The stage lights were brighter than normal, limiting my vision of the sold out crowd. My nerves were on edge, knowing that my peers were salted in among the enthusiasts. The annual award competition between local magic clubs was always intense and provided great entertainment for fans, and this night was no different.

I had just taken another bow, extending the applause a bit longer.  My assistants flanked me, so I gave them the signal. The house lights came up and the women made their way into the audience, seeking volunteers for my final act.

The escape routine was straightforward to impress fellow magicians. I had no gimmicks or failsafe levers, just a simple timer release and a guillotine blade that swung down to slice open anyone seated on the wooden chair. The failsafe was removed to heighten the tension and capture the highest award possible from the show.

I had done the escape numerous times and typically got out of the chains and ropes within the first thirty seconds. This gave me ninety seconds to daydream before jumping out of the blade’s path a fraction of a second before it swung past the chair, which always generated applause.

But something didn’t seem right during this performance. There were too many volunteers bombarding my assistants for their attention. My assistants normally had to beg a few people to join me on stage, which works out well, as hesitant people seldom tie good knots and rarely figure out how to immobilize me with chains and padlocks.

Six volunteers followed my assistants to the stage. One looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. My memory raced to figure out who the man was. In the meantime, my lead assistant demonstrated the power of the blade. She manually released the guillotine lever, which was followed by five quick clacking sounds and the blade swinging down hard and fast, slicing a watermelon that was set on the chair. The blade was so sharp that it split the watermelon in half without splattering any of it.

Once the assistant reloaded the blade into its cocked position, I took a seat on the chair and signaled the assistants to have me constrained. The assistants held up boxes of rope, straps, chains and padlocks for the volunteers. Within seconds all four limbs and my torso were secured. Then it dawned on me who the man was, but it was too late.

The volunteer tied my neck to the chair with a rope. His technique suggested that he knew exactly how to immobilize me. As he pulled his last knot taut, he whispered in my ear, “I’ve tied a knot that will tighten with every attempt to escape.” He walked away with a crooked smile. He was from the Elmhurst Magicians Club.

As one of my assistants helped the volunteers back to their seats, the other set up a four-panel dressing screen in front of me to block the audience’s view of my escape work. The lead assistant then hit the timer and the 2-minute countdown began. I immediately shifted my neck to determine the man’s ability and found that every move pinched the rope deeper into my skin. His assessment was accurate.

Thirty seconds into the routine, my lead assistant stepped back and glanced at me. Instead of daydreaming, she found me in the exact same position when the screen was set in place. Shock filled her face and the audience started whispering.

Since time was of the essence, I started to untie my hands, waist and legs. My right foot was freed, but my left foot was still in place. By shifting my weight around and twisting my torso, I was able to find the slack in the chain, freeing my right hand to work on the knot holding my neck to the chair.

The timer clicked down to sixty seconds remaining. My lead assistant nervously glanced behind the screen and gasped. The crowd’s murmur grew louder, driving the curiosity of my second assistant. She left her position and glanced behind the screen. A shriek bellowed from her mouth, causing one of the competition judges to stand and ask, “Is something wrong?”

My assistant quickly moved back to her position and tried to calm herself. The din of the audience increased. Another judge stood, not knowing what to do. My lead assistant noticed there was only thirty seconds left on the clock and glanced back at me. Our eyes connected. I wasn’t free. Her eyes welled and she turned abruptly to the timer. She grabbed the hand on the timing clock and tried to stop it from moving.

My other assistant turned pale and ran off stage in tears. Someone from the audience yelled out, “Don’t let him die!” My assistant returned to the stage with an axe to cut the ropes, but the clacking paralyzed her.

I stood and yanked my left foot from the ropes, twisting the chair slightly from its position. The rope’s chokehold was significant, but I lunged forward, knocking over the dressing screen as the swinging blade shattered the chair into pieces. I stood up and reached out my hands to both assistants.

We stepped forward into a grand barrage of applause, as the rope around my neck fell to the floor. The third judge stood with the other two applauding our climatic ending. Within seconds everyone was giving us a standing ovation. Both assistants were eating up the applause and reflecting their gratitude back to the audience with broad smiles.

My one assistant leaned toward me and whispered, “You know we won the competition.” I smiled and took another bow. My lead assistant turned and looked me in the eyes. “You’ve just retired that escape,” she quipped. “You’ll never be able to recreate such a memorable performance.”

Years later as I reflected back on that night, I remembered the incredible adrenaline rush in the final two seconds. It was during that specific moment when God’s grace allowed me to stumble forward out of the rope. I could hardly believe it.

The odds of my left foot slipping out of the rope in the exact moment the blade splintered the chair was amazing. It was something that could never be planned or recreated. It was greater than the awe brought about by any illusion. It was a magical moment in reality that was perfectly orchestrated by God’s grace.

Copyright © 2013 by CJ Powers

Photo © INFINITY – Fotolia.com

A fog of warm air flowed from my mouth as I shivered in the snow-covered forest. There were only three of us teens left, waiting to be taken back to camp for our initiation. I was beginning to think that the hazing ritual would be nothing compared to standing in the shadows of the cold northern woods at night. Then I heard a bellowing scream of David’s voice echoing through the trees. He had failed his initiation, as each camper had to remain silent to become a member.

The teenage escort moved to my side and told me that I was next. He grabbed my arm and yanked me forward, reminding me that uttering a single word would bring a curse upon me during the dispensing of the initiation rights. A shiver shot down my spine, but this time it wasn’t due to the cold, but the dreaded curse I heard rumors about in prior years. It was the one thing everyone entering high school feared.

We came upon a unique fire pit that was the width and length of a body. I was shoved in front of it and told to look down at the red-hot coals. The escort told me that some teens had to walk across it barefooted, but I was being saved for the rock at the picnic table.

The rock was large enough that it would take a significant amount of strength to launch it ten yards. A long rope was tied to it with the other end stained by blood. I was told to stand on top of the picnic table and take off my shoe so the rope could be tied to my big toe. My hazer was a large football player and shot putter, who said my size would limit the injury to a bad rope burn. He was confident that my toe wouldn’t be torn off.

I was instructed not to make a single sound, but told that I could brace myself for the moment when the rope snapped taut. I looked at the hefty rock being hoisted onto the shot putter’s shoulder, then down at my big toe tied with the bloody rope. I hunched into a forward stance to brace for the impact.

Then it dawned on me – The amount of insurance an organization would have to carry for rituals that turned south would be enormous. I quickly glanced at the rope tied to my toe and saw a large amount of rope dangling in the darkness under the picnic table. I glanced at the rope tied to the large rock and followed it down to underneath the table as well. Both fell out of sight and were possibly two different ropes.

I stood tall and smiled, as the rock was launched high and fast into the air. It crashed into the trees and I heard the waiting teens in the distance react with concern. I looked at the rope on my toe that hadn’t moved. My hazer whispered for me to yell out in pain, as he winked at me. With little thought, I found an unexpected blood curdling scream erupt from my vocal chords.

The next teen was brought past the picnic table on the way to the fire pit. I was hunched over in pain with “blood” dripping from my bandaged foot. He was told that he’d been spared from the devastation I faced, especially since they were still searching the woods for the rock and my toe.

The teen was then instructed to take off his shoes and socks, as he was reminded of the dreaded curse. I watched as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He was then blindfolded spun around a few times and told to walk across the hot coals at whatever speed he could handle.

I couldn’t help but notice that he was facing the opposite direction from the fire pit. The ground cover in front of him was removed, revealing an identical pit filled with ice cubes. I laughed as he ran across the ice yelling how hot the coals were. His body could tell the extreme temperature difference, but his mind made him think it was hot, rather than cold.

The curse had been beaten, but no one would ever know it. Instead, dramatic stories of screams echoing through the trees would be told for another year, increasing the fears of the next person preparing himself for the dreaded camping ritual. As for the teen whose turn followed mine, still today he brags about walking across hot coals without getting burnt.

Copyright © 2013 by CJ Powers

Photo © doris oberfrank-list – Fotolia.com

The space station was locked into geosynchronous orbit above the planet Tarrione, where the first shift of promethium miners were transported by electro-barge. Carl Fitz was the foreman who oversaw the chemical testing of the mined substance before bringing the radioactive isotopes back to the space station. Since the promethium was used as a lanthanide, which forms salts when combined with other elements, Carl had to make sure everything was stable before transport.

Carl was with the American group, although he had married into the Plutonians. His understanding of the Republic was far superior to most of the Mawlawi, but their connections were growing rapidly. It wouldn’t be long before Carl’s knowledge would be common, reducing his value to monitoring the isotopes.

Natirya was Carl’s assistant and most likely working for the Mawlawi in order to gain insights before the elections. Her beauty was breathtaking with long black silky hair, which was always noticed before her deep brown eyes pierced a person’s soul. There were few men accustom to such beauty and most would fall into a trans like state and become susceptible to her every suggestion in hopes of an opportunity to press their lips against hers.

But Carl had gotten well past that state of what seemed for many to be a relentless charm. He was no longer enticed by her rosy cheeks or Neptunian skin. It may have been their first argument that dulled his senses, but something was amiss between them and he couldn’t let it go. It was like a Bears vs. Packers game from early in the previous century. No matter how much you respected the other team, you never let on – Always maintaining the lifelong rivalry.

Natirya activated the two-dimensional Newtonian gravitational transport canister. She was relieved that her work had ended for the day and was ready for Carl to check her work. The day was difficult and she could hardly wait to catch the next electro-barge. She headed into Carl’s temporary office and could hear a group of miners talking on the other side of the nylon walls.

“No worries mate.”

“I can’t believe the elections are actually rigged,” barked the gruff voice. “I thought it only happened in the stereoscopic 3D venues.”

“No mate,” the cheery voice added. “That’s why the Antwerp Party announced it would be fraud if the Vermillion Party won the election in the panning country.”

“Ah, now I’m tracking. They’d only know it because they were committing the act themselves.”

“You’ve got it mate.”

Natirya quietly stepped back from the nylon walls as the miners stepped further into the cavern. She couldn’t believe the possibilities of what she heard. She tried to quiet her pounding heart for fear of being caught eavesdropping on the overhead transmission cams. The only hope she had was the potential garbled audio transmission that occurs from organic spectrum bleed created by isotope stabilization. If they couldn’t hear the sound, then she was merely looking at the nylon wall.

“Are you okay?” questioned the voice behind her.

Natirya jumped and spun around. It was Carl. She couldn’t help but smile. After all, he was a strong and attractive looking man, and one of the few who still believed in chivalry regardless of ones origins. He felt everyone was innately equal, although many would choose aristocracy by design if given the chance, but most were involuntary placed into the labor force since the Antwerp Party gained control and deemed space exploration a resource emergency governed by martial law.

“Well?” asked Carl.

“Fine.”

Carl couldn’t help but pick up on Natirya’s curt response. Something wasn’t right and he noticed her glancing up at the transmission cams. She was possibly in trouble and he decided to help her, but without the labor board’s eyes documenting his involvement in her mishap. Carl stepped over to the regulator and dialed in a +3-stabilizing element to guarantee a distorted audio feed.

Natirya became concerned and moved quickly to Carl. “What are you doing?”

Carl turned to Natirya and put his hands on her waist. He gently pulled her in until their faces were a few inches a part. Carl swallowed hard, wanting to help her, while not giving her the wrong idea.

He whispered, “I’m here for you.”

“It might be too late,” she responded.

Carl pulled her in tighter and brushed his cheek against hers. The warmth of her skin penetrated his soul. His pulse started to rise and he had to breath deeper to counter the effects, but he wasn’t able to slow his pounding heart. Unconsciously his hands slid up to her back and he pulled her in for a tight hug.

He took pause, then continued, “The law states that anyone’s on-camera relational activities will be immediately deleted from storage and replaced with an amendment 261 slug, to protect all specie reproductive rights.”

“You’re a genius,” sighed Natirya, knowing that the deletion included ten minutes prior to and after all encounters. But at what cost? Natirya didn’t know how much pleasure they would have to experience before the auto delete sequence would be activated. She also knew that Carl was an honorable man and was merely willing to sacrifice his honor for an associate.

Carl’s breathing shifted into a lite pant as he inhaled her exotic perfume made from the rings of Saturn. He could feel his will giving way to the seductive power of her unmatched beauty. His lips gently pressed against her neck, releasing just long enough to savor the essence of her vibrant spirit pulsating under his compassionate gesture.

Natirya’s hand pushed against Carl’s sternum, forcing him to step back away from her abrasive declaration of integrity. “I can’t ask you to lower yourself to spare me from a fate that had nothing to do with you.”

Carl was taken aback by her stance. He was proud of Natirya for doing what was right, regardless of the cost she might bear. He bowed to her and whispered, “I hope the original audio was garbled.” Turning towards the door, Carl stepped forward and exclaimed, “I’m proud of you my friend.”

Natirya grinned and went back to work. After converting another analysis table she glanced at the clock. Since the law hadn’t made an appearance, it was clear that the original audio was corrupt and she was spared. But to what end? She now knew there was some form of illegal tampering with the election and she would need Carl’s help to figure out who was behind it. Natirya started to pace. She knew that lives would be at stake and she didn’t want to involve Carl. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her mind raced to the days of old and the archeological dig that discovered an American history book that was published prior to the historical scrub of data in the late 1960s.

The one page she read suggested that a revolution was at hand and its members boarded an English ship that was delivering tea to the colonies. The Sons of Liberty broke open the barrels of tea and pitched it into the harbor as a statement against British taxation. Natirya wondered if that version of history was true.

Thinking back to her childhood textbooks, she remembered Britain sending a gift of tea to the colonies who celebrated heartily, to the point of putting the tea into the harbor in order to serve up thousands of glasses at a midnight party. But there was one thing that never fit her logic; the Boston harbor was composed of salt water, which would make the tea unbearable to drink.

Why had no one ever noticed that discrepancy? Or had they, but they were too afraid to say something. Natirya decided in that moment it was time to join the Sons of Liberty in her century and put a stop to the election tampering. She turned off the equipment, glared up at the transmission cams, then turned and headed out to find Carl.

© 2012 by CJ Powers
All Rights Reserved.