The air was stifling behind the red velvet curtain, and my legs ached from standing motionless for so long. I could hardly breathe for fear of spoiling the deception.
I was overjoyed when my parents gave me a ticket to Maskelyne and Cooke’s celebrated magic show in London for my 10th birthday. At the Egyptian Hall, I had raised my hand when Mr Maskelyne asked for a volunteer and had stepped excitedly into the carved wooden cabinet on the stage. The soft flickering candles had lit my parents’ expectant faces in the front row, then the heavy curtain had been drawn and there was only hushed darkness.
At last, the curtain was drawn back, and I bowed to the audience, who were applauding loudly. The Hall itself was familiar, but I knew something significant had changed. Where were my parents, and why were my shaking hands so thin and wrinkled?
Sue, who learned her story-telling skills at her father's knee, has published three books of historican non-fiction, but has always yearned to let her imagination roam wild and free in fictional stories.
This story was shortlisted in the June 24 Monthly Micro Competition.