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Percivalé

"the death of one is birth of another"

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The musician beheld the illusionist in his final hour. He stood before her with the scholar looming behind him, and he had his head bowed slightly under the wise man’s blade. The illusionist reached out for the musician’s hand, but she did not reach back.

“I lied,” she said to him instead.

He grinned. “About what?” he asked her.

“I’m not truly the musician.” Her eyes met his own.

“Of course you’re not.” His laugh that followed his words sent terror down the woman’s spine.

“You knew?”

“I certainly did. It was part of the illusion.”

Winds swept behind the both of them. The woman began to tremble at her knees, though miraculously maintained her bravado.

“The true musician is dead,” the woman breathed.

“You are correct.” The scholar readied his position behind the smaller man.

“I’m actually the poet.” At her words, the illusionist began to chuckle. His chuckling soon evolved into an endless maniacal laughter, and the bewildered woman could only take a few steps back before the scholar finished his stroke. The poet watched the dying man’s eyes flicker and smother themselves, she heard his crazed tittering ring so loudly in her ears as his blood danced before her in a shower of delicate rose petals.

The poet stared up into the scholar’s face, though he said nothing. He turned to make his farewell, and the poet contemplated her purpose.

“What am I but an illusionist of words?” she stared into her hands as she thought aloud. Suddenly, she saw the scholar halt.

“A poet does not see illusions,” he responded to her. “A poet only sees the truth.”

[out of my writing depression finally. I never forgot about those short stories. Ether/Balcerzak is almost done]

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