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Return to Scribblers and Ink Spillers Home Page by Jude Tulli Well, now you've done it! You touched the rainbow a la ALA Against Leprechaunian Advice and now you can't return to your world and forget all about me like you usually do. The lightning strike (or three. . .who's ever heard of lightning striking thrice in the same place? Not me!) was supposed to undo the damage but it didn't and now you look like you've been run over by a burning crayon truck. What do you mean you feel fine? That must be the electricity talking. You're not supposed to still be here! You're supposed to be awake and gallivanting around. . .wherever it is that you gallivant. What do we do now, and how much trouble am I going to be in for letting you tag along? Of course, the book! Allow me to consult. Let's see. . .oh no! It's gone! It's not gone? Well then where-- Oh, sweetheart, it's of no use now that you've found it first. Look at it. Now look at me. Now read the same page again. No need to be so frazzle-dazzled, it's "Am I dreaming diagnostic 101": printed word not static, the static electricity in your hair notwithstanding. (Though the hair itself is standing, I'm not sorry to say.) Well, I'm not laughing with you, so you do the math. Relax, it'll probably be the "in" thing next season. You'll only look like a weirdo for a few months yet. I'm kidding; it's half a year away, really. All right, if you must see for yourself, give me the book and I'll show you why it's been spoiled by human hands. See, once I take it back it becomes an octopus. It's a clear-cut case of "Am I dreaming diagnostic 202": selective random object transmogrification. Oopsie--didn't your mother ever tell you not to toss a live octopus? Not sorry, I can't stop laughing. You just look like someone who should have an inkling, yet clearly you don't. . .It's ironic; sort of the perfect tie-in of funny-ha-ha and funny-strange. Kind of you to worry about me getting sprayed, but now the octopus is a dove and it's bringing me tidings from the Fairy Wish Fulfillment Division. Shhh. . .doves speak softly and they never repeat themselves. Oh, really, Clarius?! But when? For how long? Tell them no. I won't do it. I have been there, done that, bought the turtleneck. Are you kidding me, Clarius? They've agreed to grant me two wishes as a resigning bonus? Isn't it funny how re-signing is spelled the same way as resigning? I am correct in presuming they meant the former, yes? The latter really would be best described as a severance bonus. Oh good, I think. Thank you. I must admit it is nice to be wanted. Hmm. . .back to the boredom of what I know how to do well for two wishes. . . Tell them I need no fewer than four. Fly back to them, Clarius. Fly back! And bring only good news back to me. Well, I'm sorry for that bit of rudeness, though you have to admit it has more charm than speaking into a sickle-cell phone. They'll never in a million years agree to more wishes so we may as well resign ourselves to plan B (as opposed to re-signing, of course). Unless your lucky numbers come up it's harder to get a wish out of a wish fairy than it is to get maple syrup out of an oak tree. You would think it cost us money or something. It doesn't; it's just that each request comes with so much paperwork! What's plan B? Well if you don't know, I sure as sugar don't have any ideas. Perhaps you're just stuck here for the rest of your little life. Perhaps you'll learn a trade like wish-granting or godparenting or dancing through the stars or impersonating a dental hygienist or a leprechaun. Perhaps-- Perhaps a lot of things. It's best not to worry what will become of the future; it'll be the past soon enough. I blame Father Time. All we can do is figure out our next move and hope to outrun or outsmart the next Big Disillusionment the Universe has planned for us. It's sort of like playing the game out to checkmate when you're down to just a king and your opponent's next move'll be to promote queen number four. You might luck into a stalemate, but let's face it: chances are you're on the wrong side of a good old-fashioned trouncing. Oh, sure, call me a pessimist. I don't mind. It's better than being a disgruntled optimist. Low expectations are the key, I always say. How else could I bear the thought of returning to wish-fishing for a living? Yes, dear, whatever they offer, I've no choice but to go back. I'm afraid it's all I'm equipped to do, as you of all people have seen first-hand, as if hands can see. I'm just not cut out to make a living at any kind of passion I might once have indulged. What did I want to be? Oh, the usual. Ballerina, which you know I've absolutely no talent for. Doctor, if only I could stand the sight of blood. Faeway musical headliner. But I can't sing. What else? Pac-Fae wizardess (it was all the rage when I was coming of age), something to do with publishing (I could influence young minds without promoting vampirism!), or maybe a gourmet chef (you should try my Santa Fae cookies; every year, Santa eats every last crumb!) How about you? Been thinking about your wish at all since you wished it? Wish you could change it? What would your life be like if there were no limitations? What would be different if you were soaring through each day instead of crawling beneath a pot of gold some lovely leprechaun saddled you with? (Totally not sorry, by the way; it was you or me, and you let me choose. That was your mistake.) What would you wish for now? Oh look, here's our Lonely Dove flappering back with what appears to be a final offer from the Wish Commission. One?! Only one!? And if I don't accept this time it will fast become zero? Oh, those misers! I knew I shouldn't have pushed my luck. Very well, Clarius, tell them I must accept. I have to make my wish now?! Oh, I just hate being put on the spot like this. I don't suppose I could wish I didn't have to return to wish-granting, since this wish is contingent upon that unfortunate twist, yes? Don't smirk at me like that, Clarius, it's unsettling. Nor would they likely grant me a wish for the means to support myself without working for them. Wait a minute! We're still amid amuckness gone amiss. You--you're still here?! Who are you? I'm kidding you again; I'm not the one with intermittent amnesia. But it serves you right to see how it feels, as if you could see a feeling. Well, Clarius, tell them that what I must wish for is clear. I wish my friend would not have borne the brunt of my career exploration. Let's go back in time and undo the pain I've caused, and return my protégé to the little life that led us all to this point. No, no, no, I'm not the least bit sorry; it's just that I accept the fact that you might not have had as much fun all this time as I've been having (or sometimes, to be honest, pretending to have). Don't worry, I'll still remember it all, but as an alternate future instead of an unalterable past. How do I know I'll remember? Clarius, work that into the wish phraseology, please. Clarius moonlights as a junior counsel at Beakman, Beakman and Whiskers. Yes, B and B are birds, but Whiskers is a giraffe whose parents had a weird sense of humor. It's not important; you won't remember. Why do you want to talk to Clarius? Oh, very well I suppose it can't hurt anything. How long will we have to wait before my wish is--what's that light under your wings, Clar? Oh, so clever. Clarius brought wish fairies here to make the deal binding on the spot. Is it that obvious that I'd change my mind if I had a minute to think about it? All right, let's get this devil-deal show on the road to good intentions. This light is too bright. Even when I close my eyes I can still feel the burning on my retinas. Are you trying to scar our corneas or something? I really am sorry I forgot to wish for first class time travel. Yes, I admit it's possible I'm only sorry because this time it affects me, but still you must concede it's better than not being sorry at all. What's so great about first class? Well. . .the heat and pressure changes are universal but I think the VIE's (Very Important Entities) at least get popcorn. Oh, dear, you wouldn't happen to have a stick of chewing gum on you? No, it just feels like your ears are exploding. There's a whopping 90-10 chance, but you don't want to know which is the ninety and which the ten unless my memory deceives or you happen to count yourself particularly lucky. Yes, I hear it's perfectly normal to feel as if you're being swallowed by the sun. No, I wouldn't know for sure what that would feel like but this is the closest frame of reference I've got, and I expect it's not too far off. Don't you agree? Soon we won't be able to talk (I'll bet they're getting a good yuk about that back at Fae-Com Headquarters). Not sorry but you'll have to endure the molecular dis- and re-assembly without my airy voice to soothe-- I must warn you: now that you've met me, your life might not be the same. You don't believe in fairies? Well, take a number my friend. Feel my hand on your shoulder? Just as ethereal as any ghost, aren't I? I'm glad that's settled for the gazillionth time. Of course I'm real! Look, I'm not going to bother telling you anything about my glamorous little life, because you won't remember any of it for long enough to matter, so here's the chase I'm cutting for you: you get one wish, it may or may not be granted depending upon a variety of factors beyond anyone's control, so make it now and make it as wise as you can manage. Don't look at me like that. There's no rule against a wish fairy tapping her foot when the kite-string of her patience has snapped. I happen not to have all day, here. So a wish. Just one. For anything you please. If you please. You want what? Really?! To remember me?! Awww! You're the best friend a fairy ever had. END
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