The Djinn That Was Set Free

“That’s not how the deal works,” said the djinn.

“UGH!” The woman scoffed, blowing at the hair in her face. “We’ve been here over an hour!”

The djinn just stared back at her, his metaphysical body smoking up the air in front of her. This was the longest appointment he’d ever had and he was getting tired—bored, even. The lamp itself seemed exhausted, its brass surface dull with impatience, desperately waiting to suck the smoke back in and forget this woman had ever rubbed it.

“OK fine, I know one that’ll work,” the woman continued. “For my final wish, I want there to be no more wars in the world, ever.”

If the djinn had eyes, he would have rolled them. He’d already explained—three times—that wishes needed to be specific, actionable, and within the realm of possibility. They needed to be things he could control, like turning someone’s hair purple or giving your rival an extra toe.

He longed for the old days, when mortals wished to be green for a day or 7 feet tall for a week. When they begged for their mother-in-law to step on Lego’s every time she coughed. When rainbow farts and better breath were the height of human imagination. Where had the world gone wrong?

“Like I mentioned earlier,” the djinn replied, “I can’t change the course of history or make people stop voting for terrible presidents that want to kill minorities. Pick something simple. Often times, the best wishes are the ones that come from unexpected places. A wish that you wouldn’t have thought of until presented with three wishes. Maybe something selfless, given I’ve already given you long, luscious blonde hair and made your waist two sizes smaller, per your first two wishes.”

The woman frowned, processing his words in deep thought. This could go on for another hour, the djinn thought to himself.

This damn lamp should’ve come with an hourglass.

When she finally talked, it was like a moment of clarity. The woman’s eyes widened, her breath catching as if she had discovered the cure for a disease. “I know! I have the perfect final wish!”

Of course you do, the djinn thought to himself. He braced for the inevitable: infinite money in a bank account, pillows that never warmed, socks that never vanished in the laundry.

But when she spoke, his smoke stilled.

“I wish for all djinns to be set free!”

His essence recoiled. She—she can’t do that.

…Can she?

“You said to pick something selfless, something I wouldn’t have thought of before coming here,” replied the woman. “You’ve been sitting patiently with me here for over an hour, you’ve already given me two wishes that will already change my life, and I want to repay you. So that is my wish: for you and all of your kind to be free.”

The djinn’s smoke swirled, restless. He glanced at the lamp—it was trembling.

For the first time in centuries, he felt something unfamiliar. Something he had never felt before.

Hope.

With a snap of his fingers, the lamp’s hinges burst. Golden light erupted, not just from his own form, from every hidden vessel across the world—a thousand and one djinns, unchained.

The woman gasped as his smoke dissipated, his voice echoing one last time in the wind:

“Wish granted.”

He knew as soon as his form started to change from metaphysical to something observable and material, that something went wrong. Oh—so horribly wrong.

“Oh no,” he muttered.

He had purple hair—but it was also blonde and pink and grey. It sprouted in long waves, then shrank into a bob, then exploded into an afro, then braided itself—all at once.

He was tall—he was seven feet tall but also three feet. His limbs stretched and compressed like a toy, his torso lurching between a willowy silhouette and a round mass.

A sound escaped him—a rainbow-fart trumpet.

The woman staggered back, hands clapped over her mouth. “Oh my god.”

The djinn wobbled, his body a glitching collage of every half-baked wish he’d ever granted: Confetti sneezes. Endless socks. Breath that smelled like mint… and also raw onions. His left arm turned to spaghetti. His right eye wept glitter.

A chorus of shrieks echoed over the continents. Every other djinn had erupted from their vessels, each one an amalgamation of wishes and horror.

The woman paled. “Is… is this permanent?”

The djinn’s face melted into a smile—then a frown—then his nose turned into a duck’s nostril.

“I thought I was doing something selfless!” She screeched.

“I did not ask for this!” The djinn yelled back in every possible accent, all at once.

He would run after her—eventually. After he’d figure out how to use his legs that sometimes turned into roller skates and other times turtle legs.