I remember the day I believed in magic. The street performer had a scuffed hat and holey coat. He made coins disappear and tossed fire sticks. I would have walked away, but then it happened. He tripped and the fire stick hit his clothing. That mouldy coat went up like Guy Fawkes night. I watched him burn, screaming, voice lost. Then the fire vanished, and he was fine. Magic.
Thought I was going to die. Should have died. I was clumsy, so fucking clumsy. Should have died a dozen times. I saw the fire catch in slow motion. Saw it spread up my coat. Couldn’t stop it. Then I felt the heat. Thought I was going to melt. Did the only thing I could: I said the words. And for the first time in my career, magic worked.
Third time this week, and I nearly missed. Never attach to a magician. Liars are bad for an angel’s health. I turned away from the performance, same boring routine, then he was on fire. I nearly didn’t make it in time to put it out. The thought still frightens me. The others don’t talk about what happens when a host dies, but we all know. And it ain’t magic.
FlashFictionMonth day 27
Wordcount: 207
Another 369er today.
Prompt: Angels are parasitic beings that feed off human lives. You are the guardian of the luckiest man alive.
C. A. Harland 