...He knew he could do better, and he could easily perform things no one could ever dream of, but he wont show it. Well, not now anyway...

A small crowd of tourists had gathered, but they didnt look impressed. The magician had experienced this before; the tourists simply thought it was fake. How could it be fake, he thought, when I am outside in a field. The wind blew harshly, causing him to drop the chairs. The tourists muttered to each other, sensing thing was false magic. They wandered off to look at an old statue, then realising that there was nothing interesting about it so they hurried back to their minibus.

The magician strolled over to the statue. It was of a rock, although on this rock there were many birds. The magician placed his hat on an owls beak, before stepping into the statue. The tourists wrongly assumed this statue was normal, as it was like no other statue. It instantly transported him to a small room. His room. The force of the transportation threw him onto the bed. Rock hard, as he liked it.His bed was decorated in black materials-Black velvet draped ot the sides, black feathers at the top. He stood up and walked towards the door beside him. On the other side was his practice room, where he perfected his magic.

The magician clicked his finger and clapped, forming a pattern. Click click clap ... click. A small pot of purple paint appeared. IT didnt stay purple for long, as it faded into a deep blue, then a fierce red, a neon pink, a sharp orange, a glossy coral, a soft yellow. Yellow, he thought. Yellow reminded him of his dad. It made him want to-

"No!" He hissed, flicking it across the room. It exploded onto a wall like an octopus stretching over a rock. Click click.It vanished. The magician clapped his hands, forming an armchair behind him. He flopped onto it. Yellow,he thought, it wont leave me alone. He decided to end the day, walking to his bed. When his head made contact with the pillow, he nodded off...

He felt a tickle under his chin.He felt around,eyes closed, before feeling a small stick, with soft tufts coming from the sides. Ah, the magician thought, only a feather. He opened his eyes. The feather was yellow. He dropped it and looked up.Yellow was creeping across his room. Do it..., a voice pleaded, don't resist the urge... He wanted to scream, but no voice came out. He tried to run, but he seemed to be glued to the bed. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the voice was strong, vibrating every bone in his body.

The magician woke up, for real this time, glancing around the room. No yellow to be seen, but the voice still echoed in his head. He went to practice magic, hoping to take his mind off it. He was hungry too. He would magic up some porridge. Click clap clap.

Nothing happened. Click clap clap. Nothing, still. He tried again. And again. And again. Then a bowl appeared, full of black porridge. Something is wrong, he thought. A drop landed on his head. He wiped it off. Paint. Yellow paint. The voice came back. The magician blinked but he knew this wasn't a dream... This was real life.He looked up, and found there was paint on the ceiling. It looked like a face.A familiar face.His fathers face...