Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.


Old wives' tales go thus: Behind every man, a monster. Behind every husband, beast. And roses become thorns in time.
But the curse of my egregious veins only ever comes at midnight: turning me to a monster.
Assuredly, Nurse fixes me potions and poultices to mask the stench of my devilish, rotting flesh come supper. The court whispers that the Crown Prince wears a mask after I was scarred in war, and completely covers my limbs in the finest of Parisian fabrics out of a sense of Apollonian vanity, so as not to let the inelegant sun spoil my lily-white flesh.
Nurse was the only one who knew - who had been there when mother bargained with the Devil to give her stillborn son life: a drop of Satan's blood flowed through me, and I had the Devil's gold hair to prove it.
I had been raised by the Council of Lords and was now the de facto ruler after my coming of age, with Marchioness Peters the head of state before I reached eighteen. Marchioness Peters had been my father the King's right-hand man before the King and Queen had been killed on a hunting trip - only five red claws left on each of their bare breasts, with their torn shrouds like a bier mound around my fainted form.
I was twelve the eve of the hunting accident, the only survivor, and the maids always whispered that my teeth grew sharper by the day after my parents perished.
Tonight - tonight, I would choose a Queen. Nurse said it was the way of Kings to take a bride before assuming the throne, and Marchioness Peters agreed. Prince Charming, who had won the Crusades and battle against the Dragon of Claremont, who never revealed his face beyond merry, bright blue eyes peeping through my Harlequin mask, would choose a noblewoman to wed by the stroke of midnight. Then, a King. My father's birthright.
Pulchritude, I thought. When my flesh turns to maggots and mold each night, and I grow horns, claws, venom, and wings - aren't I worth only dog meat?
And so a bride. Every man's dream. But for a monster that hungered for flesh, I was wary of women. Their elegant throats, their breasts that could cut - the Beast in me unleashed each midnight would have even had his way with old Nurse if I - the aberrant Prince - was not restrained and enchained with seven lashings and bindings to my quarters each strike of the twelfth hour.
But this bride of mine would have to know my secret... to share my bed, the bed of a monster. And to bear us little beastlings. It would be a treacherous arrangement, and I was half-given to a life of virginity and tax ledgers.
"Char, it's time, the ball," Nurse said, grinning widely. She was the only attendant I let serve me, the handmaiden of my mother and my wet nurse, who had taken the King and Queen's deathbed secrets close to her breast.
I buttoned my blue suit and fanned out the starched coattails. Hunger rose in me - and not the dynastic kind - as I thought of the feast of ladies' white necks that would be available to partake of in eye alone tonight. Gleaming, ivory throats - cheeks ablush. Women always scared me. But now, I had to find a wife.
"I think I'm ready," I said, my voice clear as a burbling brook. I stood 6'5, towering like my blood father - Lucifer. I arranged my mask so it obscured all but my hair and eyes. It was part of my facade by now, a way to distance myself from commoners and noblefolk alike. Only Nan ever saw my handsome, angular face, with lips like cherries, when it was off. "Let's get this over with."
Nan wished me luck, and I made my way to the ball.
Marchioness Peters was dressed in a Tyrian purple suit and waistcoat. He avidly introduced me to the up-and-coming maidenfolk of the provinces and London alike. But Buckingham was dull for a beast like me - I craved Herne's woods.
The women - their scents, the flush of their cheeks. It was too much. I last two hours without wanting to devour one blood and bone. I excused myself, then hastened to the King's Wood, where only I was allowed to roam, much less hunt.
"Damn it, Peter, you couldn't even last until midnight," I wept, the Change overtaking me. I, this hideous, rotting demon, came out. I prowled the riverbank, half-expecting Nimue to drag me to the watery depths out of shame for Uther Pendragon's line. I was much more Merlin, a cambion, than any Prince Charming the English made me out to be.
I fell asleep in a saint grotto to Mary. It was my refuge - I could always feel the Madonna praying for me fervently in the cool, cavernous spring - it had been a refuge of old doddering mother, once she had birthed a dead babe, and given me life through a pact with Satan. She was of the blood of Melusine, and those women knew how to summon the Devil in a pinch - our line of webbed toes proved it.
I awoke to someone petting my rotten hind legs, the fur matted, then arranging the bloody mess of razor-thin meat slabs and black hair around my head.
I growled, awakening, thinking it a fey. But it was just a girl - a girl in a blue dress that was tattered and old, and glass slippers.
"Are you cursed too, dear Beast?" the strange girl asked. She was hair of gold - as lost as I. Beautiful, with violet eyes and scars all over her body. "Do you know how torn my flesh gets, to be cursed to walk the world in glass heels? How it digs into my bone, just like your pennants of rot? My father, Marchioness Peters, has hidden me away in an attic all my life, replaced me with stepmother and my stepsisters. I escaped. My fairy godmother said I would find answers at this ball, but the guards saw the tatters on me, and would not let me in."
"Are you not scared of me, girl of glass?" I growled, her touch soothing. I had never been touched by a woman like this before - much less in my form of the damned. A hellhound of rotting flesh and black ragged wings.
"Hell goes with me, don't you know that, fair beast? Glass has no worth. At night, I dream of Hell. Of my bones turning to glass, my flesh to ice. I freeze, these damn things on my feet. They are shut in."
"What is your name, glass girl?"
"Cinderella. Yours?"
"Charm- I mean, uh, Peter."
"That is an odd name for a hell beast. Peter. I like it! Say, Peter, would you like to leave this grotto with me? I have had it with all of London, telling my secret dreams to mice and cheese. I am a seamstress of some talent, and you could be my guard dog."
"I am afraid this form will not last the night. At night, I will no longer be beast. I am supposed - supposed to find a wife. I hunt when I must eat flesh. Are you not scared I will eat you? Every thief and thief's wife I have eaten have called me cursed cur, foul mongrel, dog beast of Hell. I devour them anyways."
"I have splinters of glass for skin - they will sprout to pierce your snout. My mother saw her reflection one day in glass and boasted she was more beautiful than Lilith, the ever-pregnant demoness. So Lilith made me a child of glass, born and sawing open mother's womb like a broken windowpane. She died of the blood loss. No one will touch me, they use cloth and gloves. But you, beast..." Cinderella ran her glassy, sharp nails down my ridges. "You can withstand me."
We talked all night, into the morning. Of our dreams. Our family. Our despair. I finally admitted, over a bottle of stolen scotch this vagabond Cinderella had in her skirts pocket, that I was the Prince now missing from the ball, and Lucifer's curse on me.
Cinderella was kind, gentle, she combed my bloody hair with her glass comb. And by morning, we kissed. And then, we knew each other as beast and woman. A carnal delight, her glass spinnerets piercing my bloody, knotted breast.
We fell asleep under Mary's gaze, in the King's Grotto, by the spring, then bid Nurse adieu in the quiet hours as we stole into the palace.
"Give the throne to Marchioness Peters. I am off to travel the world with my wife, dear Nurse," I said. Cinderella had broken my curse.
I was still beast. I would never
be disgusting man
again.
"Oh dear Charming Peter, I wish you well. You broke the curse chaining you to frail humanity. You have found a girl of the stained glass of Notre Dame," Nurse cried, hugging me and my bride one last time.
Cinderella smiled, a glass spear in her hand made of adamant. She mounted my back, and off into the autumnal morning we speared, on thief roads and hanging grounds, to haunt Herne's wood, all of Europe, Africa, and Asia, taking in sewing when we needed to, killing when we were hungry -
and we had five glass wolf babes
a wild
rambling
brood.

                                                            💀💀💀

Allister Nelson is a poet and author whose work has appeared in Apex Magazine, The Showbear Family Circus, Eternal Haunted Summer, SENTIDOS: Revistas Amazonicas, Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder, The Greyhound Journal, FunDead Publications' Gothic Anthology, POWER Magazine, Renewable Energy World, and many other venues. allisternelson.com

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.



Silence.  I shift my weight.  A scant twig trapped between my foot and the earth snaps, alerting the deer to my presence.  The silence is broken.  The lone doe’s huge bowl-like ears prick forward, honing in on the transgression.  Her deep black eyes stare into the underbrush, pleading as they meet my own.  Nostrils flare, body quivers, and she bounds away reluctantly.  Her footfalls grow further from this place and, as they disappear to distance, the silence returns in their stead.  I sigh.

Hazy sunlight shimmers through snowcapped trees, their woody surfaces stripped of bark.  I am again alone in these scant woods.  The first and last deer I have seen in well over a month, both one and the same, has escaped.  For now.  But she is thin, scarcely able to hold herself up – not much meat left upon those bones.  I have to admit, I’m not faring so well myself these days.  At this point any meal would be a welcome change, and long overdue.  Won’t be long now, before I catch up with my quarry.  But which of us will succumb to starvation first?  Now there’s the ultimate question.

The warm glow glistens off of the deer’s tracks, receding down the path towards the valley.  She knows as well as I do that there’s nothing left to eat down below.  The creek bed is frozen solid.  But then again, there’s nothing left to eat up here either.  Not really.  I pry a bit of bark from a nearby pine tree and pursue my prey.  I strip the inner lining of the gnarled husk with my front teeth as I walk along the path, following in her footsteps.  The dry snack is both woody and bitter but it gives me something to gnaw upon other than the gaunt interior of my own scabbed-over cheek, unwilling to be further bloodied by my chipped, razor-sharp teeth scraping at its meager surface from within.  The trees in the valley have long since been stripped bare, best to take advantage of what little nourishment I can get before I leave this place to trail along after my prey.

Despite the frigid cold, the sun burns hot on the nape of my neck.  My thinning hair leaves much of my head and scalp exposed to the elements.  The torn leather of my coat lays across my shoulders, tattered and worn thin at the edges from whence I had stolen my last repast, chewing what scraps I could afford to lose to make a meager meal.  I had previously used the fur trim from my hood to patch my boots, but that was a while ago now and the holes are wearing through once more, the icy dampness encroaching on my nearly forgotten toes.  There is hardly enough left of my garments to call these remains clothing, let alone coat or boots or whatnot – anymore the whole of me is but a hodgepodge of fragmented cloth and cloak, fur and hair, skin and bone.  And I am chilled to the core, my heart as black as my frostbitten fingers.

My mind reels.  I can still see my husband’s face, clear as day.  His amber eyes offering some solace from the raging storm until they grow too distant.  Eventually their light dims completely, lost forever within the sunken recesses of his skull.  Our old farmstead is another world away, somewhere where hope once resided.  It is not of this life.  Its warmth is no longer familiar or welcoming, it is just another hollow void like my heart.  Lost and unfulfilled.

My husband and I made an unspoken agreement before his passing, that whichever of us survived these lean times would find sustenance in the other.  We felt no need to speak of the inevitable, and I simply did what needed to be done.  I outlived him, and I thusly upheld my end of the bargain.  I wasn’t proud of this at the time, but I have come to see things differently the longer the wind roars at my back and the thinner and wearier I become.  By consuming what I could of his flesh, I am still here.  He gave me the strength to face another day… another couple of weeks honestly.  I would have wanted, rather demanded, that the opposite hold true had we traded places.  It would have been the least I could do, and the most that I could offer.

So I acknowledge that I should actually find some refuge there, from drawing him into my body to nourish and sustain me.  This was the last connection that we had, my way of keeping him with me even after his slow death.  I know that I should treasure this gift and that I should miss him, but yet I feel nothing.  Except for the awareness that I am him and he is me in some meaningful way.  For his body dwells within me, and we are interwoven into one entity now, surviving these desperate times together in one form.  But although I sense that I should find some solace in that, feel some connection in spirit, my hunger only worsens and my heart grows more and more hollow.  He is gone.  I am here.  That is all.  There is nothing more.

The afternoon drags on, the sun still passing its judgment from its perch high above this wasteland.  This weather should have broken by now, but it remains unseasonably cold.  And bitter.  Like the cambium of the inner bark mixed with spit and acid reflux that I swirl around in my mouth to maintain my awareness of the here and now.  The silence is my song, stoic and mournful.  It is my ever-present shadow, trailing as I follow in the doe’s weary footsteps.

The deer stays her course, too weak to run.  Her body rigid, waiting.  Her eyes darkening, receding even deeper into her skull like those of my husband in another lifetime, far from here.  Whatever respite or forgiveness his soul had offered was left forsaken in the windows of the farmhouse I abandoned when the hunger overtook me.  The doe leans against a small tree, her dark, brooding gaze stripped as bare as the trees that surround us are bereft of bark, no longer able to provide nourishment to those outside of their own form.  She stares at me in disdain.  Neither of us relishes the inevitable movement, this journey which we embark on together.  Now and again.  Predator and prey.

I half hope she will stay still and wait to die, that she will collapse where she stands welcoming the inevitable so that I may feed unhindered, conserving my energy so that I can carry on a bit longer.  And yet I half hope she will not – neither of us ready or willing to give up, not yet.  Both of us hungry.  A part of me wants for her to put up a fight and wishes that I will be the one to fall, succumbing to my weakness and letting go of my own will to triumph.  Life.  Death.  Becoming.  Unbecoming.  There is a beautiful and harmonious inevitability in both.  They are intertwined, two sides of the same.

Our eyes meet, the voids within forming an unspoken understanding between the doe and myself.  We are one, connected in spirit and sacrifice.  We eat or we are eaten.  It is this that consumes us.  As our bodies lurch towards one another, we dwell wholly within this knowledge.  It speaks through the silence, within the biting cold, gnawing its way both in and out of our respective being.  I already exist within her, and she within myself – here and now and furthermore.  Even before anything else happens; even before the inevitable fight for life or death.

Her hoof, pointed like a hatchet, strikes me in my left shin as I close.  I feel the warmth of my blood pooling as it rises to the surface.  This sensation, slight though it is, enlivens me.  I lunge and grab her thin velvet ear within my teeth, gnawing upon its soft recesses.  We fall to the barren earth, inextricably tangled.  I claw at her face and at her flared nostril, my raw and jagged fingernails securing their hold on the fragile folds of flesh where her lip meets her nose.  Her teeth grind into the bones of the back of my hand, working their way upwards towards my wrist.  I feel each painful crack as the brittle bones give way to a snapping of twigs, one by one each breaking the silence.  The search for quietude is no longer necessary as the scream for survival wells up from within this moment, hunger itself made manifest.  There is no escaping it now.
​
Both the deer and I lock together in this eternal struggle.  We succumb to the winter, to its wrath, to our anger and resentment at this dire situation.  We are both stripped bare of bark, but we are not barren.  All of my numbness - my blackened heart and frostbitten extremities – unite in pain and fire.  I am engulfed by their all-consuming rage, my sensations rediscovered.  Eat or be eaten.  This unspoken agreement transcends both predator and prey, past and present.  The deer and I arise, reformed and reawakened.  We are one.  We are here.  We are the wendigo.  And we will be, now and forevermore... hungry.

                                                              💀💀💀

Jennifer Weigel is a multi-disciplinary mixed media conceptual artist.  Weigel utilizes a wide range of media to convey her ideas, including assemblage, drawing, fibers, installation, jewelry, painting, performance, photography, sculpture, video and writing.  Much of her work touches on themes of beauty, identity (especially gender identity), memory & forgetting, and institutional critique.  She lives in Kansas, USA with her husband and is an avid art collector who enjoys playing board and role-playing games, junk store thrifting, and mail art. Her spirit animal is the deer. Her favorite foods are unagi don or broiled calamari steak and frosting with or without cake.You can read more of Weigel’s writing on her website here.  https://jenniferweigelwords.wordpress.com/

This story first appeared in Salmagundi, William Quincy Belle's short story collection.
 
Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.

                                                                    ***

Kelly stood at the entrance and surveyed his new apartment. What a find. Heck, what a steal. This was the perfect location in a great neighborhood, and he couldn’t ask for more. On top of it, the moving company did a great job of getting everything across town at the last minute and arranging the major pieces of furniture. All he had to do was to deal with the smaller things and his personal stuff. Could life get any better than this?

He walked into the kitchenette and opened several cupboards. It would take some thought to figure out how to arrange his dishes, utensils, and cooking items. He peeked inside a side cupboard extending to the floor, the perfect spot for brooms and such. He frowned. There on the floor toward the back was an old cardboard box. The previous owner must have missed it.

Kelly picked it up and carried it to the living room. He set it on the coffee table and sat in an easy chair. Pulling the flaps up, he peered into the box and removed various items: a rolling pin, several sponges, a flower vase, and a plastic tray of utensils. At first glance, none of this seemed of any value, certainly nothing he could use. Getting rid of the box would be first on the list when he put out his garbage and recycling.

Something metallic caught his attention. He reached into the box and pulled out a handheld oil lamp. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” It was a Middle Eastern style, an Aladdin magic lamp. Kelly chuckled. Should he rub it? Now, this might be something worth keeping. The rest of the stuff he’d throw out, but the lamp had a novelty aspect to it and would make for a good conversation piece.

He turned it over, looking for a clue as to its origin. There didn’t seem to be any markings, not even a price tag. He eyed it thoughtfully, shrugged, and then rubbed the side of it. Blue smoke poured out of the spout and Kelly gasped. He shoved the lamp on the table and jerked back wide-eyed as a cloud billowed throughout the room. Waving his hands, he coughed as a pungent aroma filled his nostrils.

The blue smoke dissipated, and Kelly’s vision cleared. He looked at the lamp, then glanced at the box and the other items on the table. He looked up. A man lay on the couch.

“Holy crap!” Kelly jumped up from the chair and backed away, keeping his gaze fixed on this intruder. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

The man lay full-length, his head propped up by the end arm. His eyes were closed. “Look at me and look at me closely. I’m wearing a turban. I have traditional Arabic shoes.” He wiggled one of his feet. “Note the style of my Middle Eastern attire.” He motioned with one hand down the length of his body. “Who do you think I am?”

Kelly gulped some air and took a step forward to study the figure. “This is impossible.”

The man opened one eye and looked at him. “Oh, ye of little faith.” He sat up and put his feet on the floor.

Kelly crouched, ready to sprint out the door.

The man lounged back, spread his arms out on the back of the couch and half-smiled. “I am Youhenna Diab Mudsin Husain Mahdi, the all-powerful, all-knowing genie of the eternal magic lamp. But you can call me Fred.” He nodded. “At your service. Blah, blah, blah.”

“Get out. This is a gag. Am I being pranked?” Kelly looked around. “Is this being filmed?”

Fred let out a long sigh and rolled his eyes. “Oh boy. Here we go again. Or should I say: here I go again.”

Kelly scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“I always have to go through this, and I find it tedious.”

“Go through what?”

“Having to convince you I’m the real deal.”

“Convince me?”

“Whoever is the current owner of the lamp. They can’t believe I’m a genie and we go through this back and forth until I convince them I am, in fact, a genie: magic, blue smoke, grant wishes and all that.”

Kelly stood upright and eyed the man suspiciously. “So, wise guy, can you prove who you say you are?”

Fred held out his arm, and a bunch of flowers appeared in his clenched fist.

“A magician’s sleight of hand: you pulled that out of your sleeve.”

The flowers disappeared. Kelly looked perplexed and held up his hand, a bouquet in his clenched fist. “Whoa!” He dropped the flowers and backed up a step. “How the hell did you do that?” He stared wide-eyed at the floor.

“Does a magician reveal his secrets? Where’s the magic in that?”

“This is a load of B.S.”

A snort sounded behind Kelly. He whipped around to find a horned steer standing in the middle of his kitchenette. The animal snorted again and defecated with a loud plop on the linoleum floor.

“Still think it’s a load of—”

“Whew!” Kelly winced and held his nose. “Okay, okay. You’ve made your point. Make it disappear.”

Fred shrugged.

The animal was gone. “Hey! What about the manure?” Kelly pointed at the kitchenette. “For crying out loud. Get rid of that!”

Fred shrugged again. “Magicians and animal acts have their problems. If ya gotta go, ya gotta go.”

“Hilarious.” He sat down in the easy chair. “So, you’re a genie.”

“Yup.”

“You grant wishes and all that.”

“That I do. However, plural has been downgraded to singular.”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t grant wishes. I grant a wish. Just one.”

“What happened to three wishes?”

“Cutbacks. Inflation. Expenses have gone up.”

Kelly furrowed his brow. “I think you’re pulling my leg.” Fred gestured toward him, and an invisible force tugged on his right leg, pulling him forward on the chair. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“You said ...”

“I didn’t wish it.”

“True.”

Kelly straightened up in the chair. “So, what do I wish for?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I can wish for anything?”

“Anything at all.”

“How about a ton of cash?”

“Sure. However, a ton is a ton, and when I drop it on you, you’ll be crushed.”

Kelly opened his mouth, paused, then shut it and leaned back in the chair. “What if I ask for gold?”

“That’s fine, but I’ll have to get it from someplace, and Fort Knox seems like a good choice. Of course, I’ll have to leave an I.O.U. with your name and address.”

“Why?”

“I’m a genie, not some petty thief. Geesh, do you think I’m dishonest?”

Kelly pursed his lips. “I take it I have to be specific when making a wish.”

“What you say is open to interpretation.”

“A million bucks?”

“A million male reindeer.

“Okay, okay, a million dollars.”

“A one-dollar bill copied one million times: good for the charge of counterfeiting.”

“All right, I mean one million dollars, all different and legitimate.”

“One million Zimbabwe dollars, currently equal to about twenty-eight hundred dollars U.S.”

Kelly stared at Fred. “You’re an evil genie, aren’t you?”

“I told you that what you say is open to interpretation.”

“Either you’re not too bright, or you’re mean.”

“No need to be insulting. How to win friends and influence genies.”

“You’re going to make this difficult for me.”

“Anything worth doing is worth doing right.”

“How about ...” Kelly tapped his index finger on the arm of the easy chair. “How about making me the richest guy in the world?”

“I transport you to an uninhabited world. You are now the richest person, the only one, but the richest.”

“Immortality?”

“Doable. Although, you didn’t also ask for eternal youth. A hundred years from now, you’ll be a walking skeleton with the last remnants of flesh rotting off your bones.”

“Well, that sounds quite unpleasant.”

“You pay the price for your folly.”

“The folly of not being specific.”

“You’re catching on.”

Exasperated, Kelly waved his hand at Fred. “Why can’t you grant my wish? Why can’t you do something nice for me?”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“Meaning?”

“There may be unintended consequences. Nothing in life is free, and nobody should look for the easy way out. True rewards don’t come from wishes; they come from desire, purpose, and hard work.”

“Are you a philosopher genie?”

Fred tilted his head in reflection. “I’ve seen a lot.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“A few millennia.”

“You seem kind of cynical.”

“I’ve seen people at their worst: egotistical, self-centered, greedy, power-hungry, a complete lack of compassion, no sympathy, certainly no empathy, and an ignorance about life that is astounding. They’re short-sighted and just plain stupid. It’s hard to believe humans are at the top of the food chain.”

“You seem jaded.”

“It’s hard not to be.”

“Is that why you interpret what I say so literally? Is that why you want to sabotage my wish?”

“Bad things happen to bad people.”

“I like to think I’m not bad.”

“Let’s say you’re not perfect.”

“Who is? Do I deserve to be punished for it?”

“Am I supposed to be all-merciful? Stuff happens. If you stick your finger in a light socket, you get electrocuted. Ignorance or stupidity is no excuse. In the theory of evolution, it’s a way of weeding out the weak and unfit.”

Kelly stared at Fred.

“What?”

“This isn’t my lucky day.”

“Why not? You’ve found this nice apartment. Things seem to be looking up.”

“I was talking about you.”

“I’m here to fulfill your wish.”

“Now I’m wondering why the last tenant left your lamp behind.” Kelly pursed his lips.

“She wished to be happy.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you make her wish come true? Is she happy?”

“Very much so.”

Kelly squinted. “What did you do? How did you interpret her wish?”

“Forrest Gump was a happy guy.”

“Forrest Gump?”

“At least he wasn’t sad.”

“What do you mean?” Kelly paused. “Wait. Did you make her dumber? Did you give her an I.Q. of seventy-five?”

“I think she’s quite content now. Certainly, politics is of no importance to her. Besides, who can follow that stuff, anyway? It’s enough to wipe the smile off any face.”

“Just a second. She wishes to be happy, and your interpretation is to make her as dumb as Forrest Gump.”

“You make the wish; I interpret how to fulfill it.”

“You’re dangerous.”

“Just doing my job.”

“I’m going to make a wish, and you’re going to royally screw me.

“Just doing my job.”

“And just what exactly is that job? You seem to be more of a bad genie than a good one. With a change of clothes, I’d be calling you the devil.”

“Different department.”

Kelly glanced around, rubbing his chin.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“I think I’ll ask you to go back in the lamp.”

“What about your wish?”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I’ll do exactly what you say.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Kelly picked up the lamp. “Do I rub a second time?”

“That would do it. And I’ll add that you’re making the right choice.”

“I wonder how many innocents over the ages have found themselves in undesirable circumstances?”

“They weren’t innocent, believe me.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I’ll get on with the rest of my life all on my own.”

“In the long run, you’ll have a better sense of accomplishment. Nobody values anything they get for free, but if you work hard, struggle even, your eventual success will be all that much more satisfying.”

“In that getup, I can see you as a spiritual guru, sitting on a mountaintop somewhere spouting wisdom to all those who dare make the pilgrimage.”

Fred chuckled. “Have a good life, Kelly.”

He rubbed the lamp, and the genie disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke. Kelly stared at the lamp for a moment, then put it back in the box. He rode the elevator down to the building garbage room and left the box just inside the door. Maybe another resident could make use of the items.

He put his hand on the door handle to exit and stopped. He took the lamp out of the box and tossed it into an industrial bin marked Garbage.

When Kelly got back to his apartment, a Chinese food delivery guy was knocking on the door across the hall. A flustered man answered, “Oh my God. I forgot about this.” He reached for his wallet. “Quick. How much do I owe you?”

Kelly opened the door to his apartment.

“Hey you, neighbor.” The man pointed at Kelly as he handed the delivery man several bills. “Do you want a free dinner?”

“Pardon?” Kelly said.

“My wife’s water just broke, and I have to get her to the hospital right away. She wasn’t due for another two weeks, but then Bingo! We’re off to delivery.”

The man thrust the large paper bag into Kelly’s hands and disappeared back into his apartment. The delivery man grinned at Kelly and headed down the hall to the elevators.

A man and woman came out of the apartment, and the man locked the door. “It’s okay, honey. We’re only about ten minutes away. I’ve already called the doctor, so everything is set. They’re waiting for us.” The two of them went down the hall to the elevators.

“Good luck,” Kelly said after them.

He went inside and shut the door. Setting the bag on the kitchen table, he pulled various cardboard containers out, examining each one in turn. They all smelled appetizing.

At the bottom of the bag was a white slip of paper, the bill. Kelly picked it up and read down the list, twenty-four dollars in total. This was a pleasant surprise. He hadn’t yet figured out what he was going to have tonight.

Kelly turned the slip over. There, written in blue ink, was the message: Dinner’s on me. Fred. He looked in the direction of his apartment door. “Seriously?” He looked again at the message, chuckled, and shook his head. He picked up a plastic fork and opened the first container.

                                                                  💀💀💀

William Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over-evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following which so far he hasn't been able to attribute to anyone: "A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem." You will find Mr. Belle's unbridled stream of consciousness here (https://www.amazon.com/stores/William-Quincy-Belle/author/B01M1IQ69G).