I wrote this story during the pandemic. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Marcel only bought the newspaper on Sundays. Not out of stinginess, but for the sheer pleasure of reading his horoscope at length. He was convinced that the universe influenced his fate just as much as his own decisions, especially when it came to the moon.

He didn't believe this for no reason. On moonlit nights, he had noticed his fridge making strange noises, his next-door neighbors getting into terrible fights, and the toilet paper unrolling onto the floor as if pulled by an invisible force.

That Sunday, he impatiently opened the paper, traced his finger down to “Capricorn,” and began to read.

“♑ Capricorn:

Not even the horns of your goat's soul will save you from what's coming — a huge unknown force will impact Scorpio, causing cosmic chaos, especially for those born under this sign. And hold on tight because that’s not all — there will also be a red lunar eclipse on Tuesday. May the Force be with you.”

He immediately panicked and jumped to his feet to turn on the TV. A cheerful anchor was speaking live.

“Astronomy buffs are in luck this coming week. A Cheeto-shaped meteorite, harder than Lincoln’s statue, will hit Saturn’s rings in the early morning hours of April 1. If you live in the Northern Hemisphere, you’ll be able to see it clearly from the comfort of your bed. If you live in the Southern Hemisphere, sorry guys — you’ll have to stand on your hands for a better view of this unique phenomenon.

And that won’t be the only astronomical event coming up! Next Tuesday, we’ll witness the longest red lunar eclipse in recorded history. So dust off those telescopes, space geeks! And now, for sports.”

Marcel turned off the TV and threw the remote on the couch. In the midst of cosmic chaos, who could even think about watching sports? He dragged himself to the kitchen in search of something to help him swallow such terrible news.

After rummaging through several cupboards, he found a jar of Nutella, ready for a chocolate binge. He turned the lid over and dipped his finger into the jar—a loud scream, followed by a puff of blue smoke, made him jump back. The smoke spread through the kitchen, turning purple as a chubby human silhouette appeared.

“Greetings, mortal. Ready for some wishes?” the genie said, licking his chocolate-covered thumb.

Marcel froze at the sight of the genie.

“No?” the genie said indifferently, “I was watching sports, so if you don’t need anything, I’ll just skedaddle,” he added, ready to retreat back into the jar.

“No! Wait! It’s just that I need some time to... Would you mind pinching me?” Marcel asked.

“Is that your first wish?” asked the genie.

“Oh, no, no, no. Never mind, I’ll do it myself. I just wanted to make sure I’m awake,” Marcel replied hastily.

“Okay, I’ll grant you two wishes. But make it quick, I want to watch the playoffs.”

“Only two? Why only two?”

“Because of inflation.”

“Inflation?” Marcel looked puzzled.

“And travel expenses,” the genie added.

“What travel expenses? You just came out of my Nutella jar!”

“You don’t get it, do you? You think I don’t have bills to pay? We genies are self-employed, man!” he replied, shaking his head.

“Okay, okay... just give me a second to think,” Marcel said, trying to calm down.

He found himself in a sea of confusion. The appearance of a real genie in his kitchen was too much to take in, even for a gullible guy like him.

“The clock is ticking,” the genie said, tapping his watch.

“I know, I know, just...can I ask for anything?”

“Yes, anything. Even for pigs to fly. Although that would be silly,” the genie replied, rolling his eyes.

Marcel stopped pacing. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “Can you blow up the meteorite that’s about to hit Saturn?”

“Yep, I can do it with my eyes closed. You sure about this?”

Marcel nodded, looking at the genie like a child at his first birthday party.

“Okay, smashed meteorite it is!” he said, snapping his fingers. “Meteorite blown to smithereens, done!” the genie said, satisfied as he dusted off his hands. “Now let’s move on to wish number two. Anything else you want me to blow up? The moon? The North Pole? Your boss’s butt?” he asked, swirling his finger in the Nutella jar.

“Would you?” Marcel asked.

“Hell, no! Who do you think I am, Liam Neeson?”

Marcel nodded. “Now that you mention it... there’s a certain resemblance.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” the genie replied, giving his dripping-Nutella finger a long lick. “But let’s get down to business.”