Wish Tank

I guess if your dying wish was to live just a little longer then it wouldn’t be a dying wish?  I don’t know.  So easy to confuse myself here.  But knowing me, I’d wish for like twenty more minutes—to call people, smoke a bunch of cigarettes, finish the thought I was thinking and maybe even text it: last published words!  And if, at that point, the wish-granting force saw fit to grant me a real dying wish, I’d try and cop the same decency: like a pageant hopeful, I’d wish for world peace, I’d wish for my family and everyone else to be blessed and shined upon, and I’d keep on wishing in just that way until the wish-granting force said, Enough.

Scott Garson edits Wigleaf, an online journal of very short fiction. He’s also the author of American Gymnopédies, a collection of micros.