The gist of this story popped into my head almost fully-formed. Actually writing it wound up being a bit more difficult than I expected.

Sleight of Hand

His silver-quick eyes reflect the light of the A-train as it rumbles past. There is laughter there, blended with something hard and angry and dark. So obscured is this, that none in the enraptured audience take note of it. Certainly not Sara Cheswick, the lively and lovely young woman who gazes at the spinning silver dollar which appears to float inches above his outstretched hand. Tiny gossamer-thin lines form at the top of her nose as she searches for the trick she knows must be there.

His patter is practiced and smooth, sliding off his tongue like the sun in a darkening summer sky. Colin glances with amused annoyance at his fiancée, feeling for the first time in their long relationship the jealousy that his friends warned him of when he fell deeply and quickly in love with the beauty. A lost bit of sunlight bounces and tumbles down the descending stairs colliding with her straw-gold hair, and he falls once again, his jealousy forgotten. Sara glances at him, laughing, as the coin disappears. The street magician is certainly talented. And well kept, Colin notes, taking in the unworn shoes, and freshly-laundered jeans and $30 t-shirt. Even the stubble is carefully trimmed to convey just the right amount of rakishness.

“There are tricks and sleights which delight the common crowd,” the magic man begins, “but an audience such as this one would not be taken in by such things.” He says this as if thinking aloud, speaking in a quiet murmur that those nearest to him, including Sara, lean forward to hear. His long, thin, hands dance around carefully, as if searching for some floating bit of trickery. “There is old magic, older than Man. It is the magic of the shadows, the magic seen out of the corner of your eye, fleeting magic. Real magic.” Sara’s eyes fix on his fingers as they trace a pattern in the air. They move to the drumbeat of the city overhead. The charming man fixes his gaze upon her, and her glistening lips part in response. Somewhere along the way she has ceased hearing the words he speaks, but she is painfully aware of his voice. It speaks through her and she shudders at its touch.

The glowing trail the magician’s hands weave is a pretty good trick, Colin admits. Sara, sensible Sara, is taken in by it, no question. A bit too taken, that returning, nagging little voice says in a whisper. He looks at his watch.

“Sara, let’s go, your parents are waiting for us.” She doesn’t respond, so he reaches out to tap her shoulder. Too crazy to think about, but the small crowd seems to grow and swell in that instant, and suddenly she’s just out of reach. The press of bodies intensifies as another train roars past, drowning out Colin’s words.

“In days long gone the Folk walked this land, leaving trails of flowers growing in their wake.” At this, the dark-eyed man plucks a daisy from the shimmering trail of light, tossing it gently to Sara. She catches it with a laugh, a childish, tinkling laugh that she hasn’t heard since she was a toddling girl. “If you followed these trails they would lead you to the fields beyond, to a place where Time stretched on forever.” With each small step forward Sara takes, his voice sounds farther away. She takes another step. “Those who traveled these paths alone would wander for many lifetimes, coming no closer, while moving further and further from the place they began.”

Colin can no longer see the front of the crowd. From somewhere up ahead the springtime scent of flowers wafts through the sweat and smoke and waste, and he feels the warm kiss of sunlight on his face. Far ahead he catches a glimpse of a sunlit halo surrounding the straw-gold hair of Sara.

“Those paths were long-ago lost, plowed and paved over by our kind, who built roads of their own which led everywhere and nowhere.” His gliding fingers pause, holding the moment for so long he fears it might burst. Sara’s foot hovers above the ground as she reaches out for him.

“Sara!” Colin cries, shoving and tearing at the bodies in front of him. The bodies are many, but his strength and his love guide him forward. For the briefest of moments the three, magician, maiden, and man, connect, as Colin reaches Sara, and Sara’s outstretched fingers touch the now-still hand of the magician. The magician catches Colin with his eyes, and Colin remembers the darkness he saw. That darkness is gone, and in its place is a mocking laughter that some ancient part of Colin recognizes and silently names. The magician speaks a single unheard word, his free hand quickly contorting into some inhuman position.

A round old woman stumbles against Colin and he catches her.

“Oh!”

“Are you alright?”

“Whew. Yes, yes, I’m fine. I swear there are days I hate it down here. A woman can’t walk two steps without being jostled around.” The old woman adjusts her cumbersome purse and gathers her dignity around her. “Thank you, young man.” She looks Colin in the eye. It must have been a trick of the light, he will later think. At that moment Colin sees, reflected in the old woman’s eyes, Sara reaching out to him as she’s led into the summer light. With a start he turns, but the magician and Sara are gone.

That's good stuff, Matt. Wonderful concept, and some very nice turns of phrase. You did a fine job of painting the scene. Reading all these, I can feel you playing with your text, trying to find your comfort zone and style. Doing this really short stuff will probably be a huge positive for you in the long term. Wish I would have done the same.

Great story. Is the old woman anyone in particular, just an innocent bystander/distraction? (I mean in terms of the story of course.)

Innocent bystander. I needed a distraction and that one seemed plausible.

You should have her hand him a flower, try to sell him a flower.