'Congeniality' by Dan Peacock

‘Three wishes,’ said the genie.
                The man frowned. ‘No wishing for more wishes?’
                ‘Nope.’
                ‘No wishing for more genies?’
                ‘Nope.’
                ‘...or more lamps?’
                ‘No,’ sighed the genie. ‘Nope, nein, non, de nada. Definitely not.’
                ‘I see,’ said the man.
                He thought for a while. The genie began to play solitaire.
                ‘I’ve decided,’ said the man.
                ‘Excellent,’ said the genie. ‘Your first wish?’
                ‘My first wish is for a trillion dollars,’ said the man. ‘Although I want you to make sure my spending doesn’t have any adverse effects on the economy.’
                ‘Done,’ said the genie. He handed the man an American Express Platinum card and told him the PIN number. ‘And your second wish?’
                ‘My second wish is for everlasting long life,’ said the man.           
                ‘Done,’ said the genie, and the man felt a sudden rush of health and vitality. ‘And your third wish?’
                The man looked down at his American Express card. ‘Can you come back to me on that one?’
                ‘Certainly,’ said the genie. ‘Just rub the lamp again and I’ll be there in a jiffy.’ And he was gone.
                The man lived like a king. With his trillion dollars he spent his money on enormous palaces and thousands of acres of beautiful land all over the world. But no matter how hard he tried, he still had unimaginable amounts of money left. He donated billions to charities and made the world a better place.  He lived a dozen lifetimes and became regarded as a God among men. He bought the Polynesian Islands and lived out there for the rest of his days.
                When the Third World War started, the man rubbed the lamp again.
                ‘I trust you’ve enjoyed spending your money?’ said the genie.
                ‘Absolutely. The billions of people I’ve helped certainly enjoyed it too,’ said the man. Mushroom clouds were spreading on the horizon.
                ‘Well, no amount of money would ever have stopped human nature,’ said the genie. ‘Nothing could.’
                The man was silent, looking out at the water.
                ‘And your third wish?’ said the genie.
                ‘I want you to send me back in time,’ said the man. ‘To half past three on November the third, 2012.’
                ‘Done,’ he said, and as the man vanished the genie realised he’d been had.
                The man materialised with the lamp five seconds before he was due to rub it. He grinned an enormous grin.
                The genie billowed from the lamp and regarded him. ‘Three wishes,’ it said.
                ‘Same again, please,’ said the man.
                The genie frowned. ‘What?’

'Maybe' by Sal Page

You were ten and half pounds when you were born. People kept calling you ‘bouncing’ and ‘bonny’. I told Auntie May on the phone so she knew you were a big baby but by the time her christening present arrived I could see they wouldn’t fit.

Lovely baby shoes. Neatly stitched in soft red and green leather. I remember Rosie and Izzy taking a shoe each out of the box. They turned them round in their hands. The leather gleamed. They decided the tiny stitches and intricate embroidery had been done by elves. This made them both giggle. You joined in from your cot as they dangled the magic elf-made shoes above your head. Maybe that was your first laugh.

Rosie and Izzy did try to get them on your feet. You just kicked the air and chuckled at them. Even when they tried putting socks on you they had the same trouble. Good job you had a Mum and two helpful sisters or you’d never have worn socks or shoes for more than a few seconds. Or hats. What you liked best was being on the rug, in your birthday suit. I know, I know. Don’t look at me like that.

The shoes were put back in their box. We could get good money for those, your Dad said. We advertised them for sale. Your sisters made a poster to go up in the shop. I said put ‘Brand New’ but the girls thought ‘Never Worn’ sounded better.

            We sold them to someone further up the hill, a Mrs. What-was-her-name? No, of course I don’t expect you to know. The girls would remember. We’ll ask them later.

I know you’ve heard all this before, love, but I think of those shoes every time I come round here and trip over your size fourteen boots in the hallway.

'Victory in Europe' by Gay Degani

They walked to the river in bare feet. He wore her brother’s clothes--his uniform on a peg in her upstairs room--and carried with him a jar of pastel drawing sticks and a square of whitewashed plank tucked under his arm. She clung to his elbow, the heat between them like glue.

He settled her on one of boulders scattered along the grassy bank, the water murmuring behind her, and kissed a tear from the corner of her eye. When he stepped back, she smiled, then dropped her head, squeezed mud and grass between her toes.

“I miss the bridge,” he said so she would turn her head to look at the empty space.

Dark curls tangled against her long neck. He searched the jar for a stick of brown and finding it, sat on another boulder not far away. She said, shivering a little, “It wasn’t a very pretty bridge.”

“It was a beautiful bridge before the Germans blew it up. Now look across water and sit still.”

The sun pinked her cheek. “Lift your chin a bit,” he said and she did. He sketched fast, filling in detail as he dug pastels from the jar.

“So you make a picture of me.”

“Don’t talk.”

She gnawed her lip.

“You will show my picture to your friends and brag about your conquest?” She turned to face him.

“I said don’t move.”

But she did and got up and walked toward him while he watched her coming and she shoved him back from his rock so fast he fell into the mud where he made an “oomph” sound. She stood over him with fists on hips.

“You think my picture will be enough for you?”

He held up the plank so she could see.

“You are drawing the bridge? That ugly bridge that’s not there anymore? You take nothing to remember me by? You want to forget me?”

“I won’t forget you.”

“You say that now, but you get home and some fat American girl—” Her face was flushed, her eyes wet, and she swung away from him and trudged up the bank.

“The drawing is for you. So you don’t forget the bridge.”

She twisted around. “I remember it every time I can’t get to the other side of river!”

“Wait!” Struggling up from the mud, overtook her in three strides. He handed her the picture. “This is for you to take with you.”

She frowned. “Take with me? Where am I going—”

“Not a lot of bridges in the state of Nevada.”

“Nevada?” She didn’t move, staring at his wide grin. “What are you saying to me?”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Say it. Say it slow.”

“Come home with me. Marry me.”

“Oh.” She stared at the drawing. “I loved that ugly bridge.”

He brushed her cheek, left a smudge, then wiped it off. Kissed the spot. “I know.”

'Rock Paper Scissors' by Sarah-Clare Conlon

Her face was sour like cola bottles as I spectated from my perch in the window. They put me here so potential customers could admire their handiwork. I was a good advert.

I had lured this woman in to the overly humidified shop high with ammonia. I was surprised she could even see in, the curved bays were so streamed with condensation, but she threw open the door and made a beeline for me. The other girls stayed stuck to their stations, craning their stick-thin necks and combing.

The woman stopped an inch from my crossed-over legs. Our toes would touch if I stood. After staring without blinking for a gaping hole of time, she turned to my boss at the desk.

“She’ll leave you, you know. These ones always do. My husband went off with one and she was gone within the year. It’s the fringe – it hides dark thoughts.”

And with that, she was gone. My boss winked. “Elfin crop?” he said. “No one will feel threatened if you look like a boy.”

'Ashes' by Alison Wassell

She is dry-eyed at the funeral. Later, she passes round plates of sandwiches and slices of a cake she baked herself. People exchange glances and clichés. She  is bottling things up. It hasn’t hit her yet. They wait in vain for the deluge. 

     Her son ceremoniously places a ceramic monstrosity on her mantelpiece. So much nicer, he says, than the plastic one from the undertaker. He embraces her awkwardly. 

    ‘He’s still with you, Mum,’ he whispers, a tremor in his voice. With her face pressed into his jumper, she swallows the urge to laugh.

     Alone, in the evening, her eyes keep returning to the urn. She shifts uncomfortably. Then, defiantly, she slips off her shoes and leaves them lying carelessly on the carpet. She curls her legs beneath her and reaches for the remote.  For five minutes she flicks through the channels.  She settles on a soap opera.  She is sure she hears his tut of disgust.

        Her appetite has never been better.  She opens the kitchen cupboard, in search of a late night snack. She gazes at the meticulously aligned tins of soup, oldest at the front, alphabetically arranged by flavour. Giggling like a schoolgirl she reaches to the back. She removes all the tins and replaces them haphazardly. Pleased, she heats up her soup and takes it into the living room, where she eats it in front of the television, slurping occasionally. When she has finished she sticks out her tongue at the urn.  She leaves the bowl in the sink.

      She lies on her back and stretches out her arms and legs into his space. She reads into the early hours, one arm around the cat who, allowed onto the bed for the first time ever, is scarcely able to believe his good fortune. 

       In the morning she makes toast and returns to bed with it. She allows crumbs to drop onto the sheets. She showers, dresses, and leaves the house without applying make up.

     In town, she enters a shop she has never dared to visit before. Ignoring the sniggers of teenaged shop assistants she purchases her first pair of jeans. She wears them as she cleans. She lifts the urn as she dusts the mantelpiece.

    ‘Mutton dressed as lamb’ it sneers. She slams it down a little too hard. A crack appears from top to bottom. She lifts the lid and peers inside. Grey dust stares back at her. She is shocked by how little remains of him.

     She inserts the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner into the urn, and switches on. Her husband disappears in a brief, satisfying slurp. She replaces the urn, turning the crack to the wall. Later, she fills it with Jelly Babies.

     Early on Friday she watches from the pavement as the bins are emptied.

    ‘All right, love?’ one of the men asks.

    ‘Never better.’ She gives him her brightest smile. She is still smiling, long after the truck has driven away. 

    ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish’ she whispers.

'The Taxi Ride' by Donna Blanchard McNicol

"I hate night shift, gives me heebie-jeebies," I whispered, looking in the rear view mirror at my latest passenger. "So where can I take you tonight?"

"The Pit," a voice rumbled from the back.

"The Pit, huh. I hear stuff about that place."

He grunted.

"All kinds of weird things. People go in and freaks come out."

"Don't believe what you hear, believe what you see."

"Well, I'd rather not see those kinda things." i sought his face but it was obscured by his hood.

The Pit was an old mansion about 10 miles outside the city. For the last dozen years it had became a gathering spot for the fringes of society. Kids conforming in their nonconformity for the most part but it was the elders who gave me the creeps; tonight's passenger was one.

I slowed as I approached the gate. "Um, I usually stop at the gate." My voice betrayed me and I shook with fear.

"Drive!"

I hesitated, "Okay. But I'm stopping on the other side of the gate."

"Keep driving."

A shiver ran up my spine and ended with a tingling at the base of my skull as I passed through the gate, "It's a higher fare..."

"Just drive," he boomed.

"Yeah, okay." The mansion hovered in the mist that suddenly appeared. Lit only by candlelight  strange shadows danced on the walls inside. I shuddered, "Could this place get any creepier?" He paid his fare, slid out of the cab and glided towards the house.

"Thanks. Have a good evening," I shouted as I drove towards the gate. Strange laughter erupted behind me and I looked in the rear view mirror. Slamming the brakes, I screamed. The face in the mirror wasn't mine and it wasn't human.

His words echoed back, "Believe what you see."

'Towards the Salt Flats' by Alan McMonagle

I was at a bus station in Sucre, Bolivia. It was early, already warm. Flies kept landing on my head. A smell of rotting meat was making my stomach lurch.
I wanted to buy a ticket to Uyuni, further south - gateway to the Salt Flats. I had read about the Salt Flats when I was very young. Seeing them would fulfil a childhood ambition.           
The only other person queuing for a ticket that morning was an old lady. As yet, no one was manning the ticket office. A stack of wicker coffins rested to one side of it. I was getting worried as my bus was due to depart.            
‘Don’t worry,’ the old lady said. ‘The bus isn’t going anywhere. Not until it is full.’           
I turned to her and thanked her. Then I turned around again. Sight of the empty coffins, however, was starting to unnerve me. And so, one more time, I turned around to face the old lady.           
She was wearing a black bowler hat and matching black poncho. Her face was the colour of leather, a network of dirty fissures scored into her from long life and too much sun. She reminded me of one of the ladies I had seen at Witches’ Market in La Paz. Sure enough, she confirmed my suspicion.            
‘I have a piece of ground on Calle Linares,’ she told me. ‘I sell sugar, reading glasses and iPods.’            ‘How much for an iPod?’ I asked her. ‘Mine was stolen last week.’           
‘They are not cheap,’ she conceded, ‘but my reading glasses are going for a song.’
We exchanged reasons for our being at the bus station on this hot morning. I explained my desire to see the Salt Flats, mentioned youthful reading, my discovery in a book of a twelve-hundred-mile expanse of solid salt. I wanted to see it, I told her. The old lady was travelling to Potosí, a mining town about halfway to Uyuni. She was going to a miner’s funeral, she said. It was her first time home in five years.
‘Did you know the miner?’ I asked her.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was my great grandson.’
‘How old was he?’ I asked next, the words were out of my mouth as soon as she’d mentioned her relationship to the dead miner.
‘He was twelve. His lamp stopped working and he lost his way. It must have been very dark when he died.’           
Two hours later we were sitting on the bus, waiting for the driver to fire up his engine and begin the journey south. In this time the old lady and I had swapped some more talk about La Paz, but eventually we had run out of things to say. Every so often one of the wicker coffins was loaded onto the bus.           
‘Who is going in those?’ I silently wondered, glancing from the coffins to the old lady, but she just smiled faintly, reluctant, this time, to supply a response to my unspoken concern.