I ate the Sand Witches there

Do you know what you eat if you’re stranded on Dessert Island?

You eat the Sand Witches there.

It might come as a surprise that there are Sand Witches on Dessert Island, and they’re edible. It came as a surprise to me too, particularly since only moments before I found myself stranded on Dessert Island, I had been engaged in a very lively discussion with my boss on why it would be inadvisable to disband the HR department. That is, I was getting fired.

You’re probably still as dizzy as I was when I found myself hurling through the sky toward Dessert Island (moments after being fired), so let me fill you in a bit more. I had been working at the company for five years and had started there straight out of college, and I enjoyed working in HR. There is nothing quite like bureaucracy. Most people hate bureaucracy because they have to suffer under its unbearable weight. But it’s an entirely different experience when you are the unbearable weight under which people must suffer. It was magical.

Not quite as magical as Dessert Island though, and I suppose that I really should get to telling you about that. So, as I was saying: One moment, my boss was firing me and the rest of HR because he had gotten the strange idea that we didn’t actually do any productive labor and just caused trouble. And the next moment, I was plucked out of the New York high rise and was hurling through wisps of white clouds toward a mound of sand sprouting out of the sparkling ocean.

My first few moments on Dessert Island were very impactful. Primarily, that was due to the impact of my unbearable weight (mentioned earlier) on the sandy beaches. Secondarily, it was due to the inhabitants that found me.

As I slowly peeled myself off the sand, I looked up at the blue sky, my eyes half-blinded by the white sun. And staring down at me, gathered around me, were a bunch of a savage, sentient popsicles. I knew they were savage because they weren’t wearing any clothes. And I knew they were sentient because they were talking to me.

Hello, former HR administrator,” they said to me in chorus. “It was foretold long ago that a visitor would come to us from the sky.”

After this mildly disconcerting introduction, they explained to me that they (the savage, sentient popsicles) had once been members of HR departments from across the millennia. In fact, the oldest among them had once been an HR administrator for King Nebuchadnezzar. Unfortunately for him, the firing process in ancient Babylon was slightly more stringent, and tended to involve the humiliation, torture, and execution of one’s entire household. 

But just before death, he had ended up on this island. And like all the other inhabitants of this island, he discovered that he had been summoned there by the Sand Witches to be transformed into popsicles, consumable at their leisure. Forever they would suffer this fate; for however many times the Sand Witches consumed them, they would reform in the Pool of Popsicles at the bottom of the Mountain of Misery at the center of the island. A most sinister and dastardly fate. 

“But at last, someone has come to free us from their wicked, gustatory designs!” the savage, sentient popsicles exclaimed. “You have been chosen to defeat them!”

Well, what could I do? I was surprised by a huddled mass of giant, multicolored popsicles on Dessert Island. There was nowhere to run, and—they were quick to inform me—if I didn’t defeat the Sand Witches, they would quickly turn me into a popsicle to be consumed at their leisure—a most sinister and dastardly fate.

The popsicles led me up a winding path, strewn with popsicle blood (mainly of the grape and kiwi variety). Soon, we entered a cave, and the air grew cooler—almost like a cooler. My heart had begun to beat very rapidly. Clearly, they were leading me into a lair where sinister and dastardly things happened. The popsicles had stopped sweating—I suppose it wasn’t good for them to be in the sun.

But as we walked deeper into the dark cave, lit only by a strange incandescence emanating from the ceiling, almost like a freezer light, I began to worry. Where were these Sand Witches? Would they ambush us all at once and turn me into a popsicle before I could fight back? 

At last, we reached a pool at the bottom of the cave. It was filled with a strange bubbling substance.

Is this where the Sand Witches live?” I asked in terror. “In the Pool of PopsicleS?”

No,” the savage, sentient popsicles answer in chorus. They hopped closer to me. “We are the Sand Witches!”

From somewhere in the distance, I heard an echoing orchestra of violins. Dun, dun, DUN!

“And now, you will become one of us!” they cried, crowding closer to me. 

“But why?” I cried. “What possible reason could you have to do this?”

“Reason?” The popsicles turned to each other and threw back their nonexistent heads in sinister laughter. “Ahahaha! We don’t have a reason. We just don’t like non-popsicles!”

“Isn’t that a reason?” I said. “It’s a really weird reason, but it’s still a reason, isn’t it? It’s kind of like xenophobia—you don’t like anyone who’s not made of fake, frozen juice.”

“Say whatever you want! You, too, will become fake, frozen juice!”

The ground behind me was receding quickly; there were only a few paces between me and the pool, in which I would certainly suffer the eternal fate of being a popsicle!

So, I did the only thing I knew how. I fought back, and I gave them a real lickin’. In fact, I licked them all. 

“Noooo,” the popsicles cried. “Our one weakness!”

I licked them until there was nothing left, until my tongue was blue, and green, and purple, and I was very sick from eating well over a dozen massive, savage, sentient popsicles. 

So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself on Dessert Island, make sure you eat the Sand Witches there.