If you met a genie and the genie lets you go back to school for twenty-four hours … would you do it?
The morning the genie popped his little head out my ancient coffeepot to give me his spiel, I didn’t stop to think. I had wanted this all my life.
I won’t see seventy again, so my schooldays were a very long time ago but what happened to me then sadly still goes on today.
What occurred? Trust me it’s too unpleasant to detail but here are three key words: Priest. Catholic. Choir.
Once I accepted the genie’s offer, the kitchen spun round and round and I swirled down and down in fairy-tale fashion, but there was no accompanying mood music to transport me to St Wilfrid’s (not its real name, my publisher obliges me to say).
I was twelve years old when this happened, but on my trip back I remained the 74-year-old of today, but without the rickety body. It took no time to find Br. Michael taking his daily constitutional in the public park.
Let me not dwell on details. What I did was gruesome but I make no apology. It was over in seconds: a blade, a river of blood and a part of his anatomy carried away in triumph.
If a genie lets you go back to school, make sure he tells you how to get back to the present. Mine didn’t, and that’s why I go to the electric chair tomorrow at nine.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 