A Three Random Words Story
This is a series of short stories where each tale is triggered by three unconnected words given to me by friends or a random opening of a dictionary. Today’s three words are:
Pantaloons, Salt Cellar, Samba
“No!!! No! No! No! No! No!” I screamed at the top of my voice as I was slowly forced into my new prison. I had been released from my eons-long captivity for only a short while, just long enough to be compelled to teach a new master how to make the beautiful glass I had once been revered for. Now, my time of freedom was over and the person I had been forced to share my knowledge with had no more use of me.
My voice screamed back at me, echoing off the glass walls of my prison. Eventually I stopped screaming and began to enter the state of extreme lethargy that is the norm for people like me when trapped.
I am a genie. My home is not some wonderful oil lamp as featured in the Arabian Nights Tales – it’s a salt cellar. A glass one with a lid. I am grateful that the glass is not clear, because – well, privacy is important. It’s the glorious cobalt blue which I had first learned to make thousands of years ago in Mesopotamia and whose secrets I had been forced to share when I had been claimed in the final year of the Great War.
It had been 1924 when that master had realised he had learned all my glass-making secrets and I was forced into my new prison and the golden lid was pushed down over the glass sealing my fate for the next 100 years.
When my prison is passed to a new owner, I can rise up out of my torpor: I become aware of the surroundings of my glass gaol and start to prepare for a new master, but if no-one opens my salt cellar, I soon fade back into the smoke of non-remembrance which is a gift when trapped in a small place for a long time.
Someone bought my salt cellar and gave it to a young couple, as a gift on the occasion of their marriage. The bride, recognising its beauty and value placed my jar in an Art Deco cabinet and over the following forty-five years, she would take it out on their anniversary and dust it.
In the late 1960’s her daughter inherited the salt cellar. She liked coloured glass and displayed my jar on a shelf in her kitchen. She did not even realise that the tightly sealed lid could be removed. She died only a few years later and her daughter was the next unwitting gaoler. She didn’t like the glass, but she was aware it was a family heirloom and she decided, along with other keepsakes belonging to her mother and her grandmother to place them safely in storage. My salt cellar, with me, as its unknown resident, was packed in newspaper, placed in a cardboard box and locked away in the darkness.
And I, now sealed in my salt cellar for almost a century, remained in deep, deep, ennui.
I woke suddenly. My prison was being moved, so I sent my growing awareness out through the field of blue in order to prepare should my lid be removed and freedom given. It was the great-granddaughter who had decided to clear out the old storage shed and had found my salt cellar.
Sunlight filtered through the cobalt blue glass bringing me to full awareness of the possibility of release; and so it was that when this curious young lady removed the top off my jar, that I, still dressed in the outfit of pantaloons, jacket and veils forced upon me in 1919, made my appearance in the modern world.
“Holy fuck,” yelled the young woman.
I stood still, shocked at the words which had left the mouth of my new mistress. I had never heard anyone use such profanity in all the thousands of years of my existence. Raising one eyebrow and placing my hands together I bowed respectfully. Yes, I disapproved, but it was not my place to judge my mistresses use of language.
“Mistress,” I said.
“Where did you come from? What do you want? Who the hell are you? There’s nothing here to steal.”
I decided to answer the questions in order. “I came from the glass jar you are holding in your hand. I want nothing, I am here merely to serve not to steal.”
The young woman turned round in a circle, looking at the walls, the door, the ceiling. “Where’s the camera?” she demanded.
I had no idea what a camera is, but I decided to play along. If I am asked a question I am obliged to give an answer, but that doesn’t mean I have to give the correct answer or even be polite.
“What is a camera? Is it something you have lost? What does it look like?” I am a fast learner. I too can ask many questions at once.
The woman finally stopped spinning around and looked at me. Really looked.
“You look like you’ve just come off a movie set or something. What’s your name and what are you doing here, in this shed?”
This woman, my new mistress, appeared to be talking in a foreign language comprised of questions. There was similarity of speech to that which my previous master had used, but there was also a large difference. It was obviously time for my powers to fully wake up from their 100-year slumber. I closed my eyes and expanded my energy field, seeking knowledge.
“Ok. Got it,” I said. “I am what your popular history calls a genie. A being of magic. I’ve been trapped in that glass jar for the last hundred years and you released me by opening the lid. That’s something your mother, your grandmother and even your great-grandmother never thought to do. I thank you.”
My new mistress suddenly burst into hysterical laughter. I stood and watched her, working hard to maintain my expression. That laughter was contagious and I grinned. Eventually she slowed down. “Did Steve send you? He likes to do tricks like this. You did a great job on the costume, by the way.”
“I’ve no idea who Steve is,” I replied, “and this is the costume my last master made me wear. He thought it was appropriate for a genie.”
“A genie? Right,” the young woman said, obviously unconvinced. “If you’re a genie, then I get three wishes. Right?”
“No.” I replied. “The three wish thing? That’s a made-up story. It doesn’t work like that in real life.”
“Oh,” she said nodding as if she understood even though it was really obvious that she didn’t. “OK. I’ll play along. So how do I know you’re a real genie and not just a friend of Steve’s playing a very good trick? Especially if I don’t get three wishes?”
“Oh! You get wishes. That’s real. It’s just not limited to three. You can have as many as you want, but there is a rule that you cannot escape.” I looked at her intensely, trying to impart how important that rule might be.
“All right, let’s hear this rule but first, what’s your name? What do I call you?”
“Very well, Mistress. My name is Nin-Kira. It means Lady of Dust. Which is kind of appropriate for a genie. You as my mistress can call me whatever you want”
“Nin-Kira? OK. That’s different. I’m Amanda. Now tell me about this rule.”
“There is only one rule, and understanding it is meant to stop you from misusing my magic. Basically, you can tell me to do anything, and I am obliged to obey you. So yes, I can grant your wishes, but you need to be very careful. I give you this warning now, so that you are fully aware of the risks you are taking with any request you make and so you understand that the results of your wish become your responsibility.
“You have to be really careful about what it is you want me to do. Magic is a form of Energy. I access this energy to complete the task and if I have to use magic to make something happen that normally would not happen, I have to pull the energy from somewhere – and that usually causes a disaster at that other place.
Amanda was starting to look very confused, and I realised that I had to explain in more detail.
“For example: You decide that having a heap of money would make a big difference in your life. You could buy things: new clothes, a new house, amazing holidays. First, you have to give me very specific instructions, like what currency you need the money to be in. If you are thinking American Dollars, but you don’t specify that, the money will come from wherever it is easiest to get it from. It could be Rubles, or Renminbi, or Euros – and it will also mean that someone else is having money taken away from them. And that will not be from the rich people. The rich people understand the magic involved and how to protect their hoard. Can you live with that? With taking money from the homeless and the hungry of the world, so you could have a new handbag?
“And the same principle applies to every wish you make. If you have a friend who feels ill and you tell me to make her better – I can do that, but someone else will get worse. Those scales of energy have to keep balanced. You want a nice sunny day to go to the beach – well, somewhere else there will be a tsunami.
Amanda was quiet for a few minutes as she thought this through. I could see that she still wasn’t convinced that I am a genie, but she wasn’t ready to disbelieve me either.
“I’m not ordering you – just to be clear – I’m just wondering if I were to ask you to bring some clothes from my wardrobe, and told you exactly which ones, that wouldn’t have an affect on some homeless person, would it?”
“No,” I answered. “That would be well thought out and very specific to the task, especially if you needed the clothes for a purpose.”
I could see Amanda was thinking deeply as she walked around the perimeter of the storge shed.
“Right,” she said. “Let’s test this. Either you are real – which I doubt – or one of my friends, most likely Steve, has gone to one heck of a lot of trouble to set me up. Either way, one thing is certain, you need new clothes. You cannot walk around in daylight dressed like that. In my wardrobe there are three pairs of jeans hanging on the rail. Can you bring me the ones on the right. Also, you will find folded on a shelf a green t-shirt with the words ‘Magic Princess’ written on the front. On the floor of the wardrobe there are a pair of green sandals. Can you bring all of those things to me?”
Amanda had barely finished speaking when the three items appeared out of thin air, floating about waist height.
“Holy fuck,” said Amanda again. I was less shocked this time and suspected that I would soon get used to profanity. “You really did it. You really are a genie?”
I nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”
Amanda thrust the clothes at me. “Put these on. You look ridiculous in those pantaloons and if you are going to be my new best friend, you have to look the part.”
It was with relief that I allowed the genie costume to dissolve and be replaced with the clothing style of this era. We then left the storage shed (after I had reminded Amanda not to forget my salt cellar) and I had my first look at this modern world – which was terrifying with it’s noise and smells and the strange monsters Amanda told me were vehicles for transport.
We walked a short way to an open space of grass, trees and a pond with ducks swimming on the water. She led me away from other people and we sat on the grass beneath a tall tree. Amanda was quiet for a few minutes before she spoke.
“If I wanted someone to love me, can you make that happen, magically?”
“Yes, I can do that but remember – if I make something happen that wouldn’t normally have happened by itself, there will be a debt to be repaid. Love is an energy and the opposite of love is another energy called hatred. If I make someone love you through the use of magic, a lot of hatred would also come into your life. It’s not a good idea at all.”
She frowned, then sat quietly staring at the ducks on their pond. “Would there be a big imbalance if I asked you to set up a situation which could open up an opportunity where I could meet a certain someone in a way that seems to have naturally happened?”
“There’s potential in that scenario,” I replied, “but it would have to be somewhere that the other person would normally go to, and you would also have to have a solid reason for being there. Tell me what you are thinking, and I will let you know if there is possibility in the idea.”
Amanda told me that what she wanted was to catch the eye of a certain man whose sister was a competitive ballroom dancer. This man was supportive of his sister and always went to the competitions. Amanda thought that winning a dance competition would be the best chance she had of ensuring that he saw her – especially if she was dancing the samba. The costumes, she told me, are very sexy but her problem was that she had no idea how to do the samba, or any other form of ballroom dancing.
“Will it affect anyone else if you teach me to dance?” she asked.
I looked at her. “How soon is this competition?”
“Three months.”
I am sure my reaction showed all over my face. “Do you understand how many years it takes to train to dance at a competitive level?” I responded. “And if I waved a magic wand and yelled Abracadabra, where do you think the energy for that skill would come from? I’ll tell you. It would come from the six-year-old who falls over and breaks her leg. It would come from another competitor – maybe even his sister – who might develop a mysterious illness and be unable to compete. It might come from an old man walking down the street with his wife on their 60th wedding anniversary and reminiscing about the first dance they ever had as a married couple. Do you really want things like that to happen so that you can catch someone’s eye?”
“Oh my god!” Amanda sighed. “I never thought.”
“That, dear Amanda, is the modern problem. People act without considering where the energy comes from. There is another way we can do this. It means that you need to put in the work in order to have a chance – an opportunity – to get what you are seeking in the right way.
“You also need to be aware that even if you put in the work, what you desire still may not happen – but you would have learned some things along the way. You would have learned that hard works brings its own rewards and that dancing is a beautiful expression of you and your emotions.
“The only prize that is worth achieving comes as the result of your own hard work and dedication.
And, sometimes, the guidance of a genie.”
Thank you for reading my work.
I hope it gave you as much joy to read as it did for me in writing it.
This story is completely written by me – a human – without the input of AI.
I have, however, used AI to assist with the pictures
I am no artist and these really help bring the story to life.
Please leave a comment.
If you feel inclined to contribute to a new story – leave me a random word or three. I will write each word on a piece of paper and put them in a bowl so that, when the urge to write arrives I can reach in and see what magic arises!
Leave a comment