What I do have however is a desire to put words out there, in some order, with some semblance of eloquence. I feel the need to express what I don’t know that I need to express. My writing is a microcosm of the raging tempest of my mind inasmuch as it’s directionless and incomprehensible, but a thing worthy still. Making sense out of the senseless seems a futile task, but one of the purest forms of self-expression. Without the chance to extract some of the whirling, ceaseless thought I could easily get overwhelmed. And that to me is what Icarus is.
It is something I write when words won’t come, a story born of indecision. It is a directionless exercise. Sometimes we all just want to prove ourselves against the storm inside, and sometimes we fail.
Oh, and it’s incredibly, unashamedly wanky tbh.
However, without further ado, here is a bit of Icarus….
“A tempest raged outside. Rain battered against the frigid window panes and the wind tried to force itself through the cracked, ancient wood of the frame. The walls creaked, the roof groaned, and the door shook. The squall was relentless, barraging the small cottage which clung to top of the cliff. The structure held fast, for now. The desolate keening of the storm was all that could be heard outside, suspending the cottage in a senseless vortex, where time itself was consumed by the ravenous winds. In the midst of the lashing rain, Isaac heard oblivion call his name.
He didn’t know how long he stood at the window, staring through the grimy panes without purpose. There was nothing to look at. The rhythmic sheeting of the rain beating at the windows was vaguely comforting. He trusted his safety to the rickety walls and thin glass of the cottage; he’d been through worse than this before. There was no doubt in his mind that the storm would abate and that he would survive, what else was there to do?
And yet, there was a pervasive thought, pushed far down to the back of his mind that this time was different. This time he was alone”