extract from working notes of H. Prometheus (with original illustrations)

Project Icarus
Design no. 5.5 (chest harness, batwing model, steel and copper frame and clockworth, sailcloth wings)
Notes: attempt 205
9 May 2015

Having corrected design flaws from previous attempt, endeavoured once again mechanically to achieve and maintain airborne state long enough to navigate across back field (see notes, 141, for dimensions).

Am pleased to result success in first particular--5th successful liftoff since having embarked on Proj. I. Estimated height ranging from 1 to 2.5m from gr., duration appr 1.5 minutes. I was unable to maintain control of the apparatus--either in re. ascent or navigation--due to recurrence of those painful sensations which have plagued the course of the Project since model 1.0 (simple shoulder based model--see diagram, prev.). Additional padding added to 5.4 obviously insufficient to counter my perception of extreme compression, abrasion, and cutting expd during flight. (N. physical validity of sensations confirmed by scrapes and bruising upon later examination). Puzzled again by the appearance of feathers, inexplicable, edged this time in the most ludicrous shades of green and gold, but again bent, broken, and smeared with blood. (N. revisit previous notes to compare.)

Attribute failure to a fault in the left, that is sinister, of the frame. revisit schematics to discover imbalance. hypothesize weight of structure too great to support flight. begin to suspect a new material must be found. perhaps a frame made of hollow reeds? or bones of birds, for the purpose. sufficient to bear the weight? If it were not outrageous to the sensibilities of most -- & therefore practically unobtainable -- would try instead the bones of men -- the ears and digits of which might yield pieces peculiarly suited to the constr of clockwork--
(Ed. This last heavily struck through in the original)

How to correct the as yet inescapable inclination earthwards--to escape the tyranny of gravity?

i do not understand why there should be--from where--again--these damaged pens--

A Story

Once there was a woman who could have no children. This woman knew a little of witchcraft; one day she closed her eyes, whispered a secret word her grandmother had taught her, and spit into her palm. When she opened her eyes she saw, sitting in her hand, a tiny pearly frog. The frog stared at her with pale, blank eyes. Then it slid out of her cupped hand and hopped across the floor, leaving behind it a slick trail that gleamed like moonlight. The woman chased after the frog, but it crept under the door and disappeared before she could catch it. The strings of slime gleamed like strange writing on the floor. The woman thought there were secrets in it, but she did not know how to read them.

The next day the woman closed her eyes, whispered the secret word twice more, and spit into her hand again. This time she clenched her stomach and spit out thick black chyme, sour-smelling and bitter. When she opened her eyes, it had become a tiny green snake with transparent wings. The snake's shining green scales were hooked and bit into the soft skin of her palm; its belly was hot and burned her hand. She shook her hand; the worm spread its soft wings and fluttered unsteadily to the window. It flew out. Her hand was red and hot, and spotted with tiny holes where red beads of blood welled up. There were, she thought, secrets behind the pattern; but she could not understand them.

On the third day the woman closed her eyes one more time. This time she said the secret word three times, very loud. When she spit into her hand she tasted the angry sharpness of blood. She spit out the blood into her palm, along with a tiny round hard thing like a stone. When she opened her eyes she saw that the round thing was her heart. It was black. She pressed her finger to it, gently, and it blinked a dark eye at her. She saw that her heart was like a tiny lizard curled in on itself. The lizard did not uncurl; it closed its dark eye again and curled up tighter and tighter, until it disappeared. She was left with dark blood smeared across her palm. She could feel blood cracking and peeling stickily from the corners of her mouth; and inside her chest she felt the blank spot where her heart had been.

FLASH FICTION

You can really learn a lot from the Internet. It was a lot simpler than I anticipated – the skin, making the face expressive, was the hardest part. I couldn’t resist adding half a cup size, although I did precisely recreate my crooked ear. After a week of tests I was satisfied the thing would run smoothly. Would handle the customer service calls according to protocol. Would never misfile records on purpose. Would handle loans with equanimity and speed, reducing human stories to series of numbers contained within beige folders, filed with a thousand folders just the same. I was sure it would notice the oppressive wall of grey and white winter unaffected. Would cook supper, eat one full helping of my husband’s favourite dishes, never obsess over getting fat. Already, I noticed, the thing always remembered to shower, trim its nails, apply antibiotic to minor wounds. It didn’t seem lonely; it never cried. It did the laundry as soon as the hamper filled.  The thing was perfect. I put on my oldest black tshirt and my heaviest shoes. I cut off my long hair and hid it at the bottom of the trashcan. I took six boxes of books and two notebooks and all the pens I could find. I took my keys off the hook while he was at school. I’m driving south now. Even though it’s March and freezing I have the windows down, wondering if I miss the feeling of my long hair blowing across my face. I’m probing at the edges of the strange feeling in my chest, worrying it like a new filling. I’m driving lightweight, not sure if I feel free or empty, waiting. I want another hole in my ear. I wonder if he minds that I’m gone. I eat too little, drink gallons of black coffee and diet soda. I’ve never been west, never seen the desert. I wonder if it’s happy. I’ve never seen the west coast. 

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