001: Icarus

07.12.2024

ISSUE 001

including a short story by

TEESTA RC think piece by

CALUM BURTON poetry by

EURYDICE KYRA and

JEZABELL CASTILLO and

M.S. BLUES ... and many more!

REIMAGINED

ICARUS

01 REIMAGINED MAGAZINE

TABLE OF CONTENTS 01

A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

O3

02

06

WHAT IS ‘ICARUS’, REALLY?

O4

03 05

04

WINGS OF FIRE by mee

05

THE ALLURE OF THE SUN

by Teesta RC

MONDAY AFTERNOON

07

by Jezabel Castillo

06

FALLEN ANGEL

by Jezabel Castillo

08

07

DAEDALUS

by Teesta RC

09-10

08

ICARUS

by Sofia Ida Cestari

11

09 12

THE ARC OF ICARUS

by Shivanshi

02 REIMAGINED MAGAZINE

TABLE OF CONTENTS 10 13-14

11 15-17

STAIRS TO MISERY HEIGHTS

by MG

ICARUS, THE BOY WHO KISSED THE SUN

by Kimberly Co

12 18

13 19

14 20

15 21-22

FLYING FOR ICARUS

by Calum Burton

THE FALL OF FREEDOM

by Eurydice Kyra

SIX FORTY SEVEN

by M.S. Blues

THE HOURGLASS (TIME’S UP, FOOL)

by M.S. Blues

03

A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Dear reader, Thank you for picking up this issue. It is not only the inaugural work of REIMAGINED Magazine but also a collaboration of many enthusiastic, creative, and truly talented people.

This project started as a late-night thought and a lifelong obsession with writing, but it turned into something truly inspiring to see come to life. It wouldn’t be possible without all those who support us, be it other magazines, those who submit, or just those interested in our project. It was an experience worth having, thanks to all of you.

I hope that ‘Issue I: Icarus’ can entertain, raise questions, be a collection of thoughts, and serve as a way for people to show what they create and share their perspectives. ‘Icarus’ is for the people who find themselves fascinated by tragedy, awake in the middle of the night, for those who find freedom in self-expression, for dreamers.

Icarus is yours now, and I hope you will find it worth the wait.

Sincerely,

Riley Morgan Editor-in-Chief

04

WHAT IS ‘ICARUS’, REALLY? Dedicated to all those who choose to keep on reading.

As most of you will know, Icarus was the name of a tragic Greek mythological figure who met his end by flying too close to the sun, submitting to his own hubris, or perhaps foolishness, or perhaps desire and joy. Even though he gets called a hero, in the end he was just a young boy in a bigger tale, a son, perhaps punished for his father’s crime, a small part of a bigger story. Here, we want to view his tale in a new light, not only as a tragedy and a classic tale but also as a story of prophecies, yearning, and mourning—a story that is more relevant today than we may think.

The myth of Icarus is a story of grief and lost connections, of unreciprocated love, chasing the impossible (whatever that may be to a person), expectations, and banishment. It is a reflection on how people remember you, your legacy, and your love and liberation. A story of rising up and against. It is a Greek tragedy, but to us it is also a story of humanity.

What Icarus means, in the end, is up to each and every one of you.

Take it. Interpret it. Reimagine it.

05

wings of fire mee once, i traced the edges of longing fingertips dipped in liquid sun dreamed of wings unfurling, like petals reaching for the dawn and the stories whispered of old— of icarus soaring that reckless child, bold against fate only seeking the warmth of the sun's embrace they make him into such a cautionary tale say he flew too close– but what say they of the daring? what of the moment of brilliance before the descent? exhilaration of burning alive, embrace of surrender as the world above turned to angry fire and the earth below lay patient and unfathomable. to cradle that truth, to soar without fear the brilliant sun a warning or a promise? to smash fast, to shatter like glass relishing the beauty as he took the plunge and if i am to leave this world, let me fall like icarus, then may it be in a blaze of color not the silent slip into the shadows but a dance against the winds, screaming with joy and fury a comet blazing trails of brilliance, echoes lingering in the air calling others to rise, to dare, to see the sun with hungry eyes. and if my heart shatters like glass upon the rocks of reality let my last breath be a song of ascent wings brushing the stars, for how else should one burn? for to fall is to have flown, to embrace the flame is to have lived— i will not go gentle into that good night.

06

The Allure of the Sun Teesta RC He wasn’t blind, no— Icarus saw the fire in the sky, felt its heat rising through his bones, a pull that wasn’t just hunger, but something primal, something older.

He knew the warnings, plated in wax and feather, knew the ocean waited below, patient and thirsty.

But how could he resist when the sun sang like that?

Its shine wasn’t just light, It was a promise, an oath.

“Come closer,” it called.

“Let’s see what you’re made of.”

And so he rose, not in ignorance, not in pride, but in longing— for more than an escape from the prison that was home, for more than freedom.

The air thinned, wings trembling, but still the sun gleamed, its brilliance sharper than pain.

And if it burned if it pulled his edges to ash, what of it?

He’d known the cost from the start.

The fall was always waiting, but for those moments, he soared— not for survival, but for the sheer joy of reaching for something too beautiful to bear.

07

Monday Afternoon Jezabel Castillo I am a dog sleeping on wooden floors, although I know there is a king-size bed.

My tears are tailored to burn my ruby cheeks from prescribed prayers to minister silent turbulence, the mortal coil is loneliness, I took my solitude for granted.

At least holy ghosts hold my plum indigo hand as I watch my irises wither in the riptide of a coffee-stained mattress whilst I fall into life's illicit sincerity.

I spoke to the sun.

Monday afternoon, we talked about what we were eating for lunch.

08

Fallen Angel Jezabel Castillo When you throw out your flowers in a trash can standing lonely in the corner of your kitchen does anything matter?

Fatal it is, decaying like the girl with the blue streaks peeking through her straight hair – I don’t like my curls, they twirl like a failed dancer lost in the vein of a bathroom sink and I’m weary of colors, I said goodnight to the neons.

I haven't said good morning in 96 months.

Angel baby swelled into a fallen soul with ripped onyx wings, who am I to beg for forgiveness when I still sin.

Give me the benefit of the doubt, I still know how to love, I still know how to, I still know how, I still know.

09

Daedalus Teesta RC Daedalus sat on the shore, knees drawn close to his chest. The waves licked at his feet, the salt stinging his skin. His wings lay discarded in the sand beside him, feathers matted and broken. He should’ve been tending to them, picking away the melted wax, assessing the damage. But he couldn’t bring himself to touch them, not now.

He had landed safely. That was what mattered, right? He had made it. But the boy—his boy—was gone. Somewhere between the sky and the sea, Icarus had slipped from his sight, lost to the relentless pull of gravity, to the reckless pull of the sun.

Daedalus should have moved, should have reacted, should have tried to save his son. It's obvious in retrospect. His body felt heavy, heavier than it ever had when he was aloft. His wax wings weren’t made to carry this weight, this guilt, this sorrow.

He stared out into the horizon, into the same sky they’d flown through just hours before, and wondered where Icarus was now. Not the body—he didn’t need to imagine that cold, lifeless thing sinking into the dark; that's the sea’s possession now—but the part of his son that had burned so bright, so eager, so free. What was he doing now, in the afterlife? Was he angry? Was he hurt?

Or was he still soaring? Still trying to reach for the sun, even in death?

Daedalus had cursed him. He could see it clearly now. The wings were never a gift; they’d been a trap. A temptation.

He had placed them on his son’s shoulders and told him to fly, but had it really been for his son? Or for himself? Was it Daedalus’s desperation to escape that had sealed Icarus’s fate? Had he been so focused on saving them both that he didn’t see the fire he was lighting inside his child?

10

Perhaps, they should have just stayed, stayed trapped atop the tower. At least the tower was safe.

The wings—those intricate, delicate things—had always been doomed to fail. And yet, Daedalus had trusted them. He had trusted himself. He had trusted his son to listen, to obey, to stay low. But how could he have expected that? Icarus was never one to stay grounded. He was born with the hunger to reach beyond, to push further than the limits Daedalus had drawn.

And now, he was gone. Swallowed by the sea, by the earth, the very thing they’d sought to conquer.

The feathers at Daedalus’s feet stirred as the wind picked up, and he glanced down, feeling the burn of failure. He should have fixed them by now. Repaired the damage, salvaged what was left. But the wings no longer felt like freedom. They felt like chains, like a curse he had crafted with his own hands.

He wondered if Icarus had realised it, in those final moments. Had the boy seen the truth as he fell? Had he cursed his father as the heat licked his skin as the feathers melted away?

Or had he smiled that wild, reckless smile, even as he plummeted toward the water, content with his brief taste of the sun?

Daedalus would never know.

The waves rose higher now, washing over his feet, reaching for the wings beside him. He let the water take them, the salt dissolving the wax, carrying away the remnants of his escape. He couldn’t bear to look at them anymore. He couldn’t bear to fix them.

Instead, he sat quietly, the weight of his silence pressing down on him, and wondered what his son was doing up there—if he was still flying, or if he had finally found peace.

11

Icarus Sofia Ida Cestari I am sick - of this silent ambition you impose.

I am tired - of keeping my eyes open night after night, wondering how to make it look appealing to you.

How to get it, your support?

Father, I am done pretending: I have it, what you need to make it big, I got plenty of it.

And I don’t hide in humbleness I scream and claim my right to success.

Don’t you worry I am not flying too close to the sun, I am the sun.

I’m just coming home to do what I was made for.

And I know you disapprove.

If you were the judge, you’d let me hang ‘cause you can’t lose if you’ve never won.

If you were the judge, you’d pull the trigger shoot me through and through.

But dad, I’m sorry; I’ll take my chances.

You can’t win if you never try.

And when one day you’ll read of me, think it twice before tossing the paper: had you had my guts you wouldn’t be pissed at my success; it’d be ours.

12

The Arc of Icarus Shivanshi

Daedalus, the man of invention, weighed down by the weight of his craft, he shapes wings of feathers, wax, delicate and flawed, brittle wish for sky.

Every promise stitched tight in silence.

Icarus, his son, looks on, restless, eyes catching glints of sky, a spark held in some endless beyond.

“Not too high,” Daedalus warns, “The sun’s fire will unmake all of this.”

But Icarus feels a pull, whisper in the wide-open air.

In flight, his heart pounds, drawn towards the scorch of the sun, towards a freedom that’s almost real.

He climbs, the earth slipping away, lost in all that light, feeling he can’t stop.

But wax softens, the feathers loosen, the sky, indifferent, watches him, a bright, brief arc, against endless blue fall.

13

Stairs to Misery Heights MG No matter how high my chin rose, no matter how hard I strained myself to peek behind those clouds, I could never see it.

For hours, for years I have sacrificed my youth, my health, my happiness, my freedom.

My back aches and my eyes burn.

All for those measly numbers and As painted on white sheets of dead trees.

Those madly high expectations, the dreams and hopes seemingly reaching the heavens. The smiles and praises that build up my blood and veins. That pedestal said to be readied for me.

My peers envied me. While I envied them.

So I keep climbing.

Hands and feet struggling.

So I keep climbing.

Moving towards the suffocating heights.

I keep climbing.

Till I reached the stars.

I keep climbing.

Till the moon became my dearest companion.

14

Head lightened, body stiffened.

I keep climbing.

And climbing.

And climbing.

And climbing.

And… …

And I eventually lose my grip.

And only when my soul free dove into the land’s tight embrace did I realise that there were never any pedestals, there was never any end to these stairs.

Cheers in misery to my fellow high achievers.

May we find an end to these stairs somewhere.

15

Icarus, The Boy Who Kissed the Sun Kimberly Co There are scorch marks on my shoulders from when you last burned my wings.

Singed them off my skin. Smell of scorched flesh. I was only a little boy with sunkissed skin. My wings were made to beat the air, but you were made to clip them from my shoulder blades. Now there are feathers in your mouth from when you last tried to kiss me. You choked at the thought of me.

You choked at the thought that we are one and the same, birds yearning for flight and freedom to be who we truly are. But like a poached songbird, you skinned me dry and shredded my vocal cords. Now I may never speak of you again. I flew too close to you, too close to your rays of sunlight, and you burned me alive. I fell towards the earth, a bleeding ball of flames hurled from the heavens like a rebellious fallen angel.

Dear Sun, I was not afraid of the Fall.

It was not the Fall that killed me.

It was you.

I was not afraid when I fell, even if it was into the shrouded mouth of hell. After all, you've burned me alive enough. My tongue burns from when it made feathery contact with yours. You taught me how to fly, and yet you were the one to cut my wings. Watch the wax melting off my shoulders. I laugh at myself now. The fool who fell from grace. A descent into deadly despair. Catch me if you can, my dear Sun. Or else ignite me with a fire so all-consuming that I am reduced to the ashes I was born into this world as. Do you know what my father used to tell me? That I was destined to fly. That I was destined to touch the dome of the sky, with my arm outstretched with the naïveté of hope. Hope murders the heart, I tell you. Perhaps my father also forgot to tell me that I was destined to die by your hands, extended like the golden rays of the spotlight that shines on all that is beautiful on earth. Was I beautiful to you? No, don't answer me that. Answer this instead.

16

Was it hope that killed me? Was it my ignorance of what lay above me as I flew too close to you? Was it love that killed me? Was it my own wings that brought about my own demise? Or was it simply…you? Because I kissed the boy with golden lips, and he burned my tongue with a fiery passion that consumed my being with all the fierceness of a forest fire. I kissed the Sun, and in return, my father lost his only son. Do you know what it’s like to weep but no one is there to save you from the Fall? To save you from the inevitable, the unavoidable, the painfully blinding light of reality that maybe you are irrevocably mistaken about who you thought your savior was? He wasn’t your savior, no. He was your condemnation. He was your banishment. He was your exile. He was the waves and the sky and the sun that continues to have the audacity to shine on you when you can barely even handle it. Barely even handle the glare of anointed love. He was your creator, and yet he regrets ever laying his hands on you. He regrets ever making you his beloved fallen muse.

Truly now, I say to you, my dearly beloved Sun: From Hell you were created. And to Hell you shall return.

Were you scared when you brought an angel down to earth? Were you scared because I didn’t belong up there with you? Were you scared because the prophecy of us said that I wouldn’t make it? That I wouldn’t make the climb through perilous storms and thunderous lightning just to reach you? Just to see you shine again? That I wouldn’t have the nerve to wait for you to shine your rays of light on me? Well, the beholder of that prophecy can go to Hell too.

Because I will never reach Heaven. I will never reach you. Because I am Icarus, the boy who kissed the Sun. And the Sun didn’t kiss me back. And more than just didn’t kiss me back, but set my heart on fire and sent my wings into the sea.

My body slammed against the crashing waves so hard I had double vision of you. The force knocked the breath out of my lungs, and I stifled my existence.

Watched as you rippled above while I sank below. As if to mock me somehow, with your rays playing on the water’s surface. I opened my mouth to scream, but you wouldn’t hear it. You wouldn’t allow yourself to hear it. I pray in death I will be reincarnated as a siren so that I can drown you in my next life. Maybe you'll be reincarnated as the Moon. You don’t deserve to be the Sun of my life, anyway.

No, you won't get the same privilege of burning everyone who just wants to love you in all your deserving glory. Death is my only relief at this point. Because you denied me my righteous life. To live beside you. To breathe beside you. To sleep beside you, but never mind sleep. You denied me that too. Like a moth to a flame at night, I was drawn to you even with the knowledge that I would be whipped by the match. I knew better, but you knew what was best. And I suppose that involved the torch against my wings. I suppose that’s what was best for us. Yes, it was best for me to die instead of letting me love you. Were you scared of me too?

17

I do not regret my fall, my beloved burning Sun. I do not regret my attempts to love you in all your rightful, raging glory.

I only regret ever having wings in the first place.

Maybe I wouldn’t have been so tempted to fly.

I think I found it.

It was not the Fall that killed me.

It was not hope.

It was not ignorance.

It was not love.

It was not you.

It was my own wings.

Temptation killed me.

Temptation murdered me in the skies that fateful day.

And now I will never see your smouldering eyes again.

I hope fate will be kind to me, wherever we end up.

I hope you burn brightly until man’s final breath. I hope you will be the one to take it, when you as well eventually fall towards the earth. And there, in the midst of destruction, we shall meet. We shall be reunited in death.

And in death I can finally hold you, the way you were meant to be held.

I can finally love you, the way you were meant to be loved.

You can finally kiss me back, the way you were meant to kiss me all along. And you can finally fly, the way you were meant to truly fly.

18

flying for Icarus Calum Burton Stare at him for too long, and you will be intoxicated by beauty’s impossibility. No one is perfect, so the gods create prophecies for that exact reason. Did he shine too bright?

Maybe it was the case that he simply flew too high, catching the sun’s lips. The gold on his cheek glistens when he turns his head this way and that, a certain angle memorised by his admirers. Why should a tragedy encapsulate you? Perhaps he was trapped, taken captive in the confines of the eyes of an onlooker. Always the golden boy, shining and flying, forever too close to the sun. As our wings crumble, so do we. As our hopes drown, so do I. So when a spectacle falls, so does the ripe reflection of tinny golds and luxury on our skin, diminishing its colour and fervour. That is the story of Icarus. Or maybe it is the story of each of us, once in a while. A desire for renewal, these feelings accumulated in honour of the fallen. Do we curse those prophecies toying with destinies that could’ve been made by the one? Perhaps humans claim individualism for this exact reason: to form our so-called destinies and prophecies ourselves, bit by bit, scene by scene, chapter by chapter. Because in truth, it is probably that there are many Icarus’ out there—here—whose wings melt from the sun; however, they pick themselves up. All thanks to the lack of prophecy.

19

The Fall of Freedom Eurydice Kyra Orange skies where sunlight blinds, Clouds cry and birds fly.

Underhead, the sea rages, Tempest sorrows from the heart's ages, In the tides of the waves I see His jagged reflection staring back at me.

The ocean's hands, dark, clean— Keeps its claws on Icarus, Sharp and keen.

His wings take flight, Pushing and soaring with all their might, Beautiful and bold— Just like the stories told, Immovable, Icarus scorches—

On his neck the sun burns: Intense like a funeral pyre and hand-calloused urns.

Piercing eyes seek the light, Away from the sea— prepared to die In ambitious curiosity His heart does lie.

In a whisper too far to hear, His soul's fire burns, Yearning near.

He glows bright Under the waves now white, Stained by his assuredness— Never in vanity.

I watched, My Icarus touched the sun, Something that has never been done.

Remember him for love, I beg, Not what he has become.

His fingertips brush, the edge of the sun, He tumbles into the open ocean— cold where he is warm, In his pride he sleeps— Dormant, Captured by his burning weep.

20

six forty seven inspired by the famous hit of instupendo

M.S. Blues you advance and advance and advance — until you reach beyond the land beyond the gloom and withering flowers— and become submerged in a new kaleidoscope, a new illusion. your tendons feel the nails of the reaper, who traces intricate and thoughtful patterns on its canvas. your mind nods away, the air tattooing incoherence on your senses. is this real or is this another fucked-up dream? voices whisper, as your descent into ________ (MADNESS, SADNESS, EMPTINESS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!) ensues. you advance and advance and advance — until you realize, there’s no different path you can take. it’s the same cycle— and once that realization settles, the reaper grabs your ankles and drags you away, while the symphony of the trees, the ground, the land— recite an ode, only they hear. to hell you go… to hell you go… to hell you go

21

the hourglass (time’s up, fool) M.S. Blues “play stupid games, win stupid games.”

— unknown she remembered the rules the rules mother sewed in her resistant heart (despite the acrid smell it brought) with that whetted needle — child you do as i say child — other variations of the remark. the rules were made clear, bloody clear.

– yet, the girl was a rebel a rebel who tried to be abrasive with her speech, only to be gagged every time by the hand that fed her because BE DAMNED IF YOU STEP UP TO THE WOMAN WHO – half rebel. but, actions suffice.

–

22

the girl grew up, no longer being a weed in the ground that mother could bury— ‘cause you can’t bury a 5’7 flower! (fool).

– with each passing day, the girl adopted an acrimonious layer to her disposition — she was no longer going to be gagged. “child, you do as I–” the girl silences her.

– now it’s mother, tied with the ropes of rebellion, gagged by the makeshift cloth made of the skin of her daughter’sheart— the same heart she sewed the rules on. she watches the hourglass, scared. her mind sits idle in a labyrinth of torment – walloped by the rebellion of her daughter, time’s up, fool.

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