I Wish Thee A Faerie Nice Day

by Jill Corddry

Ganna glanced down at her pointy purple nails and sighed. Why did this always take so long? She covered a second huff with a sugary smile, the one all wishers expected, full of curiosity and promise. Her eyes widened intentionally. She batted her green and purple eyelashes at the grotesque human quivering in front of her.

 

“Shall I ask again?” she purred, flying closer to his obnoxious face. She fluttered her long, thin wings faster, creating a hypnotic, prismatic effect that might hurry things along. “What wish may I have the honor of granting you?”

 

Their wishes were always the same: to be more attractive or richer, to find love, to have fast cars and big houses. Boring. Boring. Boring. But she was expected to wave her dumbass magic wand, fling a bunch of glitter around (that stuff seriously got into every crevice, and it itched!), and make their wish come true.

 

The blob of a man shuffling his feet in front of her hemmed and hawed, mumbling over all of his (super predictable) options. He could ask to find love. He could ask to be thinner. More handsome. He could ask for money and maybe no one would care what he looked like. With money he could make himself more attractive. He could have things and then people would want to hang out with him.

 

Decision made, his face relaxed. “Money,” he coughed, then cleared his throat and said it again. “I want money.”

 

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Wingman

by August Niehaus

Savas doesn’t give the woman a second glance when she deposits herself and her oversized red handbag on the bar stool to his right. His attention is on his best friend, whose reaction to the story of Kimberleigh breaking up with him is distressingly underwhelming.

“This was worse than anything Celia ever did to you,” Savas barks, slamming his whiskey down for emphasis. The bar’s other patrons twitch and subtly turn away from him, and the bartender sends a dark glower his way. Savas meekly raises the glass towards one and all, his eyebrow twitching, and continues speaking to Russell in a more level tone, “I might as well have been a tablecloth at a cheap restaurant: there by design, and still undesirable.”

Russell might be hiding a smirk behind his beer glass. “For a second I thought you were gonna say ‘sticky and dirty.’”

Savas pulls a face, but he doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. “You would not be wrong.”

“Maybe it’s just high time you go after different women, Sav.”

“Hi,” says the woman with the red handbag right on cue, leaning in.

Russell raises both brows, his unspoken words coming across clearly: And you might as well start right the hell now. He leans back, and Savas knows there will be no more sympathetic ear until he at least pretends to give it the old Reed College try.

Savas sighs, guzzles whiskey, then turns to the woman. He’s surprised to find that, when he actually gives her his attention, she’s quite attractive: she’s got those pouty red lips and thick eyelashes and straightened hair he likes in photos. Still, he won’t appear too eager, so he doesn’t ditch the sullen look.

“Hullo,” he says.
 

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