Friday Fiction: Three Wishes

THREE WISHES

There was a sudden whump, and then there were two shadowy figures looking around the grade school library. An aquarium softly bubbled along one wall. One of the figures clicked on a very ordinary but strong flashlight, revealing himself to be a far from ordinary figure dressed in ancient Arabian finery. A gold ring flashed in his ear and a twisted thin black beard framed his grimacing mouth.

“This must be the place. The rest is up to you, old man.”

The light swung and momentarily showed the squinting face of the other, a fat man with spindly limbs, grey beard, and balding head.

“All right, all right, just get that damn light out of my eyes.” The voice was slurred over bad teeth. “And show me where it is. Do you think I can remember after fifty years?”

The first sighed.

“All part of the service. ‘Your wish is my command,’ I suppose.”

“This is not another wish,” the other snapped quickly. “It’s all part of the first. You have to take me where I can find it. If I can’t find it, no first wish.”

The fantastically clad figure sighed and spun around a bit until the flashlight beam illuminated one of the low shelves.

“There.” His voice was laconic.

The old man hobbled over on his cane and leaned down, squinting. After a moment a shaking hand pulled out a slim volume and began scanning the pages. He mumbled, reading to himself. “… the Terrapin Turtle of Zanzibar …” He suddenly grinned a toothless grin.

“Yes. Yes, this is it. I recognize the illustrations. And that silly poem.  I’ve never remembered the title or the author, but this is it.”

“Very good, then. On to your second wish?”

The old man breathed in the ancient smell of the book filled room as if he were trying to snuff up a memory. He looked around a little regretfully, then clasped the volume tighter to his chest.

“Yeah. Let’s get this over with. Onward.”

There was another whump, and the room was empty again. After a few seconds, a book quietly leaned over onto another book where there was a sudden gap on the shelves. Nobody noticed the absence for five years.

A few years longer than that and there was another whump. The two now stood inside a house, its rooms ringing with absence. It was totally quiet except for the barking of a neighborhood dog and the distant hum of the plumbing. The old man stood there in silence looking around intently until his eyes starting blinking with tears. Finally, he spoke.

“Are you sure no-one is going to interrupt us?”

The other put his hand up to his turban and seemed to be consulting some sort of inner vision. Then he snapped out of it and spoke with conviction.

“They all left to go camping just this morning. They’re not coming back for three days.”

“Okay.” The old man’s voice trembled. “Let’s get it. I don’t know how long I can stand being here. I want to take it all back with me, and I can’t do that.”

“No, you can’t,” the other said matter-of-factly. “Where is it exactly?”

“That was always the problem. I could never remember afterward. That’s why I don’t have it anymore. I’m afraid you’ll have to show me again.”

The fantastic figure sighed and spun around again, one long pointy fingernail suddenly indicating the hidden place. With a cry the old man went digging, and finally withdrew an old spiral notebook from its hidey hole and held it up in triumph.

“At last! After all these years!” He cackled with glee and turned the pages joyfully. He scanned the drawings and the scrawly handwriting – his handwriting! – in all its painful, cramped effort. “It seems … smaller than I remember it.”

Bearded lips smirked and the earring jingled in glee.

“Do you now realize why you were never able to find it again?”

The old man looked up, mystified.

“Because you came back and stole it from yourself!” Laughter burst out, ringing through the empty rooms. The old man scowled.

“Your merriment is ill-timed,” he said sourly, and shut the notebook, holding it more closely to his body with the library book in one tight fist, gazing at the other unpleasantly. Had he been had over this second wish?

“Ah, me.” The strange figure’s chuckles began to die away and ended in one last amused sigh. “I always forget how little you people understand about time. Well. Shall we get a move on?”

“I wonder if …”

But there was another whump, and the house was empty once more.

Whump. “I know this wish wasn’t my fault. Are we safe?” They were in the house again, and now it was showing its age. The back bedroom was cluttered with walls of boxes and cobwebs wafted in its neglected corners. “I know they’re here. Do you want to save us both time by showing me which box they’re in?”

“Quite safe. Your mother is here, but she is napping in the living room. And no, you cannot tiptoe out to see her. Rules, you know.” Again the inner consultation, again the pointing finger. “It is up to you to be as silent as you can.”

With practiced care and stealth the old man began dismantling the wall of boxes, memorizing their order to leave as little trace as possible. Finally, he reached the hoped-for stash, unfolding the flaps to reveal a glittering mound of sequined felt.

“Our old Christmas stockings.” He could hardly contain himself. His hand trembled wildly as he gathered them up, one by one. He looked up with bright eyes, gloating quietly. “I tried to preserve them, you know, but Mom insisted they be kept with the family things. And then Pop just threw them out after she passed away.”

“Wonderful.” The other looked bored. “You know, some people wish for fabulous wealth, or revenge, or even good health or something when they get three wishes. Your desires seem to be rather … modestly mundane.”

“They are memories,” the old man said. He held the stockings up and inhaled deeply, then began putting the boxes back carefully and quietly. ”Or even the filling of gaps where memories should be. At my age, what could be more precious, if your magic cannot bring back the dead? At my age, what can I really enjoy? It is enough.” He turned and looked regretfully toward the living room.

“Now take me back. Take me back, genie, before I break my heart.”

The other bowed his head. There was a last whump, and time flowed back into the hole they had left. There was a snort, then a rising call from the other room.

“B.B.?”

 

-September 18 2025, 8 PM

NOTES

Yesterday I had no idea about this story. I only knew I wanted something for Friday Fiction. I made a new document and between 6 PM and 8 PM I had followed this bit to its conclusion. It's in a genre I constantly return to, something like 'rewrite your life' or 'speak it into existence' or even just some kind of half-assed therapy. The first wish is a bit of a cheat; I suppose with enough searching and effort I could find that book. But the other two ... that would take some kind of magic. Their objects are unreproducible. Maybe I could just wish not to care about them anymore. But I do, my mind returning to their subjects again and again, like a tongue searching out the space where a tooth has been. Maybe it's just where I deflect a vast and shapeless yearning, part of the regrets of the changing year. Anyway, the story's sudden existence seems like a sad bit of magic: first it wasn't here, and now it is. Such as it is. It didn't exist twenty-four hours ago. Now it goes on, indefinitely.