Shards of Lot
By: Heather Haskell

Teller stood in the wings of the backstage area, nonchalantly playing with a coin. He was waiting for his cue to come on stage. He silently watched as Penn Jillette, his very vivacious and sometimes brash partner of 25 plus years, began his bit. Teller sighed. He wasn't nervous about this trick, or about the show. There was just something tugging at the pit of his stomach, as if forewarning him of something terrible to come.

Penn began by explaining what he was going to do- juggle three broken liquor bottles. A very fratboyish stunt, he then said. Penn broke each one of them inside the plexiglass safety booth onstage and tested them, to see how they tossed. He didn't notice the extremely minute amount of liquid in each bottle, nor the doe-eyed man watching him quietly from backstage. Ironic, for someone who thought very evil thoughts.

Teller ignored the stagehands gathering the props needed for the next bit, his bit, Shadows. He did a mental run through of his movements and the major beats, strange because he didn't do that often. The tiny tug-of-war going on between himself and the evil circa 1940 monster movie mutant moths in his gut made him uneasy. Especially since he was losing.

It was not unusual for a drop or two or liquid to get on Penn's hands- the stagehands usually washed and dried them well. Of course, he was usually on auto-pilot and didn't notice. This time, though, a little too much liquor was left in the bottles. It leaked onto Penn's hands and eventually dripped a few drops onto the stage. Penn, still in mid-patter, again, didn't notice.

The next few seconds seemed to play in slow-motion for the both of them. One of the liquor bottles fell from Penn's hand and shattered on the stage, scattering bits and pieces of glass around. Startled, Penn threw his arm up, which sent the second bottle flying across the stage.

After hearing the the first bottle shatter, Teller rushed on stage to assist. The tugging at his stomach was greater than ever, aided by adreneline now surging through his veins. Teller took another step and then froze. He saw it coming, but was too slow to act. Everything then went dark. He couldn't see anything but painful red blotches, or hear anything but his heart pounding and the blood pounding in his ears. Teller did feel himself fall to the stage, every muscle in his body locked in tension.

The audience didn't know how to react. Was this a part of the show? After all, Penn was a good liar and Teller a good actor. Half of the audience gasped, a few terrified screams eminated from various places.

Penn watched in horror as his partner, his friend, was struck to the ground. He rushed over to him, ignoring his own wounds- various cuts from the third and final bottle that he had caught badly. Penn, too, could only focus on Teller, and only hear his heart and the rush of his own blood.

Teller didn't sense anything now. He only had two sensations. A numbing pain in his head and face, throbbing. Teller focused on the only thing he could clearly see- a curved piece of glass, blood- his blood, dripping from its rugged facet. He then thought back to that day in 1948, when he was laying in his crib, admiring the piece of glass floating in a pool of blood in his palm. He also remembered how he giggled as he did this. Teller closed his eyes and accepted the inevitable.

Life, like glass, can shatter into a million pieces by the slightest touch of fate… and in an instant, it did.