Icarus’ Fire - By Cama Selvon-Gonzales

Written By: Cama Selvon-Gonzales

Category: Short Story (Fictional)

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Cama Selvon-Gonzales, writing under the name Icarus Fire, delves into the complexities of ambition and consequence in their short story "Icarus' Fire." As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this entry from Trinidad and Tobago captivates with its vivid storytelling and profound themes. The story invites readers into the life of a young protagonist whose quest for power leads to unforeseen ramifications. Join us in exploring this gripping narrative that captures the essence of youthful dreams and the harsh realities they sometimes encounter.

About the Work

"Icarus' Fire" is a powerful exploration of the tumultuous journey of a young boy consumed by his desire for recognition and power. Through rich and evocative imagery, Cama Selvon-Gonzales crafts a narrative that is both compelling and thought-provoking. The story's mood is tense and foreboding, capturing the protagonist's inner conflict and the external chaos that ensues. With a keen eye for detail, the author portrays the stark realities of crime and ambition, leaving readers to ponder the true cost of such pursuits.

Icarus Fire

Original Submission by Cama Selvon-Gonzales

Writer: Cama Selvon-Gonzales

Country: Trinidad and Tobago

Story Title: Icarus’ Fire

It just felt so natural when the boy shot another boy on the hill. He felt the power go out of him as the bullet left its casing and entered the soft body, penetrating the young skin and disrupting the muscular flesh beneath like teeth puncturing the skin of ripened mangoes that the boy loved so much. His only thought was not of the dead boy bleeding out under him, the ruby red liquid fanning out in crisscrossed patterns along the soft pitch as it flowed downwards, but of the fact that he could now approach the boss with something concrete to prove his worthiness.

The barking dogs and voices of the villagers roused once again to the sound of death, urged him to run, his fear of being caught stemming not from the fear of prison or reprisal, but from the fear of missing out on the beginning of his life as he had always dreamt it. As he ran, the thrill of what he had just done began to grow on him and his quickening footsteps began to echo with the sound of his own laughter. In the whole of his miniscule life he had never felt such awesome power.

He remembered the day he overheard his grandmother speaking about him to a neighbour who had once more come to complain about some offense he had perpetrated upon her.

“That boy is de devil self inno. From de time he did leave his mother belly he did watch meh straight in meh eye as if to say, ‘I go do for yuh!’”

“Why you doh send him back to he mother Ma Yvette? Why he hadda trouble we village for true and she scot free?” the neighbour scowled.

Ma Yvette bowed her head and said softly as in a desperate whisper, “She couldn't handle him. It was as if he was curse from the start. Like he get the father genes. After the man dead she get a little soft in the head too. She did love that man a little too much eh. And de sad thing is that jus before they kill him he was going to take she up by he family in the country away from all this badness.” She sighed with the whole of her shoulders as if the weight of the tragedy could be shifted. “So I had was to take him in. I had no choice. I does try yuh know, really try. But what to do? The boy have fire inside him like he father!”

He had never understood fully what his grandmother meant by the statement until this moment. But he always knew he was different from the other boys in the village, even those already destined for early death or incarceration. Always burning quietly beneath, that show of difference erupted at the tender age of seven when he stood up in class one day and cussed the teacher, expletives vehemently leaving his mouth, the teacher standing in open mouthed, confused shock from the sudden assault on the ears. From then on he became known by his teachers and classmates as “de terror’’ and everyone on the school compound sighed with relief on the days he did not attend school. And then again, on occasions too much to be counted, his distinct nature was exhibited particularly strongly in his feet-apart, hands-gesticulating-wildly, chin-out, eyes-glaring retorts to elders in the village who tried to correct his obvious waywardness. These were the embers that everyone around him tried to put out because they saw its potential for mayhem, but aĺl he saw was the shadow of himself growing by the light of that fearsome fire.

He kept running until he came to a ditch from where he could be hidden from view but could hear the aftermath of his deed. He sat on the cold muddy grass, his knees doubled up to his chin and waited for what he knew would come, the excitement burning in his heart, feeling like a demi-God who had just imposed his will upon creation just because he could. He heard the rising and falling of voices, then the inevitable wailing of a mother joined by others close to the boy victim and finally the sirens. He thought about how the boss would be hearing about his daring deed and how his chest would rise with pride for the soldier he had taken in and placed so much of his hopes on.

That day when the gun had been given him he knew with exultation that it was the beginning of his ascent to glory. He was sitting in a small darkly lit room, with some of the other boys postured leisurely, one with legs on a stool, another with lanky feet crossed at the ankles his body stretched out precariously on a rusted chair, another sitting with arms on the backrest, all but one smoking a marijuana blunt, all with red-rimmed, listless eyes. The boss suddenly got up and went to a curtained back room and came out holding the prized object in his hands, and recognizing what it was, the boy’s heart began to beat thunderously and his nostrils flared seeing the boss walking towards him. He took a chair and placed it opposite the boy and sat facing him, placing his hand with the gun on his lap and looking intently at him, he grinned seeing the boy’s guttural reaction. The boy looked at the gun, could tell that it was fairly used, a bit of rust and scratches here and there, but to him it looked like pure gold.

The boss held up the gun, his index finger holding it up in the space between the trigger and the trigger guard, facing it sideways so that the entirety of the machine could be seen and he asked the boy, “Yuh know what we have here right boy?”

In absolute awe all he could do was nod.

“So lemme make something rel clear. I giving you this to let you know you is part ah we now. You is to only use it if I give instructions for you to use it. Yuh get wha I saying soldier?

He nodded again, the words seeming unable to come from him.

“In de meantime yuh go go on some runs with the boys, be a lookout and ting, help with anything they ask yuh to do. When I ready for you to do a big wok I go give you de word. Doh fuck it up eh or else it go be shit for all ah we”.

The boy took the gun from the boss’ hands like it was communion he was receiving, and sat there looking at it, touching it and running his fingers along it like it was the holiest of objects. That night as he hid it in a shoe box under his bed, he slept fitfully, the night’s heat rising from the wooden floor boards together with the thoughts of the power given him from above with which he could yield submission in the neighbourhood, flooding his mind. The following morning he arose and joined the others and did as the boss instructed and many other mornings to come he followed instructions as they were handed out. But he would soon grow impatient waiting on the big job, as the instrument of death under his bed called to him like an itch he could not reach. He wanted, no, needed, others to bend the knee to him.

He sat in the shallow ditch, the cold night air causing him to shiver, waiting for all the commotion to die down. When he was sure the body had been moved and the police had finished asking all the usual questions about possible suspects and left, he snuck out to get back to his house before his grandmother noticed that he was missing. It was unlikely that she would notice his absence as she was violently ŵarned by him never to enter his room and she also avoided him ever since the day he took up a knife from the kitchen and threatened to kill her. He tiptoed to his room, locked the door behind him and laid on his bed, thoughts of his wild ambition swirling around in his head. His body tingling all over, he could not sleep as musings about how everyone would now know who he was, how they would all stand in fear and trembling as he passed their way filled his imaginings. Even the boss, he thought excitedly, would have to respect him now.

It was a few weeks before, when he had come into the room where they usually met up feeling depressed and restless because it seemed like the hundredth time the boss was sending him with the others on another small run where he felt inconsequential, his importance to the mission almost like a dismissal of the skills he felt he possessed. He sat on a stool in the corner and pulled out a spliff, lit it and pulled in deeply so he could forget the fire burning in him. He saw the boss, his back turned to him, talking in an audible whisper to the second in command. He perked up his hearing instinctively to see if it involved him doing the big job or at least something more in line with his grand desires.

“That boy giving rel trouble, I figure he go cause meh rel problems in the future yuh hear”, the boss’ head leaned closer to his deputy signifying the confidential nature of the conversation. The boy listened with even closer attention.

“What yuh wah meh do bossman?”

“Nah we cyah fix that right now. I doh want nobody know who he is jus yet. Jus keep ah eye on him. De fool gone an show off on instagram like a fucking ass, holing up he ammo like I would nah notice or worse yet de police! I go do for him in time, doh worry.”

It was then that the plan began to hatch in the boy’s head as he saw an opportunity to cement his position among the boys by doing the boss this one favour. Not to mention that itch that would not go away and which was in fact getting more and more unbearable every day. He discovered who this troublemaker was by cunningly questioning and monitoring the movements of the deputy and through his own deep dive into the boy’s instagram account. He could not figure out why the boy was such a bother to the boss, he just seemed like another pesky youth of the village not far from their own. Maybe he owed the boss money or did not return one of the packets full of Cush sold on the block that always brought in a sizable profit for the boss. Whatever it was, he knew that by taking the matter into his own hands the boss would have no choice but to finally grant him the wings with which he so longed to soar.

He found that as he surveilled his intended victim for an opportune moment to do the job that the excitement in him was building, growing with the knowledge of how this would take him up a notch in the underworld to which he belonged. He no longer felt depressed, in fact he seemed to walk with a swagger, his confidence oozing from him, causing him to be more aggressively brazen than before, even with the boys. They complained often to the boss that he was creating problems for them, but the boss after giving him a look or clouting him on the head would laugh it off and tell the others that the boy had zess and to leave him alone.

It was about three weeks into his watching and waiting that the boy noticed that his soon to be victim would make the trek between his house and his cousin’s, a knapsack on his back carrying his playstation 5 to play video games with his cousin around his own age. The boy knew this because one day after seeing him enter the house, he looked through the space covered by a lacy curtain where a window should have been, and saw them enthusiastically shouting at the large flat screen television, controls in their hands, jumping up from their seats at every killing of their opponents’ avatars. He wondered how the boy and his cousin could have afforded the game and the television, especially noticing the great contrast between the shiny new appliances and the squalor of the unplastered concrete dwelling that was the house. He thought for sure now that the money used to buy these things was probably what was stolen from the boss. Shaking his head sanctimoniously, he snuck away calculating in his mind the invaluable service he was about to perform towards the boss’ enterprise.

It was in the middle of that trek, through a lonely bushy area before the cousin’s house that he figured he could do the deed without being seen. That night he waited for the boy to leave his cousin’s, a nervous energy ticking within him so that he could not stay still behind the shrub he used to hide himself, shifting from one foot to the other. He saw the boy’s shadow appear and he gripped the gun tightly, feeling its cold hard exterior, taking strength from the mighty power he knew it gave to him. Then he walked up to the boy, pointed the gun at him and felt a great surge of adrenaline rise in his belly as he saw the terrible fear in the boy’s eyes facing the death he triumphantly yielded, and pulled the trigger.

It was the morning after the mission was completed. He went into the kitchen looking for something to eat as he was absolutely famished from all the night’s excitement and a restless night of sleep. His grandmother was there, her back turned to him washing the wares at the sink.

As she heard him enter without turning to face him, she said, “You hear they kill Sheila son last night?”

He grunted a response, “Who is dat? I doh know who you talking bout.”

“They live Bargain Trace on the hill behind Mr. Gerard house. Where you was last night boy? I hear you come in rel late” She turned to look at him and there was a mixture of suspicion and fear in her eyes. He saw it and steupsed loudly in answer, dragging out the rude sound between his teeth in total defiance at her. He grabbed the bake and salt fish left for him on the table and walked out.

He was eager to get to the boss’ place, to hear him rejoice in this, his protegee’s great feat. He could not wait to reveal to them all that it was he who had done it. He imagined gleefully the slaps on his back and the bragging amongst themselves that they had a real soldier in their midst. Most of all he could not wait to see the boss’ look of adulation in his direction for taking care of the problem for him. He sauntered happily into the room where they usually gathered, feeling himself in the clouds, his feet not touching the ground.

The first thing he noticed was that the boss was not there. The room was sombre, the boys were scattered around in the smoke-filled room, the deputy standing to one side. He saw the boy come in and pointed for him to sit.

“De news is that de boss’ son get kill last night”. Hearing the murmur of surprise in the room he continued, “Yeah is the boss’ son. He didn’t want nobody to know that round here cause he was trying he bes to protec him from dem enemy soldiers. So alyuh know we have a wok to do today. First ting, go an ask de right people de right questions. Whoever do it we go find dem and fire go fucking bun dem!”

The boy heard this like a gunshot and felt himself suddenly grow stone cold.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating talent from around the world. It serves as a beacon for writers and poets to showcase their creativity and share their unique perspectives. The competition embraces a diverse range of voices, providing a stage for both emerging and established writers to shine. It is a celebration of storytelling in all its forms, uniting a global community of literary enthusiasts.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Cama Selvon-Gonzales for the poignant and thought-provoking story "Icarus' Fire." Your participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches the tapestry of voices and narratives that define this event. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to witnessing your continued journey in the world of creative writing. Thank you for sharing your unique perspective with us.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.