When Chrysta's eyes rolled back, when she warned us about the storm, she'd said nothing about dildos rising on the floodwaters.
Across the store, Mrs. Duncan perches atop a stack of BBWs, squealing and splashing at a bobbing Fleshlight. Fat Willie clings to a video rack, screaming like a nine year old girl.
I'm squatting on the counter with Dead Rex gaping up my skirt.
"I can fix this," I bellow.
And I can. I've cast the blood to calm the raging water. Said the words. But they're wrecking my concentration. I'd swim across the store and beat Fat Willie to death with a flogger if he wouldn't call me for a date after.
Dead Rex gapes. Mrs. Duncan slaps. Fat Willie screams. The water laps against my ankles. From far away, Chrysta laughs the Witch's name.
"Jiminy Fuckmas!" I yell. "Shut up!" For all the good it does. Beneath the piercings my face burns. I can fight this back. All I need is space to breathe.
My shins are wet. There is no space to breathe.
I walked away from The Witch three years ago. Took her trove, never looked back. She earned that a thousand ways. I'm God-damned if I'm going to call on her now.
It's always about you, Chrysta says in my head.
Chrysta misses the big picture sometimes. But she's never wrong.
I draw the dry black fingerbone from between my breasts. Snap it between my fingers.
And hope it's enough to take back everything.--
Got bored working on the same story with no end in sight, so I prompted a 24-hour 250-word flash fiction contest over on reddit/r/fantasywriters. This one's mine.
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