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ebook
First published October 19, 2019
For a royal lady expected to do nothing more arduous than sew uselessly, eat daintily, dance industriously and gossip discreetly, a brain wasn’t just a superfluity. It was an impediment to her progress in life.
On a display case were different releases of Dostoyevsky. Anna ran her finger over a hard spine, while imagining his time in Omsk. He had spent four years inside prison walls. There, the voices of stories erected. He had penetrated into the darkest recesses of Anna’s being. She flushed. But she had spent too much time communing with him. She needed something else.
Outside snow was collecting. The city was bathed in a white glow.
There were lots of TolsToys in the shop. Sometimes he kept her awake all night. Somewhere between happiness and suffering. Anna missed that, but no.
They stood speechless as smoke poured out. Slowly the form of a classical genie appeared: pantaloons, pointy shoes, a silly hat. The works.
“Shit!” said Jason.
“Your wish, O Master.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” said the genie.
“I … I don’t know,” stammered Jason, wondering where Sally had gotten the weed they’d smoked.
"Come on," said the genie.
He sang as he walked down the cliff’s makeshift stairs to the salt-worn pier at the base, a soft, whiskey bass rolling from the sea foam tumble of his beard. He sat at the pier’s edge, feet dangling. The sun yawned, one last burst of orange and red, then made room for the night and her stars.