| FEATS OF MAGNIFICENCE |
| by Erik Smetana |
Can Liquid Imagination enter the domain of death, record what happens, and bring it back for
our perusal? The answer is a resounding YES!
Let the genius of Erik Smetana's surreal "Feats of Magnificence" take you to the other side.
Come back safely.
our perusal? The answer is a resounding YES!
Let the genius of Erik Smetana's surreal "Feats of Magnificence" take you to the other side.
Come back safely.
“Life is pleasant. Death is
peaceful. It's the transition
that's troublesome.”
- Isaac Asimov
peaceful. It's the transition
that's troublesome.”
- Isaac Asimov
He looked down at his hands. Her blood had become tacky under the fingernails. So much
blood, everywhere. Her? How? Where? So many questions and no ready answers except for
the one confirmed by his spasming ribcage (it felt as if his liver was looking to make a prison
break), the realization that the blood wasn’t all hers. His eyes started to lose focus as the red
caked on his hands started to spread. Everything in the room took on a crimson hue as all
traces of light started to fade until finally everything went black.
Cold. Without being able to coherently think the word, that was the only thing going through
the man’s mind as the veil of darkness faded away. His head throbbed and he was cold,
freezing cold, of this he was absolutely certain. The man opened his eyes to a flickering green
light casting down from overhead and a dull hum that refused to vacate his ears. Stiff. His
neck refused to cooperate as he attempted to take in the surroundings, but before long it
became evident that he was in a bathroom.
A grime covered mirror, the glass chipped away in places, and mold ridden tile flanked the far
wall. Having seen little more than a toilet, and that through foggy eyes, the man could tell this
was the sort of place where the beds took quarters and the roaches outnumbered the tenants.
Numb. A peek down revealed a new, more interesting discovery. The man was packed in ice,
bare ass in a bathtub. Taped to his chest with wet duct tape was an envelope. On its face,
scrawled in lipstick, were the words: READ ME.
Pulling his pruned, shriveled hands up from their resting place below the ice, the man finally
ripped open the letter to find:
Dear Mr. Rum and Diet Coke,
Let’s keep this simple. I’ve taken your kidneys. Truth is, I need them more than you do. I
know that may not make much sense, but shit like this is worth a lot of money to the
right person.
I’ve called an ambulance, so if you want to live through this, you’d best sit tight until
they cart your ass out of here.
Peace, love and kisses,
Amber
The girl from the bar, the pretty brunette with the tight ass and the short skirt, the one that said
she was pre-med. Fuck. As the man considered the absurdity of his current predicament, the
green light turned amber and started to fade until finally everything went black.
The heavily draped walls of the theater sang with echoes of applause as The Great Vincetti
approached the stage. It was a known fact that a simple tip of his hat had caused a woman to
faint in Albuquerque. Vincetti was as much a ladies man as he was a performer. It was a
reputation he relished almost as much as the one he had for feats of magnificence.
He fixed himself at center stage and took a plunging bow, his square jaw nearly glancing off
his knee caps, just another minor example of his physical dexterity. A trait he often called on
during the course of his act and hoped to show off for one of his lovely admirers later that
evening. Something as simple as an introductory curtsy only fueled the crowd to grow louder,
so much so that Vincetti almost considered waving them off. Almost.
Shakespeare wrote, “All the world is a stage," Angelo Vincetti lived by those words. His travels
had taken him to the royal courts of Europe and the palaces of sultans. The Great Vincetti had
entertained heads of state and crowds of thousands. His performances were revered by critics
and respected by his peers. Vincetti reveled in the spotlight; he denounced any detractors as
jealous and his supporters as geniuses. But after years of adulation and standing room only
shows, the notion of retirement finally seemed reasonable and The Great Vincetti announced
one final show consisting of one single illusion. At five hundred dollars a seat, fans lined up
around the block, enough to fill the Garden three times over. Tickets sold out in nine minutes
for a show that wasn’t likely to last much longer.
Vincetti cleared his throat and spoke in stilted English, a trademark of his act, just another con
from the man born and raised in Brooklyn. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you. For your
pleasure this evening I will attempt the impossible, prove the improbable and intend to astound
you beyond your understanding. For my final public performance, I will cut one of you,” Vincetti
pointed towards the gasping audience, “in half!”
A roar filled the theater. “But this is no simple parlor trick, like that performed by my Las Vegas
bound colleagues. I, the Great Vincetti, will tear a man in two with a chainsaw. In two!”
The men, women and children of the audience felt the air rush from their lungs with
anticipation. With thousands in attendance and millions glued to televisions around the world,
all of them inching closer and closer to the edges of their seats, Vincetti continued, “So as to
keep me honest and as proof of the true mystical nature of what I am about to show you, I will
select my assistant at random, letting the fates choose one lucky soul for fame and
immortality.”
The auditorium erupted in a mish mash of cheers, hoots and hollers. A flurry of hands flung
into the air. Screams of Pick Me filled the room. Vincetti had expected as much and planned
accordingly. With an almost nonchalant flick of his wand, showgirls invaded the packed
theater, each one holding a large velvet bag.
“Such exuberance! But I must ask for your patience just a bit longer as these lovely ladies
pass their satchels down your respective rows. As the bags reach you, please forfeit your
ticket stub and pass the bag along. From this effort, we will find our lucky victim.” Vincetti gave
the audience a dramatic pause, a moment to absorb his wordplay. “Err, assistant.”
Laughter filled the aisles and patron after patron placed their stub into the velvet sacks. A
showgirl in glittering sequins collected the lot and ceremoniously emptied them into a single
silk bag. Vincetti ushered her on stage and asked her to open it. He thrust his open hand deep
into the bag of mystery and felt around until he came across a ticket that felt just right.
An eerie mix of silence and anticipation filled the air and when the magician finally pulled his
hand from the hundreds of tickets, with a single one gripped between his fingers, the crowd
gasped. “Henry Pickard! You have been selected by the fates, please approach the stage.”
A chattering of disappointment was soon replaced by thunderous applause as a man from the
middle of the theater stood up, kissed his date on the cheek, gave a gracious wave to the sea
of eyes fixed upon him and finally obeyed The Great Vincetti’s command.
Once Henry took the stage, Vincetti looked him up and down, “You, sir, will do just fine.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“No sir, thank you. Please take a bow before we begin.” Vincetti smiled. “Once we’re done, it
may no longer be an option.”
Henry obliged while the audience erupted in another bout of laughter. Vincetti motioned to
someone off stage and a burly man pushed a large cart to center stage. He braced the oblong
box; best described as something akin to a casket, and opened the lid. Henry looked up and
Angelo reached for his arm. Very quickly, Henry found himself flat on his back, his head
peaking out one of end of the box, his feet from the other.
The usual series of affirmations took place, Vincetti prompting Henry to move one foot, both
feet, to touch his toes together and so on. As the bright stage lights shown down on him and a
hum of anticipation started to fill the air, Henry began to sweat and smile nervously but was
uncertain as to why.
Henry went to speak, but Vincetti cut him off, “You wish to get out of the box, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Soon, very soon, but first we will perform an act to stupefy this lovely crowd.” Vincetti
motioned to the onlookers who responded with cheers.
From his breast pocket, Vincetti removed a plastic card. This card was in fact a key which
when swiped through a small metal box locked the casket tight. A tiny flashing diode changed
from green to red as the thud of deadbolts dropping shuttered against Henry’s ears. Vincetti
grasped one end of the prop and gave the contraption a quick one-hundred and eighty degree
spin revealing that the entire back wall of the box was composed of safety glass.
It took a few seconds, but soon the crowd recognized what was taking place. Not only was the
Great Vincetti going to cut a man in half, but he had the audacity to do it front of their very
eyes. No curtains, smoke or mirrors – Vincetti seemed intent on performing nothing short of
true sorcery.
As the glazed looks of dumbfoundment washed away, Vincetti played with his fan’s emotions
once more as the burly stage hand stepped back on stage, this time a chainsaw at his side.
Vincetti yanked at the cord and the buzz saw roared to life. Vincetti taunted the theatre with
swipes at the floor, resulting in clouds of sawdust. He let the saw quiet and approached
Henry. “Are you ready?”
“I don’t know, but this is going to be one hell of a trick.”
The crowd laughed.
“Whoever said this was a trick?”
Henry found himself laughing along with the crowd, “Oh, I forgot this is a magic act. Saw a
fellow in half and put him back together again.”
“I also never said a word about putting you back together.” Vincetti cracked as he brought the
saw back to life in all of its deadly glory and bore down on the box. As Henry screamed and
the crowd looked on in amazement, The Great Vincetti calmly nodded for one of his lovely
assistants to wipe the red splatter from his face.
Pain shot through every part of Henry’s body. Each spin of the chainsaw sent a surge up and
down his spine, no matter that he was fairly certain it had already been severed in two. Soon
the saw stopped and the room was silent, from the corner of his eye, Henry could see The
Great Vincetti take his final bow as the crowd went from hushed to standing ovation. As Henry
struggled to breathe, he felt the spotlights overhead start to fade away until finally everything
went black.
Waves lapped against Henry’s face, the sound of gulls roused him awake. His eyes, crusted
together with a foul mixture of sweat, saltwater, sleep and sea air burned as he opened them
to an unforgiving sun. Henry tiredly tried to take in his surroundings, he was adrift in open
ocean, slung over some wood, a keycard clenched between his teeth, and it read Room 23.
Henry’s mouth tasted oddly like iron, his lips were blistered and sore, but his legs, his legs
were numb under the water’s surface.
In the air, his nose detected the faintest trace of smoke. Henry thought to himself, Blue smoke
in a dark gray sky, but wasn’t certain why such things were invading his head. Much in the
same way that he couldn’t be certain how he had arrived here. In the distance, the splash of
water whipping unnaturally pricked Henry’s ears. As he shifted on the board that kept him
afloat, he was almost certain that he could see a series of fast moving triangles moving his
way, dorsal fins. As he tried to summon the energy to panic, dehydration started to take its toll.
Overhead a low cloud started to blot out the midday sun, the light starting to fade away until
finally everything went black.
This appeared in Help: The Editors & Preditors Legal Fund Anthology.
blood, everywhere. Her? How? Where? So many questions and no ready answers except for
the one confirmed by his spasming ribcage (it felt as if his liver was looking to make a prison
break), the realization that the blood wasn’t all hers. His eyes started to lose focus as the red
caked on his hands started to spread. Everything in the room took on a crimson hue as all
traces of light started to fade until finally everything went black.
Cold. Without being able to coherently think the word, that was the only thing going through
the man’s mind as the veil of darkness faded away. His head throbbed and he was cold,
freezing cold, of this he was absolutely certain. The man opened his eyes to a flickering green
light casting down from overhead and a dull hum that refused to vacate his ears. Stiff. His
neck refused to cooperate as he attempted to take in the surroundings, but before long it
became evident that he was in a bathroom.
A grime covered mirror, the glass chipped away in places, and mold ridden tile flanked the far
wall. Having seen little more than a toilet, and that through foggy eyes, the man could tell this
was the sort of place where the beds took quarters and the roaches outnumbered the tenants.
Numb. A peek down revealed a new, more interesting discovery. The man was packed in ice,
bare ass in a bathtub. Taped to his chest with wet duct tape was an envelope. On its face,
scrawled in lipstick, were the words: READ ME.
Pulling his pruned, shriveled hands up from their resting place below the ice, the man finally
ripped open the letter to find:
Dear Mr. Rum and Diet Coke,
Let’s keep this simple. I’ve taken your kidneys. Truth is, I need them more than you do. I
know that may not make much sense, but shit like this is worth a lot of money to the
right person.
I’ve called an ambulance, so if you want to live through this, you’d best sit tight until
they cart your ass out of here.
Peace, love and kisses,
Amber
The girl from the bar, the pretty brunette with the tight ass and the short skirt, the one that said
she was pre-med. Fuck. As the man considered the absurdity of his current predicament, the
green light turned amber and started to fade until finally everything went black.
The heavily draped walls of the theater sang with echoes of applause as The Great Vincetti
approached the stage. It was a known fact that a simple tip of his hat had caused a woman to
faint in Albuquerque. Vincetti was as much a ladies man as he was a performer. It was a
reputation he relished almost as much as the one he had for feats of magnificence.
He fixed himself at center stage and took a plunging bow, his square jaw nearly glancing off
his knee caps, just another minor example of his physical dexterity. A trait he often called on
during the course of his act and hoped to show off for one of his lovely admirers later that
evening. Something as simple as an introductory curtsy only fueled the crowd to grow louder,
so much so that Vincetti almost considered waving them off. Almost.
Shakespeare wrote, “All the world is a stage," Angelo Vincetti lived by those words. His travels
had taken him to the royal courts of Europe and the palaces of sultans. The Great Vincetti had
entertained heads of state and crowds of thousands. His performances were revered by critics
and respected by his peers. Vincetti reveled in the spotlight; he denounced any detractors as
jealous and his supporters as geniuses. But after years of adulation and standing room only
shows, the notion of retirement finally seemed reasonable and The Great Vincetti announced
one final show consisting of one single illusion. At five hundred dollars a seat, fans lined up
around the block, enough to fill the Garden three times over. Tickets sold out in nine minutes
for a show that wasn’t likely to last much longer.
Vincetti cleared his throat and spoke in stilted English, a trademark of his act, just another con
from the man born and raised in Brooklyn. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you. For your
pleasure this evening I will attempt the impossible, prove the improbable and intend to astound
you beyond your understanding. For my final public performance, I will cut one of you,” Vincetti
pointed towards the gasping audience, “in half!”
A roar filled the theater. “But this is no simple parlor trick, like that performed by my Las Vegas
bound colleagues. I, the Great Vincetti, will tear a man in two with a chainsaw. In two!”
The men, women and children of the audience felt the air rush from their lungs with
anticipation. With thousands in attendance and millions glued to televisions around the world,
all of them inching closer and closer to the edges of their seats, Vincetti continued, “So as to
keep me honest and as proof of the true mystical nature of what I am about to show you, I will
select my assistant at random, letting the fates choose one lucky soul for fame and
immortality.”
The auditorium erupted in a mish mash of cheers, hoots and hollers. A flurry of hands flung
into the air. Screams of Pick Me filled the room. Vincetti had expected as much and planned
accordingly. With an almost nonchalant flick of his wand, showgirls invaded the packed
theater, each one holding a large velvet bag.
“Such exuberance! But I must ask for your patience just a bit longer as these lovely ladies
pass their satchels down your respective rows. As the bags reach you, please forfeit your
ticket stub and pass the bag along. From this effort, we will find our lucky victim.” Vincetti gave
the audience a dramatic pause, a moment to absorb his wordplay. “Err, assistant.”
Laughter filled the aisles and patron after patron placed their stub into the velvet sacks. A
showgirl in glittering sequins collected the lot and ceremoniously emptied them into a single
silk bag. Vincetti ushered her on stage and asked her to open it. He thrust his open hand deep
into the bag of mystery and felt around until he came across a ticket that felt just right.
An eerie mix of silence and anticipation filled the air and when the magician finally pulled his
hand from the hundreds of tickets, with a single one gripped between his fingers, the crowd
gasped. “Henry Pickard! You have been selected by the fates, please approach the stage.”
A chattering of disappointment was soon replaced by thunderous applause as a man from the
middle of the theater stood up, kissed his date on the cheek, gave a gracious wave to the sea
of eyes fixed upon him and finally obeyed The Great Vincetti’s command.
Once Henry took the stage, Vincetti looked him up and down, “You, sir, will do just fine.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“No sir, thank you. Please take a bow before we begin.” Vincetti smiled. “Once we’re done, it
may no longer be an option.”
Henry obliged while the audience erupted in another bout of laughter. Vincetti motioned to
someone off stage and a burly man pushed a large cart to center stage. He braced the oblong
box; best described as something akin to a casket, and opened the lid. Henry looked up and
Angelo reached for his arm. Very quickly, Henry found himself flat on his back, his head
peaking out one of end of the box, his feet from the other.
The usual series of affirmations took place, Vincetti prompting Henry to move one foot, both
feet, to touch his toes together and so on. As the bright stage lights shown down on him and a
hum of anticipation started to fill the air, Henry began to sweat and smile nervously but was
uncertain as to why.
Henry went to speak, but Vincetti cut him off, “You wish to get out of the box, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Soon, very soon, but first we will perform an act to stupefy this lovely crowd.” Vincetti
motioned to the onlookers who responded with cheers.
From his breast pocket, Vincetti removed a plastic card. This card was in fact a key which
when swiped through a small metal box locked the casket tight. A tiny flashing diode changed
from green to red as the thud of deadbolts dropping shuttered against Henry’s ears. Vincetti
grasped one end of the prop and gave the contraption a quick one-hundred and eighty degree
spin revealing that the entire back wall of the box was composed of safety glass.
It took a few seconds, but soon the crowd recognized what was taking place. Not only was the
Great Vincetti going to cut a man in half, but he had the audacity to do it front of their very
eyes. No curtains, smoke or mirrors – Vincetti seemed intent on performing nothing short of
true sorcery.
As the glazed looks of dumbfoundment washed away, Vincetti played with his fan’s emotions
once more as the burly stage hand stepped back on stage, this time a chainsaw at his side.
Vincetti yanked at the cord and the buzz saw roared to life. Vincetti taunted the theatre with
swipes at the floor, resulting in clouds of sawdust. He let the saw quiet and approached
Henry. “Are you ready?”
“I don’t know, but this is going to be one hell of a trick.”
The crowd laughed.
“Whoever said this was a trick?”
Henry found himself laughing along with the crowd, “Oh, I forgot this is a magic act. Saw a
fellow in half and put him back together again.”
“I also never said a word about putting you back together.” Vincetti cracked as he brought the
saw back to life in all of its deadly glory and bore down on the box. As Henry screamed and
the crowd looked on in amazement, The Great Vincetti calmly nodded for one of his lovely
assistants to wipe the red splatter from his face.
Pain shot through every part of Henry’s body. Each spin of the chainsaw sent a surge up and
down his spine, no matter that he was fairly certain it had already been severed in two. Soon
the saw stopped and the room was silent, from the corner of his eye, Henry could see The
Great Vincetti take his final bow as the crowd went from hushed to standing ovation. As Henry
struggled to breathe, he felt the spotlights overhead start to fade away until finally everything
went black.
Waves lapped against Henry’s face, the sound of gulls roused him awake. His eyes, crusted
together with a foul mixture of sweat, saltwater, sleep and sea air burned as he opened them
to an unforgiving sun. Henry tiredly tried to take in his surroundings, he was adrift in open
ocean, slung over some wood, a keycard clenched between his teeth, and it read Room 23.
Henry’s mouth tasted oddly like iron, his lips were blistered and sore, but his legs, his legs
were numb under the water’s surface.
In the air, his nose detected the faintest trace of smoke. Henry thought to himself, Blue smoke
in a dark gray sky, but wasn’t certain why such things were invading his head. Much in the
same way that he couldn’t be certain how he had arrived here. In the distance, the splash of
water whipping unnaturally pricked Henry’s ears. As he shifted on the board that kept him
afloat, he was almost certain that he could see a series of fast moving triangles moving his
way, dorsal fins. As he tried to summon the energy to panic, dehydration started to take its toll.
Overhead a low cloud started to blot out the midday sun, the light starting to fade away until
finally everything went black.
This appeared in Help: The Editors & Preditors Legal Fund Anthology.
Did you get it? Do you know
what happens at death now?
What's that?
Maybe you'd better read it again
until it clarifies. Death comes
closer the second time around.
what happens at death now?
What's that?
Maybe you'd better read it again
until it clarifies. Death comes
closer the second time around.
| RIP Erik Smetana Go Back Now |