Fiction,  Flash Fiction

I for the Illusionist

A question that never fails to get a wide-eyed astonishment and a crackle of laughter – ‘What is your fascination?’ Mine is a magician. Ever since Iw as a little girl all I wanted to see a live magic show. One fine day, my dad walked through the door waving the tickets. And I attended a live magic show. I was amazed looking at the tricks that the magician performed. A girl was cut in many pieces but managed to come up as a whole. I saw swords that pierced and never hurt. And air that could hold. It was one of the best nights I’ve had. Since then magic had always held my fancy. Later through the years, I learned that they were called tricks for a reason. Innocence lost, rather it was snatched. I realized I could not fix a broken heart or even a limb and not being a doctor myself, sawing body parts meant prison. Reading more about the ‘Magician’ or in the adult version of things, ‘Illusionist’ had silently stolen what was easily the best night of my childhood. Now, when someone asks me about my best childhood memory, I wear a far-away look, then smile, and still talk about that magic show. Maybe that is the point of growing up, the charm and excitement around things are reduced to the mundane existence and a need to turn out to be naïve or dumb. Despite these, my fascination still remains to be magic/illusion. I keep looking under the skirts for tricks, keep my nose in the air for fire. That magician was my mirage in that long road of life.

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