The Spirit of Magic: Lucid and Awake, #3

By Justin Mermelstein

Jacob Ainge is a magician. His passion for his art stands out above the rest, though his opposition to the spotlight is more important to him than any notoriety. When his protégé, a cancer-stricken child named Cade, passes away, Jacob reluctantly agrees to perform a benefit show. It is then that he finds himself thrust into a career he never knew he desired, thanks to a little help from his old friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Mermelstein
• Release date: Oct 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781516388165

Book preview

Other Works:

Glimpse: Volume One

Glimpse: Volume Two

A Week and Some Change

Nowhere in Particular

The Committed

A Time to Commune

THE SPIRIT OF MAGIC

Copyright © 2013, 2019 Lucid and Awake | The Spirit of Magic | Justin Mermelstein

All rights reserved.

Written by Justin Mermelstein

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

If you’ve stumbled across this book without

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please support the arts and purchase a copy.

Any resemblance to anything real is purely coincidental.

for my little magic trick

We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.

-Orson Welles

There’s a bit of magic in everything, and some loss to even things out.

-Lou Reed

One

If you follow a magician’s hands long enough, you’ll ultimately discover his method. But magic isn’t about the secrets. It’s about the allure. The skill and the dedication. Years of practice. Repetition. The same movement, hundreds of thousands of times. Magic is about beauty. Beauty in skill. Beauty in movement. But most of all, beauty in art.

I held the spool of white cotton thread above the black light, which illuminated the fabric in a brilliant purple glow. I smiled upon hearing the deep sighs from a smattering of children in the first few rows. I unwound a two-foot strand and snapped the fiber.

The house lights were down low, leaving the auditorium in near complete darkness, and I couldn’t see much beyond the edge of the stage. One child, however, caught my attention. He was perhaps ten or eleven years old, watching intently, his eyes locked on my hands and traveling wherever they moved.

I held out the string for all to see, displaying it intact, and then I began to snap it slowly in three-inch sections, transferring the broken pieces from my right hand to my left. They bunched together as I held them between my index finger and thumb. I held up the final piece and added it to the rest, finally completing the string graveyard.

The crowd was mostly students, but I could make out little besides the auditorium’s perimeter. It was an old Catholic school turned public charter, built at least a hundred years ago. Glass skylights encompassed most of the ceiling, surely bathing the room in natural light during the day, but providing a beautiful view of the moon on clear evenings such as this. A mezzanine jutted out above the floor, about halfway to the stage. A few dozen students leaned on the safety railing and observed — the spotlight, which cast a blinding beam of white on me, mere feet above their heads. It was a brand-new generation staring back at me, where so many others had stood before, perhaps not for many magic shows, but for theater nonetheless. Christmas and spring performances. Talent shows. Jehovah’s Witness seminars, even. True theater.

My eyes migrated back to the child in the first row. He was bald and without eyebrows. His skin, pallid and nearly translucent, starkly contrasted with the black chair on which he was perched. He leaned forward in anticipation, though his face portrayed an air of seriousness. Been there, done that. There was no doubt in my mind that he’d seen what I was doing before. His interest seemed more than curiosity — he watched my hands the way an athlete studies game film.

I lagged behind the music, a song I’d used for this routine since I was a young boy. I took all but one of the cotton string fragments with the tips of my fingers and rolled them into a ball, displaying it to the crowd during and upon completion. Nothing up my sleeve, if you will. I made sure to accentuate my gesture toward the boy in the front row, and a smile unfurled across his face.

I pushed the ball of string against the last remaining strand. It stuck, attaching itself directly in the middle of the three-inch-long piece. A few ooohs floated up to me, and by now it was quite obvious what I was doing. I baited the crowd by fixing the ends of the thread, caressing them and straightening them. I tugged one end slightly. Then the other. Subtle. Delicate. At first, nothing seemed to happen. But after another pull, the end appeared to lengthen some. Then some more. My new friend in the front row was baring his teeth in a hearty but composed smile. I took each end of the thread in my hands and pulled evenly, unrolling the string that had just been in tatters. It was solid now, whole and without flaw, as if it was never torn apart.

The students clapped furiously. They always did.

Thank you all so very much for enjoying some magic with me this evening. It’s a very special treat to share this art with an enthusiastic audience. Give yourselves a round of applause as well.

They did.

And thank your parents for taking you out this Friday evening after a long week of work. I hope you’ve all enjoyed it thoroughly. I’m Jacob Ainge. Good night.

The curtains slid closed, and I took a long, deep breath. Once I let it out, I made my way to the small backstage room, where I removed my tie and undid the top button of my shirt. It was November but felt like July in the entire building. The old heating system did its job almost too well. The sweat had begun to bead around my forehead not ten minutes into the show. By now, I was drenched.

A knock broke my self-imposed silence. The only visit at the end of a gig was likely whoever had organized it, popping in to settle the remainder of my payment. Had to be. I was a one-man show. I traveled with no one, used no assistants.

Coming, I called out and pulled open the door.

I’m sorry to bother you, said a young woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties. I didn’t recognize her. I hope you don’t mind. Someone told me I might find you in here.

It’s no bother at all, I said, curious. What can I do for you?

She smiled. My son loves magic. He enjoyed your show very much. Would it be okay if he said hi to you?

I glanced over the woman’s shoulder but didn’t see anyone. Absolutely. Will he be appearing?

She laughed, and it echoed in the empty school hallway behind her. No, he’s in a wheelchair and couldn’t get up the stairs.

"I’m