Here's your witch story:
Intro:
I've always been fascinated by fish-out-of-water stories, and I thought: what if someone from the 1800s didn't react with wonder at modern technology, but with the absolute audacity of someone who thinks they already know everything? I wanted to capture that specific kind of confidence that comes from being extremely competent in a world that no longer exists.
Title: A Modern Grimoire
Content:
Constance Blackwood had been an excellent witch in 1847. She'd had a thriving business cursing unfaithful husbands, blessing crops, and occasionally turning the local priest's communion wine into vinegar when he got too preachy about her "unholy ways."
Then she'd made the mistake of mixing wolfsbane with mercury during a full moon while arguing with her cat, and now it was 2024, and everything was terrible.
"What," she demanded, standing in the middle of a Target at 3 PM on a Tuesday, "is ALL of this?"
The teenager with the name tag ("Hi, I'm Bryce!") looked terrified. "Um. Products?"
"I can SEE they're products, Bryce." She held up a package. "But what in the name of Hecate is 'Greek yogurt' and why does it have nineteen flavors? Yogurt is yogurt. You add berries if you're feeling fancy."
Bryce backed away slowly.
The real issue wasn't the yogurt—though that was deeply suspicious. The real issue was that Constance had emerged from her temporal mishap in the middle of downtown Portland, and everyone had assumed she was just really committed to a aesthetic. Three people had asked where she got her "authentic vintage dress." Someone had tried to take a selfie with her.
She'd hexed him, obviously, but the hex just made his phone autocorrect every word to "forsooth," which felt like weak sauce compared to her usual work.
Magic wasn't gone—it was just... diluted. Watered down. Like someone had taken proper witchcraft and made it "low-fat."
Her landlady (she'd acquired an apartment through a combination of confusion magic and a very poorly-written lease) had tried to explain "technology."
"So it's a grimoire," Constance said, examining the smartphone, "but it fits in your pocket."
"Well, not exactly—"
"And it can show you any information you want?"
"I mean, yes, but—"
"And everyone has one."
"Pretty much."
Constance stared at her. "You've democratized access to infinite knowledge and you people use it to watch CATS PLAY PIANO?"
"Some of those videos are very cute—"
"YOU COULD BE TOPPLING GOVERNMENTS!"
The worst part was the other witches. Modern witches. Constance had found a "coven" meeting at a local coffee shop (another abomination—coffee shouldn't cost seven dollars and have that many adjectives). They'd welcomed her enthusiastically.
"Oh my god, your energy is so authentic!"
"I love your commitment to the aesthetic!"
"Do you have an Instagram?"
Constance had turned the lead witch's latte into live spiders. Just a few. As a treat.
"YOU CAN'T JUST DO THAT!" the witch shrieked, batting at the spiders.
"I JUST DID."
"That's not how modern witchcraft WORKS! We use intention! And crystals! And positive affirmations!"
Constance stared at her with the expression of someone watching a master carpenter try to build a house with a juice box. "In my day, we'd have hexed the landlord for raising rent."
"We can't just HEX people!"
"Why not?"
"LAWS! ETHICS! KARMA!"
"Oh," Constance said pleasantly, "you mean cowardice."
She was asked to leave.
The thing was, Constance was adapting. She'd figured out the smartphone (terrifying power, absolutely wasted on these people). She'd discovered delivery apps (useful). She'd learned about the internet (black magic, clearly, but the fun kind).
Last week, she'd live-tweeted cursing a CEO who'd cut employee benefits. It went viral. Someone made a TikTok about it. She had followers now.
Modern life wasn't terrible, she decided. Just inefficient.
Though she still didn't understand Greek yogurt.