By Jennifer Duval White
"You can fly, Harriet!" exclaimed a jubilant voice.
I opened my eyes and immediately had to shield them; the light in my room was so brilliant and bright.
"Good God, I'm dead." I said.
"No, no." That voice again, chuckling, "It's a wish come true!"
"Your wish, it's granted! Flap your arms, Harriet. Come to the window. The night is yours!"
I've never been one to argue, especially with disembodied voices, but I had to say something, "Sorry, but I-I didn't wish to fly."
Silence. Then, "What?"
"I never wished it."
This was bad. I felt sure I'd hurt the voice's feelings. I looked into the webby recesses of my aging mind, "Maybe sixty-five years ago, dear, but I'm sorry, I have no desire to fly now." I ran my tongue thoughtfully over my empty gums, "I'll tell you what, though, you just grant me a new set of teeth, and I'll be happy." I smiled toothlessly toward the light.
The voice groaned in obvious disappointment, then it began to whine.
"God, this is just perfect. I can't do anything right. I can hear them all now, 'dumb-ass Gerry screwed up, again.' I can't freakin' believe it- my third botched granting. I just wish-"
"Oh, what the hell." I stood and popped in my dentures. "Let's fly, Gerry."
When I leapt out my window, the voice was positively giddy.
Jennifer Duval White writes from her little home in Massachusetts that she shares with her husband, four daughters, dog, cat, and house bunny. It's crowded there, so she mostly lives inside her head. Jennifer's work has been published or is forthcoming at Haypenny, Literary Mama, and Writer Online. Contact Jennifer.