Icarus: Hue–Frill

He did manage to find some frozen pork in the freezer, a few shrimp, peas, a red pepper that had seen better days, half an onion, rice, oil, and some tomato paste. So he was intending to make something that should turn out a bit like paella.

The tape crackled a bit, then swelled out with its rendition of the classical piece.

The song was soaring into some kind of crescendo and it was feeling a bit loud for the space.

“My mom. She’s an ancient history buff. There’s more stuff in this style in our house, but nothing this crazy.”

Then I relapsed.

Besides, Icarus was sure that someone else, in this same position—hearing about the life he lived—would be awake while Icarus fell into a fitful sleep.

Icarus could see his position in the void left without stars, feel he was there by the dusting of hair near his arm.

Large metal shelves of paint and supplies lined the wall; canvases were stacked into unwieldy piles.

Icarus could tell the moment Mr. Black reached Helios from the hysteria in his screams.

He daubed Neosporin into the many small injuries Icarus had picked up and covered them with Band-Aids.

The only one that seemed dangerous was the mottled yellow and purple bruise across his ribs.

If Helios had access to his passport, they could swing by New York, grab it, and go immediately, but if not they could head elsewhere and have a new one expedited.

Angus hadn’t made this many meals in succession in ages.

It was probably picturesque in summer.

Clothes on the floor, sports paraphernalia on the walls, backpack slung across the bed, comics spilling out from a box under his desk.