Fire: Demons, Dragons & Djinns

by Rhonda Parrish

  When evening rolled around, Henry decided on some television. Sitting on the sofa, the genie nestled down next to him, still chattering away. Henry settled in to watch a show about people enthusiastically demolishing a family’s house in order to rebuild it with somewhat less excitement. When the first commercial break came on, the djinn suddenly halted its verbal assault. Henry had gone so far into himself in order to endure the genie’s blather that it took a few seconds for him to realize it had gone silent. He looked at the djinn. Its gaze was transfixed on the television, childlike, captivated by something on the screen. After a bit, it motioned to the TV.

  “Now that must be desired by millions,” the genie said flatly, looking at Henry. “You cannot tell me it does not stir longing in you, Henry Reinhold.”

  Henry hadn’t even been paying attention to the commercials; they were one of the few things more annoying than the genie’s incessant yammering. Now he focused on it, and groaned.

  “It’s a Victoria’s Secret commercial, you dope.” Henry shook his head as half-dressed waifs shimmied and sauntered and pouted on his television—he hadn’t seen that much skin in Seoul’s red-light district—however the djinn, for the first time, appeared distracted, even mesmerized.

  “Even in the harem of my lamp’s paradise there is rarely such exquisite beauty,” it rhapsodized. Henry grunted.

  “Plastic surgeons are rich for a reason, kid.”

  The genie’s puzzlement returned. “And you are still adamant that even their beauty is not desirous to you?”

  “Is it to you?” Henry countered. The genie raised its hands, palm up, and shrugged.

  “What I desire is irrelevant,” it said. “My function is to fulfil the wishes of others, not my own.”

  “Hardly seems fair. You should be able to have what you want once in a while. Maybe I’ll wish one of those models here for you.”

  “Is this what you desire?” The djinn looked again to the screen, restrained eagerness on its face.

  “I desire to shut your ass up,” Henry shot back. “And if one of those peep show pageant girls will do it, you’re damn right it is.”

  “Then it shall be done.” The genie smiled its gleaming grin once more, crossed one arm over the other, and bowed its head. Before Henry knew it, an impossibly tall, impossibly tanned woman with the tiniest waist he had ever seen appeared in the living room in front of the television, wearing high heels, barely-there lingerie, and nothing else. It happened so fast, Henry hadn’t even blinked; one second, nothing, the next a person in his house. The supermodel looked in bewilderment around the living room.

  “Where am I?” she asked, her voice a thick stew of an accent, before motioning to Henry and the djinn. “And who are you?”

  Henry stood up, pointing to the genie. “He’s a jackass, and I’m going to bed.”

  As he walked away, Henry heard the djinn’s voice behind him. “You still have two wishes, Henry Reinhold.”

  “Isn’t that a shame?” Henry replied. Looking back he saw the supermodel in the spot Henry had occupied on the sofa. Gently, Henry reached up and grabbed Marie’s photograph from the wall, tucking it under one arm. “Whatever you two do out here, my wife doesn’t need to see it. She was classier than that.”

  Henry went down the hall to his bedroom, propped Marie up on the night stand, and went to sleep.

  WHEN HENRY WOKE the following morning, he couldn’t believe the wreck the living room had turned into. Pillows and sofa cushions were strewn haphazardly across the room, a table lamp had been knocked over, and an antique vase lay on its side, part of the rim cracked; a pair of woman’s panties was draped over a potted plant, and a bra hung from the television. Henry shook his head. He’d done the right thing taking Marie with him, after all.

  He heard voices talking in the kitchen, and when he entered, Henry saw the genie and the supermodel sitting at the table. The supermodel had on Henry’s bathrobe and was drinking a cup of coffee, her thick auburn hair tousled. The djinn spotted Henry and smiled widely.

  “O blessed Henry Reinhold, may the Host of the Thousand Firmaments shower you with unending good tidings and joy.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Henry said. “I see you experienced some joy yourself last night.”

  At the table the supermodel squirmed with obvious embarrassment, but the genie’s leer intensified. “It was an excellent wish, Henry Reinhold. May your other two prove to be just as interesting.”

  Henry nodded before leaning in towards the djinn. “It goes like this. I want you out of my house. I want you out of my life.” Henry pointed a finger at the supermodel. “My second wish is for her to go back to where she came from, and take her unmentionables with her.”

  The genie’s features slackened with sudden surprise before disappointment gave way to a weak plea: “Is there no way you would reconsider?”

  “It is my desire,” Henry answered forcefully. The genie folded one arm over the other almost involuntarily and bowed its head, frowning while it did so; instantly the supermodel disappeared, the empty bathrobe crumpling to the kitchen chair. The djinn glumly looked at Henry.

  “That was unwarranted,” the djinn sighed. “She was Brazilian, you know. They are a festive, enthusiastic people.”

  “I’m sure they are.” Henry picked up the bathrobe; it still smelled of perfume. He peered at the genie then, staring right into its emerald eyes. “I know my third wish, too.”

  “That is wonderful news, Henry Reinhold,” the djinn said, chuckling nervously. “And what is your desire?”

  Henry told him and the genie’s laughter doubled. After a minute it stopped, scrutinizing Henry. “You are serious, aren’t you?” Henry nodded, and the genie’s spirited face sank once more. “Of all the things of Heaven and Earth at your beck and whim, and this is your choice? Not riches or women or power or revenge or reshaping the world in your image, but this?”

  “It is my desire,” Henry repeated, smiling. The genie slowly nodded.

  “Then it shall be done.”

  “Does this mean you’ll finally leave me alone?”

  The genie nodded again. “My obligations to you are thus fulfilled, Henry Reinhold. May your desire be what you hoped.”

  The djinn again folded one arm over the other and bowed, and a second later Henry saw the genie’s visage begin to fade and disintegrate into dust, rotating back like a whirlwind to the rear kitchen door leading to the porch. The door opened and the dust cloud careened through the air to the stoop, narrowing into a stream and flowing into the long spout of the lamp that sat on the porch railing. A heartbeat later, everything was still.

  Henry sighed, grabbed the lamp and set it on the kitchen table before making breakfast. While he ate his eggs, he idly wondered what would happen if he rubbed it again. He tried it, but unlike before nothing happened.

  “Limit one per customer.” He smiled, finishing his breakfast.

  He spent the rest of the morning cleaning the living room, putting everything back into place and vacuuming before he brought Marie back out from the bedroom to hang on the wall. She always had loved a clean house.

  As afternoon rolled around, Henry took the cracked vase to the kitchen and attempted to fix the ceramic with hot glue and clamps. He turned the radio on. It was the third of the series between Boston and the Phillies, but this time the Sox came out swinging from the first at bat; by the top of the fourth they were up on Philadelphia 5-0 and at the stretch had doubled the lead. In the ninth, with bases loaded, the final Sox batter walked up to the plate and knocked a Grand Slam clear out of Fenway. The announcer was beside himself with excitement, and kept calling it the most amazing game of the season. Historic. Unbelievable.

  “We couldn’t have wished for a win this big. It’s just crazy,” one of the players said in exhilaration after the game. “Somebody out there was really looking over us today, you know?”

  Opening up a cold beer, Henry smiled contentedly at the radio for a moment before turning his attention back to the
vase.

  Phoenix Rising

  Heather M. O’Connor

  TWO OLD FRIENDS, one plump and grey, the other as frail as a bird, share a bench in the park, grateful for the summer sunshine.

  “How is she today?” the plump one asks.

  “Not good, Rose. I’ve just come from her side. I don’t think she’ll live out the day.”

  “Don’t fret, Viv. Death is part of life. The endless circle.” Rose pats her shoulder. “Clara is going to a better place. No more pain and suffering. We’ll see her again soon enough.”

  “It’s not that.” Viv’s rheumy eyes leak tears. Her lower lip trembles. “I just—I wish it was me.”

  Rose hands her a handkerchief.

  “Thank you,” Viv says, dabbing at her eyes.

  She pauses a moment to collect herself.

  “I never wanted to grow old, you know. I wanted to burn fast and die young. Now look at me. We were never meant to live this long. I’m so tired of being old and grey.”

  She fumbles in her purse.

  “Viv! Put that away. You know you can’t smoke here!”

  “You can’t smoke anywhere anymore!” she says, showing a spark of her old fire.

  “Come on then. Let’s go for a walk.”

  They hobble off, holding onto each other for support. A crisp carpet of pine needles cushions their steps. Rose points to a bench deep in the trees, and they settle, breathless.

  Pines tower above them, filtering the heat. Viv shivers. “I wouldn’t say no to a nice toasty cremation. The summers are getting hotter, but I’m always chilled.”

  She roots around in her bag again. “‘Stop smoking,’ they said. ‘It’s dangerous.’ Ha! What do they know?”

  Rose nods. “Not many pleasures left at our age. Need a light?”

  “Please.”

  A spark flares. Tendrils of smoke curl around them.

  “I was quite a beauty when I was young, you know. Men worshipped me.”

  “I remember, Viv. Quite the catch.”

  “If they could catch me.” A mischievous smile flickers then fades. “But now . . . People don’t even see me anymore. It’s like I don’t even exist. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

  “Of course I do. Not so much losing my looks. It’s the attitude that really burns me up,” says Rose. “Hmph. I may not be a spring chicken, but I’m not dead yet.”

  Viv breathes out a cloud of smoke. “Wasn’t like that when we were young.”

  “Mm. People respected their elders. Didn’t think they knew it all. They listened, instead of flapping their gums all the time.”

  Viv nods. “Try to tell them that today.”

  They shake their heads.

  “Bunch of tree huggers,” says Rose. “What do they know?”

  Viv sniffs. “Moderation in all things. That’s how I was raised.”

  “Remember Smoky the Bear? ‘Only you can prevent forest fires.’”

  Viv titters.

  “They think they’re so clever, putting out fires before they begin. Now it’s out of control. First Fort McMurray. Now the BC Interior. When will they ever learn?”

  Viv breathes in. “Look.” She points to a column of smoke rising in the distance.

  “Clara.”

  They hurry into the woods, following the drift of smoke to its source. Already the fire pops and sparks. Flames dance along the forest floor and soar to the treetops, leaping from pine to pine. Rose and Viv glow ember-red and amber in the blistering heat.

  Bathed in wildfire, a child wails. “Clara darling,” Rose coos. “You must be famished.”

  Cold Comfort

  Gabrielle Harbowy

  IT HAD ALL been about a boy.

  It had never been about a boy.

  It started with a boy, but that isn’t the same thing at all. It’s easier, telling myself the boy is to blame. It hurts less than admitting it’s always been about Nuala.

  Frostbite hurts. The humiliation of frostbite stings long after fingers go numb and black. I draw mine through the living flame of my hair, by long habit. Though I no longer expect the gesture to warm me, I’m disappointed every time when my hands emerge still cold.

  It hurts, but curses are supposed to hurt.

  My prison is the plane of ice, an endless terrain of caves and snow. Or, if it has an end, I’ve yet to find it. The caves, I formed myself. I have no interest in mapping them. If I want out, I can just melt my way.

  Even the ice elementals are bored of me, and mostly leave me alone. Occasionally some plane-bound creature explores my caves, perhaps on a challenge or a dare. They melt from my heat before I can draw near enough to ask.

  At least they don’t leave behind corpses to compound my guilt, and a few of the items they leave behind in their puddled remains have proven useful to me. The chronometer, scavenged from the mortal plane, is a beautiful thing of metal and glass and dials. It withstands my heat, as long as I’m careful, and seems to be of the same make as the portal frame, resistant to tarnish, brute force, and corrosion, as well as the elements.

  With the chronometer, I know when the portal will come to life. I have set the device so that both wands are pointed upward when the cycle begins. Upward, for hope.

  The frame is powered by aether and steam. It gets hot. Because it’s a heat I haven’t made, I can feel it. I must be close by when it starts up so that I can wrap my hands around a column, press my body to it like a lover, and soak in those burning moments while I can. It makes the chill worse, but the indulgence is worth it. Besides, curses are supposed to hurt.

  Demons emerge from the portal. My birth mother first, then a dozen or so children, then my mama. The heat of their skin reacts with their new environment, and steam wisps from their bodies. The ghosts of tethers encircle one ankle of each child, tying them to their home plane.

  “Stay close, little sparks,” my mama says. Mother helps round up the stragglers and keeps them still while Mama counts them.

  I’ve slipped behind the post, pressing my back to its waning heat.

  “Who here knows what a curse is?” Mother asks. About ten scarlet hands shoot up. I don’t have to see them to know it. It’s the same every time.

  “It’s what happens to you if you’re very bad,” one little ember says.

  The metal is nearly cold. I press my cheek to it and peek round it to catch Mama’s eye. The look she gives me is sad. It’s a look I know well.

  They’re teachers, my parents are. It’s the only way they’re able to come and see me.

  “That’s right. Everyone has to be fair to everyone else, or they could get cursed.”

  A curse is a funny thing. There’s no defence against it, and no way to bypass or remove it save by following its conditions exactly. Some creatures are just so powerful that their decree can reshape reality. Nuala knew she had that power. At first, I comforted myself by believing that she hadn’t known; that she had spoken in anger and hadn’t meant it. But I knew better.

  “Come out, Izelle,” Mother calls. As always, I consider what would happen if I didn’t obey. I’m already here, powerless . . . it’s not as if they could punish me much further. But the little joys are all I have, and seeing Mother and Mama is one of them. Even if it comes at the cost of a handful of gawking children.

  The littlest ones gasp and stare when I emerge. My frostbitten fingers and tail are as black as my hooves, and the rest of my skin has faded to pale pink from exposure and cold. I barely look like one of their kind anymore. I can see them all thinking it.

  “The thing about curses,” Mama says, “is that there’s always a trigger that removes them, but only the one who places the curse knows what it is. She can tell the target or not. She doesn’t have to tell anyone. She can tell the target and make them unable to tell anyone else, or put them in a situation that would make the conditions of releasing them impossible.”

  “What do you think?” Mother asks them. They’re all still staring at me. “Is that fair?”

&n
bsp; “Punishment doesn’t have to be fair,” one of the littles says. Mother calls them sparks, but I think of them as embers, their optimism burning brightly, but easily snuffed out.

  “What’s your curse?” another asks me. My parents share a look. They’re supposed to address their teachers, not me, but because I’ve been asked, I can answer. Do my mothers fear what I might say?

  “My own fire will never warm me.” It’s been a long time since I last used my voice. I expect it to be hoarse, to sound unpleasant in my ears. It doesn’t. “Only when my body is back to its normal temperature will the portal allow me through. I may speak only things I am asked to say.”

  “What about fire you kindle?”

  “Even a fire I make by physical means, yes.” I look around pointedly. “Not that there’s anything here to burn.”

  There had only been my clothes. I had learned by burning my clothes.

  “What did she do?” the first young one asks Mother. This one has remembered not to speak to me.

  Mother considers a moment, then surprises me. “Izelle, what did you do to earn this curse?”

  I can recite the stock answers the teachers always give, or I can speak in my own words. In opinions. Do I dare to?

  “I angered a summoner.”

  They all gasp. Glances are exchanged. No one is quite sure what to say next.

  Some mortals, powerful ones, can summon us. The embers wear the tethers to keep them from being summoned too young but most of us can choose to resist the call. To me, Nuala had been radiant, full of life and ambition. Perhaps she had been powerful enough to compel me to her, but I would have gone to her by my own will in any case.

  No one has told me to stop speaking, so I go on. “We were familiar for a long time. Long enough for her to grow from girl to woman. I was her pet and servant and companion. She compelled me to share my thoughts, my opinions. But I had a strong opinion she didn’t like. She was—that is, I thought she was—in danger, so I warned her. I tried to protect her. She was so angry at my interference that instead of just dispelling me, she cursed me and banished me here, to the plane of ice.”