500 words for #FairyTaleFriday from the keywords Hubris and Icarus

Hugh loved a good circumcision.
The flick of the blade, the twitch of the father’s eye, the deep sense of religious duty done.
This one, he thought, was about an eight.
The chanting was rich and melodious, the infant’s mother was particularly fervent but Dad barely flinched, which kind of spoiled the snick. Maybe they had older sons.
He settled down in the window light, warming himself as he wondered at the skywalking dust sparkles that sauntered across the shaft of sunlight above him. Like all holy places, this one smelt of dust and polish – both wood and brass polish here. It was a smart joint. The kind of joint that attracted rich families and their babies – or poor families who wanted to mix with the rich and be thought of as wealthy. So pretty much everyone really.
The dust just walked around in mid-air – never seemingly in a rush, no particular place to go. Just mooching. It always seemed to get somewhere in the end; at least the old widows and their dead husbands’ torn up shirt dusters always seemed to find some. And flick, smear, brush – off it had to go, and however much seemed to be stuck to the cloth, there was still an inexhaustible supply of particles flying right back up into the light to pace the air.
Hugh wondered if you could eat dust. Someone had told him once that all dust was tiny flakes of people’s skin, and if it was skin from an animal it was basically meat. So it stood to reason that if you ate enough of it you were pretty much eating steak. When he tried it though, it just tasted of holy places with not a hint of sirloin.
I don’t suppose you should think of eating dust in a holy place what with all the dead people that came through it, but meat is just dead animal so …
Hugh shrugged and took off to the front of the place where a new family had gathered for their first born son’s bris. Hugh took a good long look at the father. This one was practically crawling with anticipatory dread. Flinch city. Excellent.
Old Rabbi Jacobs was as professional as ever – some mellifluous chanting, some words – some of them in the holy tongue, some of them not and then the flash of the blade and WHAT A TWITCH a full face cheek clench from the father and the mother was positively reeking with righteousness. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” thought Hugh, “we have a ten.”
He grinned the bold grin of a moth who has just watched the best show in town and didn’t have to pay for a ticket and set off up to the top table. What joy ! What a twitch !
What’s that gorgeous light ?
Hugh was awestruck – the flickering, dancing flame seemed to call him and up, up he flew to meet it. To meet the light. The candle flame engulfed him and he flared out.

THE END

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