The Illusionist

Pat Barnett

Condemned to die for his weird art, he set out his plan.

He would need pale and dark pigment, the rags on his back torn into makeshift brushes and fluid to blend them.

The flaming torch provided palest ash; the cell floor – darkest grit and the jailor brought water.

Execution drew near.

First he smeared flagstones with darkest umbra, highlighting those surrounding with grey, saving the palest ash for the edges of his imaginary ‘pit’.

The rest covered his skin.

Horrified, the jailor teetered by the edge of the abyss.

“Fallen,”

he screamed, “Gone to Hell.”

Unseen, the artist slid through the door and walked to freedom.