Toetally Wicked

Yesterday something happened.

Don’t panic - it’s not a big deal. 

You might even laugh about this later. 

You might have noticed that the water from your tap tasted a little different this morning. Did you notice? Don’t be alarmed. Let me take a guess though; you’ve consumed at least one sip of water from your tap today? More specifically, since 2.17 this morning? 

It might have been a coffee. It might have been bubbling around a creamy pot of home brand oats. Maybe you suckled it down, latching onto that refreshing glass rim, consuming a morning pill. We all do it.

We all drink water; but today was different.

Let me prove it to you. 

-

“Are you guys reading this?” Jordan tapped her nails across her phone screen. The sound softly filled the room. 

“Mhmm,” Kate nodded, her purple curls bouncing around the top of her head. 

“I can’t read this anymore.” Belinda pulled her chin into her neck and pushed her laptop away. She stood up dramatically and announced that it was time for her coffee. 

“But we can’t use the water!” Kate threw her arms up, “it specifically says.” 

Belinda raised an eyebrow as she continued walking past the desks. Jordan had developed a deep frown. Kate began to bounce in her chair with anxiety. They had been working so hard to get through all these short stories in time, and yet this one story had them stopped in their tracks. 

-

Oh, you’re still reading. Good. 

You’ll notice that your feet are feeling slightly tingly. You can try to ignore it; you can try to focus on something else. Maybe you can stop reading this page right now. Try to consume the words of some other poor writer, attempting to impress the brilliant minds I’ve targeted, go on.

Or you can notice the sensation in your feet. 

It all starts in the toes. That fuzzy sensation that leaves you wondering – have I been sitting weird? Is it my back pain possibly causing the nerves to shoot off little prickly vibrations in my feet? Is there a draft sweeping through the room somehow targeting only my soles? 

No, no, no, my sweet. It is so much more than that, and it is only beginning. 

-

“I’m ba-aaack,” Belinda sung delightfully, “I have the wakey juice and ready to keep it going.” 

“I couldn’t read anything this whole time.” Kate plunged her forehead against the desk and groaned loudly. Belinda straightened the tinsel draped across the back end of her chair and sat down. She ignored Kate. She also ignored the story that was clearly written by some know-it-all prankster. 

Jordan continued to frown as her eyes moved across the page. 

-

So, what is this all about? What did I – a simple witch of your neighbourhood – do to your water supply? Oh, it’s funny - laugh out loud funny if you will. A few drops of this, and few sprinkles of that. My mixture bubbled below my bed for three weeks of putrid pleasure, until it turned sweet. 

The sweet scent of pleasure filled my room on Wednesday morning. 

Thursday night I had it skilfully injected into your plumbing. 

Yes.

YOUR plumbing.

Putrid plumbing pleasures 

Bubble Below n Beyond 

The tingly toes that turn 

Are weakened by the witch’s pond 

-

“Guys,” Jordan murmured at first, “guys I think this is legit.” 

“No, it’s not.” Belinda rolled her eyes, “what did they ask for? Money? Is it blackmail again?” 

Jordan was certain that she’d understood the very last paragraph correctly. She slammed her laptop shut. The tightness in her throat gripped her. It became hard to speak. It became hard to think. It wasn’t blackmail, not at all. 

-

So, which one of you is my Jordan? Your name is irrelevant, but your acceptance of truth is the same. Let me tell you a story about the little boy who drank from the witch’s pond. His toes tingled and his soles burned. He consumed only a single sip – and this was all that it took. 

He went to sleep that night, completing his usual routine. He brushed his teeth; he combed his hair. The wooden floorboards creaked as he neared the edge of his bed and then leaned down habitually. His hand smoothed underneath his tattered mattress and the stolen gems poked back at his fingers. 

One, two, three – he would count them out – then hop into his bed dropping off into slumber. Those gems he protected with his life, sharing with none. Stolen from his brother, who died shortly after - of the plague. If only they could have afforded a doctor! The family exclaimed. Yet the gems remained tucked away. 

“One, two, three.” The witch gave a giggle, counting his toes out while he slept. “Wakey-wakey little toe boy.” 

He could shake his head and pull at the sheets – yet his eyes shot open in defeat. He noticed something strange. He could not lift his arms and could not move his legs. He was frozen in place, completely paralysed, but not quiet dead. 

“Tic Tac Toe,” the husky tone of the old hag sounded, “who’s my weak little boy with the paralysing toes?” She gasped playfully, her hook nose sniffing the air, “Oh no, little Joe, I’m going to GET you there!” 

“W-what’s happening?” The boy trembled with eyes darting in all directions, “W-why can’t I”- 

“Move?” The witch finished his sentence for him. “Oh, dear child, you drank a drip of the wicked sip and now your toes are mine.” 

“What?” The boy dribbled confusion. 

“So long as you live, if ever a witch catches you by the toe… you will be stuck, and you will freeze.” She held his big toe, so tight he yelped. The clapping of her shoes travelled towards the side of his bed. “Oh, and if you are caught by not one but TWO witches… dear oh dear, whatever will you do?” 

She reached up and tickled his knee – forcing a pained laugh and plea for release. The hag licked her lips and cackled skyward. Her leg swung over the bed, and she let herself be saddled atop his shins. That toe grip unyielding at first, she tutted before she spoke, “let’s see how ticklish these little toes can be for a wicked old witch shall we?” 

Her nails scratched and stroked those toes mercilessly. Milliseconds of movement were gifted back to the boy as her fingers lifted and clawed and lifted and clawed. The laughter emanating from the boy came in boughs. Tears dripped down the sides of his humiliatingly-fear-filled-cheeks. 

For every helpless whimper the boy shrieked, the witch felt her body respond. Oh yes, she was younger. Oh yes, every giggle and bark removed a wrinkle and tightened her grip. Mmm, the sound of each note turning back the clock was delicious to her. 

“Oh, I do love getting toned.” She felt the last stroke of youth overcome her before dashing quickly out the door. The boy regained motion and pulled his legs up tightly to his chest, shaking all over from what had just occurred. He was shamefully distressed, what magic was this? 

Little did he know that the witch would return night after night. Catching him by the toe, retaining that youth which would sweep away as the hours ticked by. Night after endless night, somehow finding him no matter how strategically he hid. His whole life feeding the witch, and who knew that laughter was a witch’s best medicine?  

-

“I’m going home,” Jordan gulped, noticing her toes were still tingling oddly at the thought. 

“Okay,” Belinda approved, “did you finish that story?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do we all need to read it?” Kate made a scared look, feeling creeped, “let’s just say we did? Bel?” 

Belinda considered for a moment, “I really like this other submission, it had a potion that gave everyone super confidence and the characters were pretty funny.” 

“Jordan?” Kate looked over at her co-worker for further input. 

“I think this one is the winner, but if you two decide otherwise that’s okay. I don’t feel well.” She left the room suddenly. Belinda and Kate exchanged glances. 

“Well, that settles it,” Kate shivered, “I am NOT reading that story. My vote goes to the confidence potion thingy.”  

“Alright that’s the decision then.” Belinda turned her computer off and began to pack her bag. Both girls left the office, glad to note it was Friday and the weekend was theirs. 

-

Except it wasn’t theirs. 

Only by a gift of value – a prize, a gem, a treasure – will a witch release you from a potion of putrid proportions. 

Jordan, my Jordan, the one who read until the end. The one, whose name does not truly matter, offered a prize and would be free. 

All else who refuse, or deny this notion, just ask yourself are those toes tingling from my potion? Be warned! You may not have died, and blackmail is for mortals and scum. 

Curl your toes my sweet. I’ll be seeing you, 

Tonight will be fun.