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Lori Thatcher's avatar

At the Emergency Room

In the waiting area, you look around. Each soul with something slipping away, inchworm-slow or cheetah-quick: capacity, hope, ability, security. Time. A baby cries and another person moans—two elderly heads pressed so tightly together, you can’t tell from which the thin keening oozes. The kaleidoscope shifts and the picture reorders, exposing fresh anguish. Blood flowers on a kitchen towel pressed tightly. Replaced, buds again—the source bore away as ruddy dribbles are expunged from the pristine.

The fine handkerchief pressed to your own reckless hand pinks with shame. You can wait. You’ll relinquish relatively little. Avert your prying eyes. Each one of them with something slipping away: capacity, ability, security, hope.

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Nollaig Rowan's avatar

In the pharmacy the woman ahead of me disappears. In her place stands a rabbit on hind legs reaching for the counter like a kid stretching for the cookie jar. When I say “Oh” he vanishes to be replaced by a man in black tails and top hat, a flimsy vapour surrounding him. The pharmacist, non-plussed, is like a blind cantor sing-songing attractively-named analgesics in alphabetical order. She hasn’t gone far when the magician shouts “Stop … that one says: kills pain like magic.”

“You want?” she says in a foreign lilt.

“I want its secret ingredient,” the man says pulling a string of colourful kerchiefs from his top pocket. “I’m a little spellbound at the moment.”

“I’m at sevens and sixes,” says the foreign pharmacist, fumbling in the greasy till.

The rabbit reappears in the magician’s pocket and equilibrium seems to be restored.

When my turn comes, I say, “I need a potion for confusion.”

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