James R. Gapinski | 9
James R. Gapinski
The Devil's Mark
The townsfolk call her a witch. See, she has the devil’s mark! they say.
Really? The devil's mark? What the fuck!? she says.
The townsfolk do not have pitchforks, so they gather other instruments. Toilet plungers. Umbrellas. Lamps. Rolled-up Yoga mats.
They chase her out, into the sea. She will either drown and redeem herself, or she will use her witchery to escape (and then she’ll be burned).
The sea swallows her up, but her body never washes ashore.
Speculation fades to distant memory.
The witch reappears years later at the nearby Wal-Mart, working as a greeter. She’s aged terribly, and her wrinkles stink of saltwater. She sucks on raw fish guts during lunch. Only one townsperson recognizes her, pointing and screaming Witch!
The townsfolk confront her. They inspect her mole again. The devil’s mark!
She rolls her eyes, opens her mouth, and lets the sea pour out of her. Water gushes down every aisle. Fills the Wal-Mart. Bursts through the motion-activated doors. Rushes onto the turnpike. Consumes the city.
The townsfolk cling to floating debris, and they begin life anew,
adrift. ♦