By Serena Jayne
Sebastian rubbed the shiny lamp.
Genie appeared. “Last wish.”
“Immortality,” Sebastian said. “’Sunshine Serenade’ went platinum in ’65, but the dawn of disco doomed my song to obscurity. Success doesn’t last forever, but I can.”
“Granted,” Genie dissipated into blue mist.
Sebastian’s mouth ached. “How very underwhelming.” Newly pointed teeth sliced his tongue.
His late night snack of garlic-heavy pasta burned his belly. He craved blood.
The sunrise lit up his panoramic million-dollar view. On cue, ‘Sunshine Serenade’ played in surround sound.
He yelped, skin smoking. Darted away from the sunlight.
Lack of specificity would be the death of him.