Doctor of Illusion
Patrick Cahill



He was pursued. Pursued by the furies. They hid in the granite’s sparkling seams, the warp of the trees. The voice passive in their pursuit. They came with their guns. The taste of a flower he couldn’t place at the back of his mouth. The red dots of laser light adrift on his chest. Was it only the angle the language made visible? Whenever he turned? A Brownian movement of lethal intent.

She sneezed and it was New Year’s Eve. At midnight she sneezed. The hole in the ticket window made a target of her face. Piano chords moved along the sidewalk. But it was only a circular hole in the glass. The concrete only sparkled and sang. Rain blew off the trees and scattered their dots of light.

A confusion now in the house. Was he innocent? La vida inconsciente. Wasn’t he yet equipped to equivocate?

They hid in the evening’s insects. They hid in the shimmer of insect wings. Their red eyes adrift on his vest. Whenever he turned. Was there a doctor of illusion in the house? No matter. No matter. He felt their pursuit.

First published: August 2018
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