Fiction River

by Fiction River

  As I skid to a stop beside Goldie, he raises his hands and shakes his head. “We just want to talk! Swear to God, we just want to talk!”

  “You changed your mind about what?” I ask her.

  Leila’s frantic, like she might take off running again any second. Her eyes dart right and left, left and right...and then they come to rest on me. They’re crazy wide, all bugged out, swimming in their sockets.

  Then, she frowns. Her eyes narrow, and she takes a step toward me. “Wait.” Another step, another. “You look a little like him, back in the day...but you’re not him.” One more. “Oh my God, you’re not him.”

  “Not who?” I ask her.

  “Him.” She shakes her head slowly. “From a distance, I thought you were him. But you’re not. You’re not Abel.”

  “Who’s Abel?” asks Goldie.

  Leila hesitates for a long moment. “My first love. My high school boyfriend.” She pauses again, and her frown deepens. “Why the heck am I telling you this?”

  Because I’m a Wishie, maybe? And even if I’m not her wish come true, she can’t help opening up to someone giving off that kind of wish-based energy?

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe you just need to talk about it.”

  Her frown deepens, then fades. She clears her throat and starts talking again. “This sounds crazy, but...I wished upon a star for him to come back to life. Abel. So I could apologize.”

  “Apologize for what?” I ask her.

  Leila looks down at the cracked sidewalk. “For driving drunk and causing the crash that killed him.”

  Goldie meets my gaze. Neither of us says anything.

  “I had a feeling the wish worked,” continues Leila. “Somehow. It’s hard to explain.” When she looks up, there are tears in her eyes. “But then I lost my nerve. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face him.”

  Disappointed as I am that she’s not my wisher, I can’t help feeling sorry for her. Wishies can’t make wishes that come true, but if I could, I’d make one for her. I almost wish I was her Abel right now, so I could tell her I forgive her and let her get on with her life.

  “So who are you people, anyway?” she asks. “Why were you chasing me?”

  “You might not believe this,” I tell her, “but I thought you were someone I’d wished for, too.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “Seriously?”

  “For real.” I nod, reaching for the rest of the story, the part that isn’t so real. “I thought you were my old girlfriend, actually.” The words flow without being forced, like they’re absolutely true. “I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

  “Huh.” Leila cocks her head to one side. “That’s a pretty big coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “Definitely.” I hear people yelling down the street, and I glance at Goldie. Time to beat it, if the folks I plowed over while chasing Leila are finally catching up to us. “Wishes can be full of surprises, that’s for sure.”

  Then it’s me and Goldie’s turn to run away from her.

  Hours later, we walk into a bar in the Cultural District, on Liberty Avenue—and find ourselves stared at from the murky shadows by all kinds and colors of eyes.

  The place is called Fulfillment, and it’s a Wishie bar—but not just any Wishie bar. This one is a hangout for Wishies who can’t easily pass for everyday people...the ones who aren’t lucky like Goldie and me, who can’t blend in and go about their business without raising eyebrows, or worse.

  It’s amazing what some folks will wish for. I see a tiny frog-headed person, six inches tall, standing on a barstool, sipping beer through an angled-down straw.

  Over there’s a big brass robot with a tuba for a head and fuzzy pink oven mitts and slippers. In a dark corner booth, I see a cross between an angel and a unicorn talking to twin Siamese cat people drinking red wine, their ruby-studded collars glowing faintly.

  You might call it a freak show, though every Wishie’s a freak of nature when you get right down to it. None of us was meant to be in this world, were we? And looking “normal,” like I do, sure doesn’t mean it’s any easier to assimilate, does it?

  “Hey!” Just then, the bartender (a “normal”-looking human with thick, dark hair and a bushy mustache) calls out to us. “Let’s see some I.D.” He leans closer, sizing us up. “Or do you two only look like teenagers?”

  He has a point. For all he knows, we might be hundreds of years old...but it doesn’t matter. “It’s cool,” I tell him. “We’re just here looking for someone.”

  “Not cool.” The bartender slaps the bar with his big, beefy hand. “Maybe you don’t understand the concept of a safe haven? Because that’s what this place is.”

  “We’re Wishies, too.” I step up to the bar and lock eyes with him. “So yeah, we get it.”

  The bartender’s dark eyes narrow as he gazes deep into mine, taking my measure—then snorts and leans back. “It doesn’t matter what you are. Safe.” He smacks the bar again. “Haven.” And again.

  “Please.” I lower my voice. “The Wisherman sent me.”

  Boom, the bartender’s whole attitude changes. His eyebrows lift, and he sounds surprised. “You’re full of shit.”

  I shake my head. “For real. He sent me to meet someone here. One of your regulars.”

  “Why?” The bartender slides his gaze along the bar, taking in the motley group lined up there. “Which one?”

  “Which one is somebody called Samson,” I tell him. “‘Why’ is between me and him.”

  “Him?” The bartender snorts. “Not exactly.”

  With that, he turns and gestures at a booth along the wall. I see an elderly woman sitting there with her head down, alone, nursing a glass of white wine.

  “Name is Mrs. Samson.” The bartender leans toward me, dropping his voice. “She’s not a Wishie. More like a Wishie hag.”

  “Right.” Wishie hags are like groupies. They hang around Wishies because they get off on the weirdness or hope the magic rubs off or something. I’ve met a few in my time, though none as old as this one. “Thanks.”

  If I had any cash, I’d put some on the bar to pay for the info, but I’m broke after paying the Wisherman. Instead, I just nod and head for the Wishie hag’s table.

  “Mrs. Samson?”

  The old woman squints up at me. “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering.” I sit down across from her, and Goldie stays standing. “Have you made a wish recently?”

  Mrs. Samson squints harder, pulling the web of wrinkles on her face tighter. Then, she shakes her head slowly. “You’re not him.”

  “Him who?” I ask her.

  Her hand shakes as she takes a sip of wine, then puts down the glass, which is almost empty. “My dream grandson,” she says softly. “I’d know him anywhere, and you are definitely not him.”

  My heart sinks like a cinder block tossed in a lake. Two wishers down; that leaves me with just one more.

  I want to jump up from the seat and run toward the last person on the Wisherman’s list...but the old lady’s still talking. Telling her story, though I really don’t need any explanation.

  “I never had children. My husband and I couldn’t have them, and we never adopted. But I’ve never stopped dreaming about them. I had a perfect dream son and daughter...up here.” She taps her right temple with one bony, quivering finger. “And one day, my dream daughter gave birth to my dream grandson.”

  I nod, getting more impatient with each passing moment. But I feel a little sorry for her, too...sitting alone in a Wishie bar, talking about the kids and grandson she never had.

  “He was so real to me,” says Mrs. Samson. “So smart and handsome and sweet.” Her eyes sparkle as she smiles at the thought of him. “One day, when a salesman came to my door, selling wishes, I decided to buy one. And I used it to wish for my grandson to come to life. My darling David.” Her shoulders lift with youthful excitement. “He’d be 17 years old today!”

  “Seventeen, huh?”

  Her smile fades. “B
ut it’s been a long time since I made that wish. It’s been weeks. I don’t think it’s going to come true. I think I was flim-flammed.” She sniffs, then dabs at her nose with a bar napkin. “I’ve been coming here because I thought maybe being around other wishes that came to life might give my own wish a boost...but nothing. I’m ready to give up hope.”

  I reach over and take her hand. “It’ll be okay,” I tell her, though I don’t explain why. I don’t tell her that if she showed up on the Wisherman’s radar, it must mean her wish has some magic to it after all.

  Her eyes tear up as she gapes at me with naked, desperate hope. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes.” I squeeze her hand and smile. “I think there’s still a chance that things will work out.”

  The late afternoon sun casts long shadows before Goldie and me as we follow a sidewalk to the front door of our last destination. It’s a rundown little house in a bad section of Homestead, a single-story shack on a grassless lot surrounded by chain link fence. It’s a few stops from the Cultural District on “The T”—Pittsburgh’s subway—but it’s a universe away from the upscale parts of downtown.

  The place doesn’t look so hot, but at least the front gate is open, and a pit bull doesn’t charge out to get us when we set foot inside. Still, I’m nervous as we get closer to the door...though not so much because it’s a rundown house in a sketchy neighborhood.

  “What if this isn’t my wisher, either?” I say to Goldie. “What if all this, everything, is a dead end, and I never find the person who wished me to life?”

  “Then you move on,” says Goldie. “At least you’ll know you tried.”

  I swallow hard and put my foot on the first step. “Eff that. I wanna know.” Taking a deep breath, I walk up the three creaky steps to the rickety porch. Flecks of peeling paint trickle down as my knuckles rap the wooden door three times.

  Nothing happens, and I realize there’s another possibility here. What if nobody’s home? Do we wait around? Come back tomorrow?

  What if they’re gone for good? The Wisherman gave us this address, but what if his information is out of date?

  “Try again,” says Goldie.

  I’d make a smartass remark, but I’m too nervous. Instead, I just knock three more times and wait.

  Still nothing.

  “Shit.” I try one more time, knocking a little harder. When I get the same result, I turn and shake my head, ready to give up.

  Which is exactly when I hear the door creak open.

  “Hello?” A little voice squeaks out from inside. “Who’s there?”

  Whipping around, I see a little girl, maybe seven or eight years old, with stringy black hair. She holds the door open a few inches, just enough for me to see her dirty face.

  And the instant she has a look at me, her eyes fly wide open. And I know. I don’t know the details yet, but I know.

  This is it.

  “Oh my God!” she says. “You came for us! Oh my God!”

  Suddenly, she flings the door open, charges out, and wraps her arms around me.

  As we stand there like that, I feel her sobbing against my legs. Her embrace is so tight, it’s like she’s never going to let go.

  “There you go, Nil.” Goldie steps up beside me and drops a hand on my shoulder. “Looks like we came to the right place after all.”

  “Hurry,” says the little girl, pulling me through the doorway. “They’ll be home soon!”

  As we step inside the house, a blast of stench hits me like a speeding truck. The place stinks like cigarettes, rotten food, and raw sewage all mixed together, strong enough that it makes me gag.

  Forcing down the urge to throw up, I take a look around, and I’m sick all over again. The living room is filled with garbage and debris. A little boy—maybe 3 or 4 years old—is pissing in a blue plastic bucket in the corner. Everywhere I look, I see every kind of filth I can think of, from mold-covered food to hairballs to poop on the ratty carpet.

  I see crushed beer cans scattered around the room, and liquor bottles and ashtrays overflowing with butts and ashes. There’s a fluorescent green glass bong overturned on the floor, and a used syringe on a stack of magazines.

  Now this is a true shithole.

  The little girl tugs my arm to get my attention. “Tommy told us about you,” she tells me. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask her.

  “Missy.” The girl points at the boy with the bucket. “He’s Stevie.”

  Stevie finishes pissing and instantly lights up when he looks my way. “Tommy!”

  “Not Tommy,” says Missy. “Tommy’s dead.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “Who’s Tommy?”

  Stevie pulls up his pants and runs over to hug me. “I missed you! Tommy, I missed you!”

  Missy gazes up at me. After all she must have been through in her young life, her eyes still look bright and innocent somehow. “He was just like you. Exactly the same...almost.”

  “What do you mean, almost?” asks Goldie.

  “He said you were going to be stronger,” says Missy. “Tougher, because he was never tough enough to save us.”

  The little boy squeezes me tighter. “I love you, Tommy!”

  “You said he’s dead?” I ask Missy.

  She nods. “He found a genie and wished for you...another him, but tough and scary enough to do what he never could. But then he got killed before he could make his next wish for you to come save us.”

  “Who killed him?” I ask.

  “Mommy’s boyfriend, Baggie,” says the girl. “And Mommy was sad, but then she took her medicine and felt all better.” Her voice breaks when she says the rest. “She even helped get rid of Tommy’s body, which was smelling really bad.”

  I look at the syringe, then back at Goldie, and he just shakes his head sadly. Everything about this place makes my heart hurt.

  “Where’s Mommy now?” asks Goldie.

  “Getting more medicine.” Missy looks at the door like she expects it to blow open at any moment. “She’ll be back real soon. So will Baggie.”

  “Tommy?” Stevie won’t let go of me. “What’re you gonna do now, Tommy?”

  I see something move out of the corner of my eye, and I jerk my head to look. That’s when I see the big cockroach skittering out from under a pile of underwear and fried chicken bones.

  In that instant, my mind is made up. I know exactly what I’m going to do.

  And when I look back at Goldie, I can see he totally agrees.

  Though, to be fair, it’s not like there was ever any doubt.

  When we walk into the Midnight Diner, Big Daddy Scarlip is the first person to hug the kids. Such a pain-in-the-ass control freak blowhard, but apparently he doesn’t hold a grudge over me popping him one that night.

  None of the local Wishies holds a grudge, either, I guess. As soon as we reached out to them for help, they fell all over themselves to bring it.

  How do you like that?

  Missy and Stevie get showered with attention, and they eat it up with a spoon. A day after escaping that shit-shack and the druggie Mommy and her boyfriend, they’re like brand new kids. Cleaned up and dressed in new clothes (from the dollar store, but still), they look like they never had a bad day in their lives.

  And goddammit, as I watch them laughing and goofing around, I feel the same way.

  When Missy looks at me and waves, I can’t help grinning. When she mouths the words, “Thank you,” I get a shiver of joy up my spine.

  “Tommy!” And when Stevie calls me that, I feel so happy, I think I might float away on the spot. “Hey, Tommy!”

  We don’t have everything figured out yet, it’s true. We’ve got plenty of complications, like you’d expect. But don’t underestimate these Wishies; they’re survivors (they have to be), and they’ve got resources that’ll help us deal. They’ve got special ways of dealing with loose ends and moving forward in a world that was never made for nobodie
s like us. Working together, we’ll provide for these kids and raise them up to be somebodies whether the world likes it or not.

  And right now, as I stand here, smelling the coffee brewing and watching the kids have the time of their lives, I have a feeling it’s all going to work out.

  “That’s my brother!” shouts Stevie. “My big brother, Tommy! And Uncle Goldie, too!”

  As Stevie says it, Goldie walks in and throws his arm around my shoulders. Doesn’t say a word; doesn’t have to.

  The rage is gone. I feel happy at last. This is all going to work out. But just in case...

  “I love you.” Missy mouths the words, and I cry a real tear for the first time in my life.

  But just in case, though I know they say wishes can’t come true for Wishies like me, I wish with all my heart and soul and everything I’ve got that the kids and me and Goldie will all live happily ever after.

  If Wishes Were Kisses

  Lesley L. Smith

  Lesley L. Smith says Shakespeare’s The Tempest inspired “If Wishes Were Kisses.” She writes, “The sea of stars with its quantum foam is reminiscent of Earth’s ocean with storm-induced sea foam...The story didn’t really come together, however, until I let go of Shakespeare’s plot and created something new.”

  Lesley puts her own spin on a lot of science fiction ideas, and she comes by that naturally. When she’s not writing science fiction, she’s a practicing scientist—a physicist, in fact, at one of the nation’s major universities.

  While “If Wishes Were Kisses” marks her first appearance in Fiction River, her short fiction has appeared in venues from Analog to Daily Science Fiction. She’s also published seven novels including Quantum Cop, Temporal Dreams, and Conservation of Luck.

  “If Wishes Were Kisses” sounds like the title for something romantic and sweet—and this is. But it’s also got a strong science fiction idea at its very core.