The Magician

Mslexia magazine offered the theme of gloves, I thought: Creepy white ones!

With the applause dying away, he dragged himself to the dressing room, where he sank into his chair, drained. Literally. He reverentially removed the white gloves. They sat threateningly on top of the dressing table.
He’d found his favourite dove, neck broken, lifeless, in his top hat. There were no fingerprints. The bunny’s tail, shredded. No fingerprints. He couldn’t find an assistant, not since the original one …well, at least she withdrew the allegations.
He wanted to be rid of them, he truly did. Tried washing them. Oh, as if! And they knew. He knew they knew. He chose freedom, so closed his eyes. And they tightened around his throat, squeezing gently. But firmly enough.
At a charity shop in some town they passed through a few days later, a new master magician was created.

End