Wish/Matthew
You wake up in your ancient twin bed once again. It's half of a bunk bed set that has been missing the other half for the better part of a decade. The mattress is even older, and the only thing that makes it functional is the foam cover over the threadbare set of coil springs. The weight of your world comes crashing down on you once more. You have been working non-stop at the assembly plant for the last twenty-eight days, ten hours a day Monday through Friday, and eight hours on the weekends. You finally have a three day weekend due to Labor Day, and the company not wanting to pay what is effectively triple time for making you work through a holiday. They still tried to sound magnanimous about finally giving you some time off, even though they are not going to meet the numbers that their customer requires. The truth is that if they had gone much longer they would have had a mass exodus as people quit en mass. That finally gave you some time to try to make yourself do something around the house.
The place was an utter wreck. You had barely cleaned in the last two years since your mother died of lung cancer, and hadn't mowed the yard in almost as long. You literally wade through trash to get around the house. The yard is even worse as twelve foot tall horseweed (also known as giant ragweed) fills it, with only the small path to your car uncovered. You bought a brand new riding mower the year your mother died, but you went so long between the first and second moving that you broke the drive belt to the deck when you hit a rock. You got a new drive belt, but couldn't figure out how to install it . . . and the mower has just sit there ever since. Luckily you live in the middle of nowhere, and no one cares how your yard looks.
There are two rooms that are relatively clean in your house actually; your mother's room, and her "plant" room right next to it. Your mother's room had been your room growing up, and her "plant" room had been your sister's room. Your mother had transformed your sister's room into a grow room for starting her garden each year and maintaining her indoor plants. She moved back to your old room to be nearer to her plant room and the bathroom when you moved back in to take care of her after her throat cancer. She survived throat cancer only to die of lung cancer four years later. That was when you finally stopped smoking. You barely go to that side of the house any more . . . so it is still relatively clean.
That was your goal for the weekend . . . to clean starting with the cleanest area of the house. You get up and kick some empty two litter bottles out of your way as you make your way to the bathroom. The thought that they should be beer or whiskey bottles enters your head, and you chuckle slightly. You never really drank. There was a history of alcoholism in your family, and you know you have an addictive personality. Your sister disinherited the whole family because of your mother's drinking, and one of your uncles had molested his daughters under the influence until one of them got pregnant, thus getting him caught. You have come to terms with the fact that you are attracted to children, but you dare not risk loosing your inhibitions . . . your inhibitions keep everyone safe. You finish your business, grab a Pepsi and head for your mother's room.
You haven't been consciously avoiding the room, but the result is undeniable. The room is a bit dusty, and things are scattered about a bit from where you had to look for some documents, but overall it's still pretty clean. You have obviously been avoiding the room. You know that you have, but you did not consciously decide to do so. You pause as you're about to enter the room; then turn on your stereo, pull out your phone, and shuffle your playlist on YouTube Music. As X-Ray Spex Oh Bondage, Up Yours blares from the stereo, you force yourself into the room. You start by stripping the bed and taking the bedding to the bathroom. You start the bedding in the washer as they easily make a full load. You then set yourself the task of removing your mother's clothes. You thought of donating them, but you never had very nice clothes in your family, and you decided to burn them instead.
You go outside and clear some space around the burn barrel, scraping yourself painfully in the process. Finally satisfied that you aren't about to burn the whole place down, you start making trips with the clothes. The fire is blazing merrily as you bring your mother's old clothes out to burn. Her closet finished, you start on her dresser. The first two drawers go without incident, but on the bottom drawer you grab something that makes you recoil like a snake had bitten you. You didn't know that your mother had a vibrator . . . it hadn't even occurred to you. The thought of her using it on her old-lady body made you jump back in surprise; but you settle down quickly. Of course your mom had masturbated. She was human and single. Still, you dodn't want to touch it. You gingerly grab it, and put it in the trash. Turning back to the bottom drawer, something else catches your eye . . . a ring box.
It is old and warn, the felt on the box worn almost through in some places. You gently pick it up, and open it. The mechanism still works perfectly, and you are soon looking at the ring within. It is a wide gold ring, most likely a man's ring. The jewels are a bit gaudy for you, being set with a large central amethyst surrounded by seven smaller diamonds. If it is real, it would be worth a pretty penny . . . which most likely means that they are paste. You lift the ring from the box to get a better look, setting the box on top of the dresser. You notice writing inside the ring and turn it to take a look. You could have sworn the writing was some form of Arabic or Farsi but you can clearly see roman letters as you look. It simply reads "Allorah". That is definitely a woman's name, but the ring appears to be that of a man . . . maybe a lost love.
"Allorah," you find yourself saying out loud. Suddenly a white-hot flame busts from the ring, setting the bed on fire, and causing you to drop the ring. When the flash from the fire subsides, you see a young girl on the burning bed. She has dark skin, golden eyes, and purple hair. She seems no more than nine or ten years old, but is wearing a provocative outfit reminiscent of the harems of the old middle east. You don't take any of this in at that moment, however, nor even on how in the world she got there, as your only thought is to get her out of that fire. You leap through the flames without thinking, snatch her up and leap back out. Though you were afraid the bed would collapse underneath you, it held long enough to get the job done. Clutching the girl close to your chest, you run from the house. Even in your rush, the coincidence of your playlist blaring Great Balls of Fire almost makes you laugh. Coughing, you turn the knob of the door, and push it open with your back. Pushing through the reeds of the horseweeds backward as to not harm the girl, you finally stop by your car. You set the girl down, and lean against the car to catch your breath.
"Are you," you pant, "alright?" The girl looks at you as though you are absolutely insane.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"I thought I was saving you from the fire?" you say. "How did you even get in there? Where are your parents? What's going on here?" Her face softens noticeably.
"Oh," she says softly, "you don't know. I was in no danger. I cannot burn because I am fire. Mārijin min nār actually . . . a mixture of fire. I am-"
"A jinni?" you say incredulously. "You are a jinni?"
"Yes, I am . . . and your house is on fire."
"Okay, that would explain everything . . . so I guess I'll just accept that you are what you say." You turn to watch your house burn. "Well, I guess I won't have to clean it now."
"Oh," she suddenly exclaims, "you're burned!"
You look down and notice a rather large burn on your arm. You don't even feel it, but it looks rather nasty. Third degree by the look of it. "That's going to suck when the adrenaline wears off," you say, "and it's going to cost me a bundle to go to the hospital. Shit . . . " you look at your house. "I'll be back. I have to get my keys." You rush into the smoke-filled house, grab your keys, and rush out. You stop by the car once more and cough your lungs out. Suddenly you are being hit in the chest.
"You dumb, stupid . . . dummy!" shouts Allorah as she beats you in the chest. "You could have gotten yourself killed!"
"Well, I can't drive to the hospital without keys."
"They don't have ambulances any more?"
"Do you know how much an ambulance ride costs? I'm getting a lot of overtime, but my insurance sucks. It's three thousand dollars before the insurance pays a dime. At this point in my life, I'd rather die."
"Don't say that," she says emphatically.
"Why," you ask, "you just met me. Why should you care."
"I don't get nice masters very often," she says softly. "It would be a shame if you died." She runs her hand along your burn, and you flinch at the thought of the touch, but it is simply cool. A glow emanates from her hand, not unlike the glow from a copy machine as she traces your wound, and like that, the burn is gone.
"Master?" you ask, looking into her eyes. She blushes and nods, but doesn't look away.
"Yes, the bearer of my ring is my master. They may summon me seven times to do their bidding; then I am cast to the wind once more."
"That seems a silly magical item to make . . . unless one wished to cause chaos I suppose."
"Oh, originally I returned to the ring's maker's bloodline . . . but they are all gone; so it's rather random where I end up now."
"That makes more sense . . . maybe it's transporting you to the largest patch of their dust or something."
"I don't know," she says with a shrug.
"Well, no matter." You say lightly, "I'm not your master. I dropped the ring when you appeared. I guess you're free."
"That's sweet, but that isn't how this works. You summoned me, so I have to do the task you set me to, then I go back into the ring."
"I see . . . so seven wishes? What can you do?"
"Well, I can do a lot . . . but I am no god. My magic is powerful, but not omnipotent. It isn't like the movies."
"We'll I'm glad you know about the movies."
"Yes, I might be a bit out of touch. The last time I was out of the ring was 1953."
"Fifty-three . . . yeah, you have quite a bit to catch up on. Are you hungry?"
"I guess I could eat," she says with a shrug.
"We should probably get you a change of clothes first if we don't want me to get arrested."
"Umm . . . okay," she replies. "What about your house?"
"Let it burn," you say, "it was going to be hell to clean anyway. I'm sure someone will call the fire department eventually. It's a good thing the bed was next to the electrical box . . . they'll probably call it an accident and I'll get insurance money."
"Wait a second," says Allorah as she dashes into the inferno. She comes out a few nervous minutes later completely unscathed. "This belongs to you," she says as she holds out her hand. You open your hand and she drops her ring into it. It's still warm, but not hot enough to burn you.
"You don't have to do that," you say.
"What," she replies, "and have some random firefighter become my master? I'd rather not take the chance."
"Well, let's go to the store and get you some clothes."
| Reflexes: | 5 | Strength: | 7 | Resilience: | 12 |
| Dexterity: | 5 | Speed: | 6 | Stamina: | 9 |
| Health: 84% | |||||
| Perception: | 10 | Knowledge: | 15 | Willpower: | 10 |
| Logic: | 11 | Wit: | 13 | Focus: | 11 |
| Intellect: 95% | |||||
| Empathy: | 5 | Presence: | 7 | Confidence: | 10 |
| Charisma: | 5 | Rapport: | 6 | Influence: | 8 |
| Sanity: 34% | |||||