The angel opened his book again, flipping from page to page with a slow, measured ease, like he was absorbing every word of the latest best-seller. Arthur was sure it was all for effect.

"Ah, here it is. Arthur Jenkins, age nine years, six months and--"

"Nine years old?" Arthur almost shrieked, then calmed himself when he remembered who he'd been almost-shrieking at.

The angel didn't notice.

After taking the longest, deepest breath in the history of calming breaths, Arthur continued without any noticeable shriek in his voice. "You're here to grant a wish I made when I was nine?"

"Yes."

He tried to remember any wishes he'd made when he was a child but nothing came to mind. "What did I wish for?"

"Yes, well, I was getting to that when you started almost shrieking," the angel muttered. "Your wish was. . . "

Arthur fidgeted in his seat as the angel read the words to himself then chuckled.

". . . to be a barbarian and live a life of adventure."

"What!?" This time Arthur did shriek.

"Well, specifically you asked to be Conan, but you can call yourself whatever you like I suppose."

Arthur tried to sit, found he already was and stood instead. "A barbarian? Why would I wish to be a barbarian?"

It all came back in a sudden blink of memory, and he groaned.

Nine years old, and Mike had dragged him to see that movie, the one his mother had forbidden in no uncertain terms. In her mind, barbarians were not the type of people her son should be learning about. She wasn't thrilled about Mike either, calling him the bad influence, but he was Arthur's only friend, so she endured it.

Mike had been a bad influence, too, always convincing Arthur to do things he wasn't supposed to, like seeing forbidden movies. The movie had been amazing, though. It filled Arthur's boring soul with a sense of adventure and imagination. All the way home, he dreamed about living the life of a barbarian, an adventurer, a hero.

Then disaster struck.

Their next-door neighbour had seen Arthur coming out of the theatre and mentioned it to his mother. When Arthur got home, he was greeted by a class four hurricane that sent him to his room without dinner, telling him to think about what he'd done. By morning, his brief flirtation with adventure had become a vivid regret, but before that, he had wished for him and Mike to be barbarian heroes like Conan.

The thought of his best friend brought a smile to Arthur's face. He missed Mike.

"Arthur?" the angel said, pulling Arthur from his memories.

"But, I don't want that wish anymore."

The angel's wings sagged. "Oh, not again."

"This has happened before?"

"More times than I care to remember. Ever since we started fulfilling wishes."

"Oh? When was that?"

Arthur hoped that if he showed an interest, the angel would leave, a tactic he'd used with bullies back in high school. It hadn't worked then, either.

"Ten years ago, by your concept of time." The angel leaned back in Arthur's chair, a difficult feat with wings. "You see, for a long time we didn't grant wishes at all. We left that to the genies and leprechauns."

The angel grinned and Arthur nodded in what he hoped was a sagely manner. The angel stopped grinning and shook his head.

"Anyway, we debated for ages on whether wishes equaled prayers until it was finally decided we would reward the deserving. The wish itself had to be heartfelt, something coming from the depths of the wisher's soul. Now we're pushing those wishes through the system, trying to clear the backlog."

"Not to question the way things are done," Arthur said, "but why didn't you just start granting wishes as people made them?"

The angel spread his arms, looking upward. "Yes! If someone like this gets it. . . " His focus returned to Arthur. "Excellent idea. Exactly what I suggested in fact," he sighed. "No one listens to me."

Arthur wondered if he'd gone insane, the alternative being that he was in his office talking to an angel about heaven's politics.

"One angel decided it wouldn't be fair to allow new wishes and not earlier ones, another agreed. Next thing you know, that's official policy."

"Isn't that more difficult?"

"Oh yes, but at least we managed to agree that dead people shouldn't have their wishes granted. Imagine someone who's been dead for years getting their wish for immortality."

"Right, right," Arthur agreed, still not comprehending in the least. "Well, I guess you have a lot of wishes to take care of," he added, hoping the angel would take the hint and be on his way.

"Oh, more than you can know." The angel settled back into the chair. "Now that we've started catching up to the present, most angels have been reassigned, and those that are left have a daily quota. It's very stressful."

"Well, I'm sorry that I didn't want my wish," Arthur said, hoping, again, that these would be the right words to end this bizarre encounter.

"That's okay," the angel said, getting to his feet. His wings spread to fill the area behind the desk. "Are you ready then?"

"Ready for what?"

"Your wish of course."

"But--"

"Yes, yes, I know. You don't want your wish and, as I said, that's okay. You don't have to want it."

"You can't just grant a wish I don't want."

A storm brewed in the angel's eyes. "Yes. I can."

"But I like my life the way it is."

"That is unfortunate." The angel raised his hands like a magician ready to cast a spell.