Be careful what you wish for.

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

When the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.

Early morning of Tuesday, May 18th

A light drizzling rain patters onto the streets of Excolo. A light breeze passes through Uri's short hair, and he whistles a cheerful tune, battered case in hand, folding table under the other arm. At the crossroads of Silk Road and Main Street he unfolds the table and opens the case.

The air is charged, waiting.

"Buy your dreams, sell your nightmares! Money for chokings, stabbings and drownings!"

He falls silent. The air is pregnant; the grey clouds are briefly yellow-tinged. A storm is coming.

She is sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. She is stupid. She buys a trinket, a dream of some sweaty country boy she likes taking her in his arms.

This is not the storm.

"I wish," she says, tucking the bottle in her pocket, knickers already damp from the thought of drinking it, "everyone could have what they wished for, don't you?"

Along the street, a shopkeeper opens her store. The silence of the street is broken, and Uri smiles, touches his wrinkled fingers to her young wrist and says:

"A good wish, young miss."

There will be no lightning, now. Another storm is born.

[closed]