The Irish Were Never Meant to Fly

Genre: Steampunk

A monologue

My brother's name was Brogan and at sixteen he was the kind of man that all men should be. He was kind and thoughtful and he never asked for nohin' he didn't deserve. He did not tease like older brothers do and no one in town ever looked at him with anythin' but a smile.

He was destined for somethin' greater than farmin' sheep and drinkin' in pubs. He had a mind that I can't even describe right. He had a way with words and could spin a thought into a work of art without any effort. He could compare a granny's hair to a cloud on a clear day and not sound crazy for doin' it.

We never had much money growing up, but Brogan could tell me to close my eyes and he'd describe the most beautiful things and suddenly I weren't face up in a stack of hay, but in a palace in some far off place smelling foreign perfumes and hearin' instruments what I've never heard in real life. I never could figure out how he could fill my belly with his voice...

Brogan could read and write better'n'anyone I know. There was an English family what moved in two mile from our house and they had a private tutor for their daughter Emily. Brogan used to run over there every day and watch her lessons from the bushes-- used to hear all kind of stories and learn the finer points of language and culture. He could speak like a right gentleman when he wanted to, and he was starting to learn up on French as well. French. As if he would have ever needed to known French.

Brogan fell in love with Emily, though he never once talked to her. He liked her voice and her her curls and how she seemed to enjoy things that were fanciful as much as he did. He said that Emily was like the sun, all bright light and that her voice was warm. I didn't care for his fancy talk when he used it to describe Emily. I watched him sigh and pine and the only times he seemed truly happy were when he was on his way to her lessons, or as he relayed what he had learned there, his eyes all big and bright.

He started writing her letters, poems and the like, and leaving them places that she would find them in private. I begged him to stop, but every time he watched her read one and hide it away from prying eyes, his heart flooded with hope. She started to write back to him, too.

There was a story that Brogan told me a long time ago, about this fellow, Icaraus, who escaped a prison over the ocean with wings of wax, and though his father warned him not to fly too close to the sun, he did anyway, and the wax melted and he crashed and drowned. He told it a lot better than that, of course, but that's not the point. When Brogan told me that story, he said that Icarus died because his pride kept him from listening. I'm not so sure.

I think that maybe, Icarus was just a dreamer who wanted more from life than the world thought he were allowed, a dreamer that wanted to be free, a dreamer that wanted to kiss the sun. That doesn't make him any less a fool, o' course.

I loved my fool brother. He was a poet and a dreamer and a good man. He didn't deserve what he got. He didn't deserve nothin' but kindness. I can't say I'm the same and yet here I am wearin' his name and trying to fill the void that he left when he left me behind.