Fitting In
Once upon a time... No.

No. They always start like that. Stories always start ‘once upon a time’ – in a desperate attempt to make the setting more magical than it actually was. The Brothers Grimm, for example, would have you believe that Little Red Riding Hood lived in a forest inhabited by murderous, talking wolves with a penchant for dressing up as old ladies. Or they would also have us believe that three little pigs (with hairy chinny-chin-chins and no opposable thumbs) were able to build houses of twigs, straw and stones – all the while being terrorised by (very probably cross-dressing) murderous, talking wolves. A recurring theme? Possibly, but definitely not based in fact.

Anyway, I digress. Not-so-very-long-ago, in the heaving streets of London, I met a girl. Her name was Fiona, she was twenty-one, and from the moment we met, we became firm friends. There was never any attraction between us, just a bond of the same sense of humour, the same views on life.

We sat together one cold night, chatting over a glass of wine and relaxing in the deep leather sofas of an East London pub. It was then she told me the most fantastical story that I had ever heard.

Five years previously, and Fiona was sixteen. By all accounts, she was tall and gangly – awkward in her own skin and desperately shy. She tried to fit in with her peers by reading the ‘right’ magazines or wearing the ‘right’ clothes. Sadly for her, though, the clothes hung off her frame like rags, and the magazines never felt comfortable in her hands. She tried smoking, but it only made her cough, and drinking just made her feel woozy. Often she would go to bed at night, the cruel laughter of her peers still ringing in her ears, praying that in the morning she would wake up in a different body.

And then, after months of teenage angst, a chance to do some good. The school she attended was organising a trip to the Middle East, to distribute aid and provide some kind of cultural exchange. She quickly signed up and, within a few short months, found herself in the dry heat of the Middle East. She was in a market town, her senses being assaulted by the sights, sounds and smells of this unfamiliar world. She became thirsty and approached a market seller for some fruit, knowing drinking the water would be idiotic.

The wizened man at the stall smiled at her. She was very obviously a Western girl in an unfamiliar environment. “Hallo, my dear,” he drawled, beckoning her further under the awning of his stall. “What can I do for you?”

“I would like to buy some fruit,” she said “how much for a piece of melon?”

“Pah!” The old man waved a dismissive hand. “Why have melon, when you can have... eternity?”

Fiona was puzzled, and found herself being bustled by the people on the busy street. She began to feel light-headed, and found herself being unable to respond when the man drew her further in to his lair.

“Respect. Riches. Immortality. Love. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I can give you all of these things, and I can do it.... For free.”

Fiona blinked. Nothing was free in this world, she knew that much.

“For free?”

“Suuurre!” The man suddenly became light and airy. “All you have to do is look in here.”

He removed the lid from a deep basket. Fiona leaned over, fearing what she may see.

“Noo...” said the old man “You must look... deeper.”

Taking a deep breath, Fiona looked right in to the basket. She felt hands on her back, hands that pushed her in to the basket in front of her. She landed in a heap, turning to see the face of the man who said “I cast you in to the service of the almighty supernatural. You shall never leave this basket without the love of your one true heart.”

There followed six months of torture. Fiona was called upon to emerge from the basket at the whim of the old man, her task to spend a week chained to one of his customers, granting them any wish he so desired. Until, as she began to tire, a new customer came to the stall. Fiona was pulled from the basket, and as she adjusted her veil she looked to the new man. He was tall, and handsome, and as she looked over him she knew immediately that she was in Love. Real Love.

The next week passed in a whirlwind. She granted his wishes, and, on their last day together, she asked him what his final wish would be.

“I wish that you could come with me.” He said, and at that moment her chains came free. Returning to her captor, he screamed a vile curse, but before he could finish he found himself shoved in to the basket by Fiona’s true love, and run through by an ancient sword. They ran together, through the market, and away in to the Arabian Night.

~~~

“Wow!” I said. “That’s an incredible story! What happened to your true love?”

“Oh, him? He was an idiot. Dumped him when we got to Heathrow.”

~~~

And that, dear friends, is the story of Fi, Teen Djinn.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 16 Jan 2009, 12:40, 5 replies)

At least I didn't read it twice.
*Spang*
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Fri 16 Jan 2009, 13:14, closed)

For any longish point
I now scroll to the bottom and use my special Pun Filter ^TM.

Saves valuable time.
( rofl harris, Fri 16 Jan 2009, 14:18, closed)

I was enjoying that story...
...just for it's own sake.

And then you went and did *that* to it. Shame on you.
(dxg, Fri 16 Jan 2009, 15:23, closed)

Oh,
Couldnt see how there would be a pun this week.
I apologise, i greatly underestimate the b3tan.

Have a click
(TheColonel, Fri 16 Jan 2009, 15:54, closed)

Hooray!
:-)
(MrOli is ugly, but in the morning you will be sober, Sun 18 Jan 2009, 17:18, closed)