What the Hell: A Witch's Journey into the Future

Trigger Warning: Mentions getting high.

As a beautiful woman of Boston’s high society during the 1690s, Selma Lockheart went unnoticed as a witch. She knew, however, that her time would come as witches everywhere were being hunted down and executed.

“Let us see what the future holds without the witch. What will it be like without anyone to commune with nature and restore its balance? What will the world be like, Twilight,” Selma asks the sleek black cat rubbing its whiskers against her legs. “Earth, wind, water, and fire, give me the sight that I desire!”

Selma throws a vile on the floor. Smoke bursts forth. “Aaaaahhh,” Selma screams as she jumps out of the way of an approaching car as the smoke clears. She lands on the concrete sidewalk, skinning her knee.

“Watch it, hag,” a man screams, hanging his head out of the car window.

“You watch it! I curse you with genital warts,” Selma shouts as she throws a pointy finger at him.

The man in the car sticks up his middle finger and keeps driving. Selma gets up and brushes herself off.

“Genital warts. Good one,” a longhaired young man with a shaggy beard says.

“Oh, shut up! What year is it,” she asks impatiently.

“Whoa, you have amnesia. Do you need to see a doctor?”

“No, you idiot, I need to know what year it is.”

“Twenty twenty-four,” he says with pride for knowing.

Selma looks up and around. “Towers of Babylon, the devil must be king.”

“No, just some guy named Joe.”

“Aaaaahhh, what is that,” Selma cries, shrinking down and pointing to the sky.

“That’s an airplane. You really aren’t from around here, are you?”

“No, I’ve never seen horseless carriages or heard of airplanes. What in tarnation is an airplane?”

“It's just a really fast way for people to travel.”

“Those are flying people?”

“Yeah, dude, pretty cool, right?”

“And they accused witches of flying.” Selma sniffs and looks around. “Why does it stink so bad around here?”

“I don’t know. Might be the trash. That homeless guy’s peeing over there. You seem stressed. Do you want to get high?”

“No, I like my feet firmly planted on the ground!”

“No,” he chuckles. “Do you want to smoke some weed? It’s from the earth. Totally natural and safe. It’s how I commune with Mother Nature.”

“Yes, communing with nature. That is what I need. I’m surprised she hasn’t destroyed you all for your insolence.”

“You mean like global warming?”

“What?”

“Okay, dude, whatever. Follow me. I live over here,” the man says as he crosses the street.

A car slams on its brakes in front of him and honks. The man slams his hands on the hood and screams, “Hey, I’m walking here!” Selma is taken aback by the young man’s manners. She doesn’t know what to say or do, so, confusedly, she throws up her middle finger, figuring it was what you do in the year twenty twenty-four.

 She follows him to an apartment building. “This huge castle is yours?”

“No,” he laughs. “I live in a small part of it.”

They walk through the lobby, and she follows him onto the elevator. “You weren’t kidding when you said small.”

The doors close automatically. Selma freaks out. She begins banging on the doors. “What kind of magic is this?” The man pushes thirteen and the elevator moves. Selma feels the tiny room move and presses herself against the wall. “You tricked me! You’re the devil! You’re Joe,” she says with an accusing growl.

The man looks at her quizzically. “No, I’m Dan. And you are?”

“I’m Selma Lockheart of Boston, Massachusetts,” she says, pridefully.

“So, you are from around here. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

“What I need is out of your moving cage!”

“It’s an elevator. It’s an easier way to get to my apartment than climbing thirteen flights of stairs. Are you already high on something?”

“I don’t understand this high that you speak of.”

“Are you like… drunk?”

“No! I might be a witch, but I’m still a lady.”

“Oh, so you’re Wiccan. I didn’t think you guys messed with potions, but… were you messing with potions?

“Well, yes, but…”

“That’s it. One blew up and you inhaled the fumes. That makes sense.”

Selma sighs. Now she doesn’t know if her spell worked or if she’s dreaming.

The elevator stops and the doors open. Selma runs out and waits for Dan. He leads her down to apartment 1307 and lets her in.

“What a weird little apartment you have. What are all these… things,” she asks, walking into the kitchen.

“Well, this is my kitchen…”

“You keep your wardrobe in the kitchen,” Selma asks, fascinated.

She pulls open the doors to the refrigerator. “You weird boy, there’s food in your wardrobe, and it’s cold. How is it cold. I know no such magic. Have the witches survived the trials?”

“The witch trials? That was a long time ago. There haven’t been witches in hundreds of years.”

“Then these Wiccans you speak of are truly powerful!”

“It’s science, dude! You are way gone! Come in here and sit down. I’ll pack a bowl. That should chill you out.”

Selma sits on the couch. Dan takes out his phone and turns on some music. Death Metal blares through the speaker. Selma screams, jumps off the couch, and runs for the door. In the hallway she sees a sign marked stairs and runs for it. She opens the heavy door and begins her descent in a hurry. Through the lobby she flies, out into the bustling city. She looks around at the horseless chariots and the smoke they breathe. Everything is hard rock, no soil, no plants, no animals, nothing to commune with. The people walking by have something they look at or listen to in their hands. They do not talk to each other unless it is to curse one another. She enters a building to get away from the horrific sights and smells. There, people are drinking ale and listening to a man trapped in a box. Everyone looks at her strangely, so she leaves.

Back on the street, she rounds the corner and stumbles into two police officers. “Forgive me,” she pleads, falling to her knees, “but this is madness! The devil has won! The devil has won!”

“What are you taking about, lady?”

“Look around you. The sun has faded, and I see no stars. Without the witch the devil has destroyed the earth!”

The officer gets on his radio. “Yeah, we’re bringing in a 5150.”

Selma doesn’t know exactly what that means, but it doesn’t sound good. She takes off running across the street. Cars slam on their brakes and honk. The police chase her. She runs down an alleyway, splashing through the filth. On the other side, she sees a park across the street with grass and trees. She runs straight for it. She runs into a dark tunnel that goes under an overpass and comes stumbling out of her closet, face first onto the floor. Twilight meows and nuzzles her face, happy she’s home.

“Oh, Twilight,” Selma says, scooping up the little black cat, “never let me do that again. The future is terrifying.”