Prologue: ICKY the Vampire

This is the opening to my 'fast writing' project. I'm titling it ICKY THE VAMPIRE: DRAFT ZERO. For more details of what this is about check out my previous post "Writing a Novel in Public."

About suffering, the old masters were almost never wrong–like Auden, like Brueghel. People that claimed to know the human position; how little people can fall from great heights while another just opens a window to let out the smoke from the cooking stove, or walks on the old worn paths, dully walking like all those past feet. 

Unknown feet. 

Of people who became parts of poems. And of paintings. From the hands of humans we would learn to call masters. 

Almost, never wrong. 

But of this story, they were.

See the boy falling from the sky with two scorched wings and a one winged father who couldn’t stop his glide away from his son, from Crete. Somewhere on that island was a woman, a girl some of us would say today, who may have seen the spark of Icarus’s wings when the sun scorched his one dream to go just a little bit higher, faster, better. But homespun flight was not to make that dream so. Daedalus, the dad, warned him not to shoot too high in the sky, but Icarus just wanted to try. And he fell after the wax melted and caught fire and Muses, sing through me! Tell through me the story of the boy once he splashed and tasted the salt of the ocean!