So in news this week, I am to be published for a third time in a ‘zine accompanying the LadyFest Leicester goings on – 5th-7th October… I may also be running a playwriting workshop there depending on a few things- I’m waiting to be gotten back to about that. But if you’re in or around Leicester pop along to some of the events and support creative Leicestershire ladies! (And whilst there, pick up a ‘zine).
In other news: there’s going to be a local bring and buy style art fair in the next village over! So I can spend the breaks from redrafting the play painting a few local scenes etc., and hopefully make a bit of money!
a sad boy, with blonde hair, sitting on a bench, looking at the ground, dangling a half finished Corona from the tips of his fingers, with wings, and a sigh… This is an Angel, he is on death row. (Not death in our terms, but the cleaving in two of the soul- soul death). He is imprisoned on earth for his crimes. He walks the earth in search of… hm.
This Angel’s crimes: This Angel fell in love with Icarus as he approached the heavens, as the gods (sic) melted his waxed wings. However, Icarus did not fall into the sea, and Heracles did not bury him on Ikaros. The Angel caught him. The gods, angry at the Angel’s interference with fate but not able to kill Icarus, (there are Rules) wiped Icarus’ memory and changed his place in time; they placed him in central Birmingham in 2006.
a sad boy, with blonde hair, sitting on a bench, looking at the ground, dangling a half finished Corona from the tips of his fingers, with wings, and a sigh. He cannot fly. A scruffy, slightly hung-over, youngish person with a round face and dirty blonde hair, sits down heavily next to him. There is a silence, the Angel resents him for interrupting his well cultivated despair. The person looks at his wings,
“you been to a fancy dress party then?”
I have been walking these streets… I don’t know how. My head is dragged down by this impenetrable melancholy. There was a second, infinitesimally finite, when he glanced my face with his hand. I play it over and over, killing it a little each time. It’s cold here… pervasive, but it just echoes my numbness, it is a weak copy. Quieter. At night, when I stand under a tree in the street light it looks like I’m underwater Maybe I should have let him fall. There’s no justice in this If I, if I ever see him again, I will never let him go.
Cuts to: A basement. A swinging light. The young person is gagged and bound to a chair, has swollen eyes. The gods always have to leave a get-out-clause; they have given the Angel 11 days to find Icarus, the only one who will see him for what he is, and to make him love him again. After all, who would look in Birmingham? This is the 11th day, there are 27 minutes left.