Icarus_in_Asbestos's profile

You could tell that the little girl desperately wanted it all to be real. Half of his work was already done. It was well past her bedtime, but nothing - not the milky veil of sleepiness, not the gentle pleading of her concerned mother, not even her nagging cough could drag her away from the television set. It was her constant companion through these difficult times. It gave her strength, its soft glow casting the dark away from her weary face. It was her magic box, and tonight it housed a mag...

Now that I had a plan to get out of my current situation, I needed the means to make it happen. Getting a regular job was out of the question, and before the world goes accusing me of being your typical slackass, more likely to party away my time than work, let me say that while I am most certainly lazy in some regards, I am motivated in others. I would have loved employment, unfortunately I was considered by most to be unemployable. My work related history was spotty at best. I hadn't worked...

The tiny tin soldier advanced over the hill, guided by the dust speckled hand of a young boy sheltered from the crimson realities of war. Removed from its uncertainty and its insanity - the suffocating horror of mustard gas, the fiery breath of exploding bombs, the fatal sting of shrapnel. The only wounds his tiny warriors would receive were the dings and wear of time. The only blood to be shed was that of a child at play. He was removed from the sacrifices of boys become man just few years o...

ICARUS IN ASBESTOS by BRIAN A. THORNTON *RECORD* Fuck the Great American Novel. Fuck reality television. Fuck irony. Fuck self-help. Fuck intervention. Fuck idol worship. And fuck you for buying into every last bit of it. Wait a second. I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. Maybe instead of berating you , I should explain precisely where all of this misdirected angst is coming from. Maybe after hearing my somber tale, you and I will relate on some level and part ways as better peo...

I came to the looming, gold painted door and slowly turned the handle. It was unlocked - an obvious sign that I was in the right. Inside, Jean was kneeling on the paint speckled wood paneled floor, a brush in each hand. He tapped them together, coaxing drops of red and blue to fall like rain to the nearly filled canvas below. The canvas, half the size of his studio and bound to the floor by heavy masking tape, competed with thunderous chamber music for the attention of a maestro. I stepped cl...