have to – I trusted, I knew , that it was going to be beautiful. I suppose that’s what it’s like to be a fan.
The piece was right on the underside of the bridge, where it passed over the Victoria Embankment. It was a figure of a man with wings, falling through cloud. The photo wasn’t the greatest quality, but I could make out the clean stencil lines on his dark skin and coppery wings, and the splatters of silver and white dripping all around him as he fell.
Unnamed, as usual, the poster had written underneath the picture. But E3’s definitely using Icarus symbolism here so I’m calling it Icarus J .
I scanned down to the comments, expecting a chorus of agreement… and my heart sank.
Nice. but his tag’s not E3. it’s two hearts on top of each other.
It’s two 3s with one reversed, retard.
your wrong its a flower.
my god how arE YOU ALL SO DUMB IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT HE’S CALLED I <3 HIM.
omg E3 stans r the worst hes a banksy wannabe raghead.
I loved E3’s work, but the mystery over his tag had caused so many flame wars I was surprised the graffitilondon servers hadn’t melted. We all knew how this would go – the volunteer mods would lead the forum in a rousing chorus of Don’t Feed The Trolls, which wouldn’t work, and then they’d spend a couple of hours threatening and then liberally applying the banhammer. They were going to have a busy night and I didn’t envy them one bit.
I shut the browser with a weary sigh and lay down on my bed, wrapped in a towel, holding the stone up above my head and turning it slowly in the mingled blue-and-yellow light from the computer screen and the streetlights outside my window.
I might never know who the fox-man was. I might be left with nothing but a story nobody would believe and a stone I could never show anyone. My stomach twisted urgently, selfishly, at the thought. This couldn’t be it. I wanted to know more.
How did he get the stone? Why was he carrying it with him?
And how did he get to be a fox, anyway? Could he turn back whenever? Maybe he was cursed... maybe it was something he had touched...
I dropped the stone with a little cry. It dropped onto my chest and lay there, heavy, cold and solid.
Of course, if it was cursed, it would’ve changed me already, right?
My stomach grumbled, and I rolled over to glance at the clock. 5.27.
I could lie awake for an hour, buzzing with weirdness, waiting for my alarm to go off so I could get up and join my parents for our normal silent breakfast: a bowl of muesli with skimmed milk, and a cup of herbal tea without any sugar, while Dad circled things in the Financial Times and Mum scrawled notes in the margins of her Cabinet memos in violent red ink.
I could do that. Or... I could do something else.
A couple of minutes later, clothed and dry, I swung carefully over the creaky step at the top of the stairs and headed down the dark, perfumed staircase.
The lilies on Mum and Dad’s landing glowed like alien parasites in the faint dawn light from the staircase window. I held my breath as I passed their door, but nothing stirred.
The shock of the freezing tiles on my bare feet as I stepped into the entrance hall sent adrenaline pumping through me. I stopped by the hall table and leaned there for a second, my palms sticky on the polished oak and my legs suddenly unsteady. A wave of tiredness hit me and I thought about just going back to bed for an hour. Then my stomach rumbled again, sounding like a roll of thunder in the silent hallway, and I willed it quiet, pricking my ears for any sign of movement from upstairs. There was nothing.
The kitchen echoed to the soft slap of my feet on the tiles. Dim steely reflections of myself followed me across the room, like ghosts. The enormous main refrigerator loomed in one corner, next to the walk-in pantry. They were too large for a family of three with just two staff, and locked, of course. I eyed the gleaming padlock, but steered clear. That wasn’t my target
The piece was right on the underside of the bridge, where it passed over the Victoria Embankment. It was a figure of a man with wings, falling through cloud. The photo wasn’t the greatest quality, but I could make out the clean stencil lines on his dark skin and coppery wings, and the splatters of silver and white dripping all around him as he fell.
Unnamed, as usual, the poster had written underneath the picture. But E3’s definitely using Icarus symbolism here so I’m calling it Icarus J .
I scanned down to the comments, expecting a chorus of agreement… and my heart sank.
Nice. but his tag’s not E3. it’s two hearts on top of each other.
It’s two 3s with one reversed, retard.
your wrong its a flower.
my god how arE YOU ALL SO DUMB IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT HE’S CALLED I <3 HIM.
omg E3 stans r the worst hes a banksy wannabe raghead.
I loved E3’s work, but the mystery over his tag had caused so many flame wars I was surprised the graffitilondon servers hadn’t melted. We all knew how this would go – the volunteer mods would lead the forum in a rousing chorus of Don’t Feed The Trolls, which wouldn’t work, and then they’d spend a couple of hours threatening and then liberally applying the banhammer. They were going to have a busy night and I didn’t envy them one bit.
I shut the browser with a weary sigh and lay down on my bed, wrapped in a towel, holding the stone up above my head and turning it slowly in the mingled blue-and-yellow light from the computer screen and the streetlights outside my window.
I might never know who the fox-man was. I might be left with nothing but a story nobody would believe and a stone I could never show anyone. My stomach twisted urgently, selfishly, at the thought. This couldn’t be it. I wanted to know more.
How did he get the stone? Why was he carrying it with him?
And how did he get to be a fox, anyway? Could he turn back whenever? Maybe he was cursed... maybe it was something he had touched...
I dropped the stone with a little cry. It dropped onto my chest and lay there, heavy, cold and solid.
Of course, if it was cursed, it would’ve changed me already, right?
My stomach grumbled, and I rolled over to glance at the clock. 5.27.
I could lie awake for an hour, buzzing with weirdness, waiting for my alarm to go off so I could get up and join my parents for our normal silent breakfast: a bowl of muesli with skimmed milk, and a cup of herbal tea without any sugar, while Dad circled things in the Financial Times and Mum scrawled notes in the margins of her Cabinet memos in violent red ink.
I could do that. Or... I could do something else.
A couple of minutes later, clothed and dry, I swung carefully over the creaky step at the top of the stairs and headed down the dark, perfumed staircase.
The lilies on Mum and Dad’s landing glowed like alien parasites in the faint dawn light from the staircase window. I held my breath as I passed their door, but nothing stirred.
The shock of the freezing tiles on my bare feet as I stepped into the entrance hall sent adrenaline pumping through me. I stopped by the hall table and leaned there for a second, my palms sticky on the polished oak and my legs suddenly unsteady. A wave of tiredness hit me and I thought about just going back to bed for an hour. Then my stomach rumbled again, sounding like a roll of thunder in the silent hallway, and I willed it quiet, pricking my ears for any sign of movement from upstairs. There was nothing.
The kitchen echoed to the soft slap of my feet on the tiles. Dim steely reflections of myself followed me across the room, like ghosts. The enormous main refrigerator loomed in one corner, next to the walk-in pantry. They were too large for a family of three with just two staff, and locked, of course. I eyed the gleaming padlock, but steered clear. That wasn’t my target
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