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**If you like this story, you should stop bymindofbryan.comfor more andnews about other projects. You might also stop byauthonomy.comand giveme a good rating. You can find it in a short story collection called “StrangelyFamiliar”**Icarus Flew Over the LabyrinthBy Bryan Lee PetersonBelasco was on the middle step of the staircase, heading down, when herealized that he had forgotten the library book he’d wanted to bring down.Posed with this problem, he asked himself the obvious question, “Is the bookI meant to bring closer if I head back up, or if I press ahead?” He could neverbe too sure. If he went back, it was up, to the left, right, straight, left, no,that’s not it, right, and then another right and into the study. Or maybe thosedirections would lead him to another dead end. Even if he found the study,there was no guarantee that it would be there. Of course it would be there,the study doesn’t move. He thought of the way if he were to go forward. Hedidn’t know the way. For all the years that he had lived in this house, he stillhadn’t figured out the way forward. “Damn it then, I’ll go forward, and let thewinds prevail upon me to find it, whatever it was I was to find.”He walked down the rest of the steps. He picked up his thoughts where hehad left off, which was writing a story in all its grotesque minutia in his headwithout the words. He was trying to make light of a certain incident betweena man, Aldous, and his father, also Aldous, who was dead but speaking tohim. The dead Aldous was recriminating the living Aldous for marrying belowhis status, even though he had done the same. This gave him experience butthe son looked past that at the shining smile that was his bride. The youngerAldous was pleading, but what was his plea? Certainly not love. Perhapsindifference. He couldn’t be sure because Aldous and Aldous hadn’t told himthe reason yet. Belasco passed the study, but took no note, for it wasn’t thestudy he was looking for. He looked for the solution.He went left, right, straight, then left and wound up at a dead end.“Perhaps indifference is not the way to go.” He turned back to the corner,then left again, decided indifference was the way, and there was no deadend. He couldn’t tell if this was the course he had taken a moment before, ornot.Anella was in the kitchen. She had just turned away when Belasco walkedby, and didn’t notice him immediately. She had been on the phone with anexasperated editor looking for such and such story that was late as usual,and probably lost in the halls of the house somewhere. Or maybe it was thedean of the university Belasco had attended who now wanted to confer anhonorary degree, to make up for unceremoniously expelling him for someshenanigans in more sophomoric years. When she did notice Belasco’sflittering presence, she grabbed his stack of phone messages and ran afterhim.
 
 Too late, he had rounded a corner, which she rounded, and then a choice, afork, a fifty-fifty shot, which she had learned she always lost. She returned tothe kitchen, all the while muttering, “That man, that man,” in time to answerthe phone again.Anella was younger than Belasco by only a few years, but she hadn’tspent as much time wandering, and didn’t try to track him down as often asshe should have. Her knees didn’t ache as much as her patience, and her willwas stronger than ever from the tempering of Belasco. She didn’t feel lonelyever, but was glad for the telephone.Meanwhile, back up another flight of stairs, left, right, left went Belasco.He came to a door, took no note and walked into it. Then he stepped back,rubbed his nose, opened the door and walked through. He found himself inthe study he had wanted to be in. On the reading stand, the library bookhe’d been looking for sat open, unnoticed and forgotten. He instead becameinterested in an antique volume that he had acquired just two days ago,after seeking it for some time. The search brought back good memories of musty bookshops in his youth and letters to half the world’s booksellers andauctioneers.Placing his glasses so that they’d stick up on his forehead, and thus beout of his way for reading, but ready at a moment’s notice, Belasco walkedfrom the library, lost in Homer’s Odyssey, a translation dubious at best.Definitely not worth a sonnet. When he gave up on its quality he wasbetween a rock and a hard place, between a wall and the swimming pool. Hetested the door to the swimming pool room. It squeaked, and so he decidednot to head that way. No place to go, and so he went back. For a brief  juncture, his mind crossed paths with thoughts of Anella, then moved on toother things: From Keats’ nightingale to Cortázar’s axolotls. At a juncture,Belasco took a wrong turn and deposited the book on the ground, confidentthat it had a life of its own and would make it to the library of its own accord.An hour later Anella was walking that hallway, having thought that sheheard him. Nothing there, of course, but a book laying prominently on theold, complaining floor. She picked up the book, and felt it as if it could leadthe way to Belasco, and then continued searching. In ten minutes, patiencegone, she gave up trying to find him. “He’s a silly man,” was all shemuttered in explanation. She returned to the library to put the book on theshelf and found Belasco sitting in the leather chair.“You dropped this in the hall,” she said, trying to find a spot on theshelves that would fit the volume.“No, I didn’t,” replied Belasco before he even thought about it. Aldouswas beginning to complain to him, and Aldous the elder complained back. Then he paused, told both halves of his brain to hush up. He didn’tremember dropping it in the hallway, which implied that he had picked it upin the first place. He then reconsidered, “Yes, I guess I did, though I have norecollection. It was there, then it wasn’t. Am I supposed to keep track of those things?”“No, dear. You aren’t. Have you checked your mail yet?”
 
“I’ll get to it. Don’t disturb me, Anella, please. I am reading.”“You don’t have a book,” she tidied as she went, a coaster here, acrumpled paper, there.“What does that matter? I’m reading all the same.”“Well, when you get to your mail—”“In due time. Everything has its due time and that’s when I’ll get to it.”He was getting impatient with her mothering and smothering.“I wasn’t arguing that. When you get to it, add this one to the stack. Itsfrom Czeslaw” She dropped a letter into his lap. “And the university librarycalled. The book you borrowed is overdue.”“I haven’t gotten to it yet,” Belasco said as if he had actually slowed downin his old age like his doctors told him.“I’ll let them know you haven’t gotten to it yet, dear,” she said, and thenpaused. “You shouldn’t read with your glasses on,” she said, and moved off.In the doorway she paused to see if he would even look in her direction, buthe didn’t. She closed the door to let him be, rather hard, perhaps out of frustration.The door slamming jarred his mind into saying aloud what he wasthinking, “Thank you, Anella,” but there was no one else in the room to hearhim.Belasco opened the letter, lifted his glasses to his forehead and began toread it. “Resham walked into the forest. As he passed a small elevation, hiseye caught movement, and saw tiger stripes jump him. He knew he wasdead. When they landed, he looked up at the most beautiful woman he’dever seen. ‘Not what you expected?’ she asked. He shook his head and fell inlove from the stress of the situation. She drew a knife and slew him. Again,not what he expected. Seventy-six words, if I count right. Beat that.Czeslaw.”“Well, that is certainly impressive. I shall have to work at that,” Belascosaid, folding the paper and placing it in his pocket. He moved his eyebrowsand as his glasses fell into place on his nose, he realized he had gotten upand started walking at some point, perhaps when the tiger pounced; andnow he had no idea where in the house he was. He looked at the walls, foundthe paintings, and began to wonder if he’d ever been in that part before. Then he knew he’d seen that particular painting before. He must have beenhere before, or the painting had been moved. But as he half gained thethought of getting his bearings from remembering the location of thepainting since he was quite sure that he’d passed by here so many times, henoticed something. In the painting, two legs and a splash.Two legs and a splash. A person falling into the sea. A plowman too busyto notice, too busy toiling to see the death before him. A fisherman, whoperhaps had fallen asleep, yes, must have fallen asleep for the enigma towork. A boat busily setting sail, eyes not on the water, or home port, but athousand miles’ sail, a foreign port past the horizon. Yes, this he could see. Two worked the riggings. These he could not truly condemn. They wereoccupied with thoughts of their other girlfriends in the other ports. And
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