The finger curls.

You don't notice any immediate changes other than a strange feeling in your gut. There is a longing there, one you can't quite describe. One you can't quite control. It seems to be pulling you in a direction; it feels as if it's pulling you home. Following it, you find yourself happening upon an abandoned hut in the woods, its wooden structure old and rotted. It seems to be in much disuse. The door creaks heavily as you open it and step into the one room abode. At its center sits a single cast iron cauldron, perched on a stone foundation, with the remains of ashen logs beneath it. There are shelves full of herbs of which you have never heard, but somehow deeply understand.

The lone cauldron entices you, and before you even realize it, you're filling buckets at the tap out back to start a brew. A recently fallen tree nearby makes for the perfect firewood, since the wood already cut was far to rotten to burn. Your hands know where to go to grab the correct ingredients, almost as if you've lived through this before. A handful of witch hazel, a pinch of mugwort, you feel your skin glowing as it is engulfed in steam from the brew. Bubble bubble, toil and trouble. In fact, your skin doesn't just feel strange, it's starting to shift green and warty. You feel your nose begin to elongate as you transform into your new form.

*Crack*. A twig snaps near you; you're not alone. The sound of hurried footsteps speed away from the shack before you can manage to catch a glimpse of the unwelcome intruder. You decide to keep brewing, else your brew would go bad. A little of this, a little of that, slowly you see the color fizzle into your brew; a Serpent's Brew. The time to add the final ingredient is here—serpent's scales.

*Crack*. The sound of hushed voices. *Craaaack*. They're getting closer. You see the warm light of a torch slipping through the cracks in the wooden wall. The sound of footsteps now surrounds you. The door barrels open, a foot raised in the doorway.

"You're surrounded, witch," says a man as he enters your domicile.

You reach for your nearest broom, and it feels electric to the touch. Escape is a necessity, else you risk being killed. You mount the broom and let yourself fly—through a hole in the roof—off into the distance, the breeze running through your hair, and then...straight into a tree. As it turns out, broomsticks are hard to control. The damaged remnant of the broom sits beside you, its power fizzling out.

You hear hurried running. It's getting closer. You make haste in getting to your feet, but the crash has your head spinning. You can't run straight, and you panic trying to get away, but you're too slow. One trip, and you're on the ground again. You hear footsteps surrounding you. They're here. As you look up, you see pitchforks and torches, a whole angry mob.

"Your time is over, witch," you hear, as a man and a woman grab either of your arms and yank you to your feet.

They bind your hands tight with rope and pull you forward. You're marched some distance, to a nearby village. At the town center sits a large wooden gallows. You're forced up the steps, and into a rope as the leader of the group begins to shout to both you and the audience forming.

"You are hereby accused of witchcraft. You needn't defend yourself, as your guilt has already been proven. You were caught in the act brewing a witches brew, and subsequently flying off on a broom. You have been sentenced to death by hanging, as notably, this was the most common method of execution for witches during the Salem witch trial. No, not a single witch was burned at the stake; that's utter nonsense."

Clearly this guy is a snob, being so pointlessly pedantic over the stlye of execution, you think.

"Have you any last words?"

The pause feels like a lifetime as you stare into the crowd pleading.

"Very well; hang her!" you hear as the floor beneath you falls, leaving you gasping for air until...blackness. It's over.

Your wish has been granted.

The paw returns a syntax error. Invalid wish. Error 43: wish has zero delta cannot proceed.

Granted! You now have curly hair.

You have been granted the power to bring typos into this world by merely saying their name. The monkets are here now. They are far too powerful.

You can fly, but you cannot control where it is you fly to—and the world is covered by a whole hell of a lot of water.

Granted, your dear friend Ghislaine (you've now known her since you were very young) has lent you her private jet while she's indisposed. You're suddenly very popular too...

Granted, you gave your own modern cutting edge Boeing aircraft, and ten years memory of experience flying similar models.

Good luck with the maintenance bills. Whatever; I'm sure its safe.

Granted, but emotionally everything feels like shit now, and you crave the blood of the young.

One day you wake up, and bam you can, you finally have emotional energy to achieve anything you wish to strive for. You coincidentally gain the power, after the violent removal of capitalism, there were guillotines involved and also, coincidentally none of the billionaires are ever seen again. But also, you don't need to do any of those things to improve your life, because now capitalism is removed, you don't need to, your basic survival is guaranteed, so you can run through fields of flowers, to improve your life, should you so wish. It's soon.

Beautiful glass bulb you need to break to get at the water. It shatters entirely when you do and makes you sad.

Also the water is alkaline. Also the water gives you food poisoning. Also the glass was stolen from a local museum, and you're a fugitive now.

Granted. But now you walk as poorly as you previously walked. How far will you manage to go?