Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

A Fine Malt

Slowly I unscrew the bottle cap squinting at the almost illegible Jim Beam label. A charcoal grey mist swirls up and out from the bottle’s neck, releasing an intoxicating fug of fine malt, before morphing into a sallow faced youth dressed in ripped black jeans, studded black leather jacket and biker boots, oily hair tied back in a ponytail, rings through his lip and nose.

“Who...? What...? My mind boggles. Glass shatters into tiny shards as the whiskey bottle hits the ground and I scramble for safety behind one of the stanchions supporting the overhead concrete bridge vibrating from the traffic flow.

“I’m the Genie in the bottle,” his voice is as old and rusty as Methuselah. “You can call me Gene.” He inhales the crisp night air and warms his hands over a brazier of hot burning coals. “Thanks for letting me out,” he grins. “Been a while.”

Earlier that evening I’d clambered over discarded grease-covered boxes and other assorted rubbish stacked against the banged-up, flaky green-painted skip outside the back of McDonalds, my ‘go to’ place to rummage for an evening meal.

Jackpot; I’d scrounged through the scraps and unearthed a carton containing an almost uneaten Big Mac with a handful of chips congealed in tomato sauce and a dirty, grime-covered bottle of Jim Beam that someone had chucked in, cap screwed on tight. Something sloshed around inside... maybe I’d struck pale amber gold.

Shuffling back to my reservation at the Hotel Cardboard, right next to the brazier—five star accommodation for down and outs—location, location, location, I’d sat down to fine dining, feasting on the not quite stale burger to quiet the ever present stomach rumbles. Ready to wash down the meal, to savour every last drop of Mr. Beam, I’d unscrewed the bottle cap.

“You’re not real,” I hiss.

“I’m as real as you are. Feel this.”

I wince as he tweaks my scrawny arm and exhales whiskey breath that plumes around his head.

“And you only get one wish. Don’t believe those fairy tales that say you get three... that’s fake news.” Another warm of his hands and he strolls over to the stanchion and plonks down beside me. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to decide what you want; after that I’ll be long gone.”

What did I want? A Lamborghini, a Harley Davidson…I eye off Gene’s biker boots. Perhaps a bank account that never runs dry, or to look like one of the Hemsworth lads with a sexy blonde wife and two smart kids. Maybe I should go humble; no more food scrounging, a warm sleeping bag... better throw in world peace. Gene looks like he’s gone to sleep, gentle snores quiver through his lips.

“Wish I had more time to decide,” I mutter under my breath.

“Your wish is my command.” Gene springs to his feet, wide awake. “I grant you all the time left to you in the world to brood over what you might have had.”

A dramatic wave of a hand and he vanishes in a puff of smoke, trailing a whiff of fine malt.