Broom and Zoom

Eyes prying eyes, shut your lids, screw them tight.

Eyes prying eyes, burn to a crisp before the forbidden sight.

Eyes prying eyes, our sister never again shall you plight.

The incantation bleeds gothic letters on the shared slide.

"Right, does everyone agree on the spell?" Liv squints at her tablet. "Maeve, for the last time, adjust your camera! All we're seeing now is that wart on your forehead, and trust me, it ain't pretty." She pinches the thin bridge of her nose for a brief second, inhales deeply and asks again, "Ready? Then with me: eyes prying eyes… Really Stanley, why have you got that mask on? We're meeting over Zoom, darling. Now you're ruining the spell with your mouth covered like that!"

Stanley coughs a few times before answering a muffled "Apologies folks, it's just I've been coughing a bit since yesterday, and Fern insists I wear a mask in the house."

"Well, tell Fern you'll be wearing a mask at our meetings when she's found a way to reverse a badly cast spell!"

"Oh, piss off, Liv!" Fern's head of white curls replaces Stanley's on the screen, "You can't even spell properly. Why you're leading this meeting is beyond me. Besides, everyone knows…" Stanley mutes his mic and drags his wife off screen.

Bree takes advantage of the distraction to shout into her microphone, "Say, why is it that Fern's not joining the call anyway?"

Liv sighs, scratches Hellhound’s pink tummy as the pug stretches on her lap — and stares at Bree's puffy red face buried under a pointy hat, "That's because she decided to stay in the Macbeth coven after we hived off, remember?" As an afterthought, she adds with just the tiniest bit of condescension toward the slower witch, "By the way Bree, may I remind you that us Dianic Witches do not believe hats confer any magical power whatsoever? Please remove yours, it's ridiculous and frankly, quite distracting."

"What dya mean, Dianic Witches?" Maeve's warted brow cuts off. "I thought we followed the Satanist tradition?"

"No no no, that's the mother coven! We agreed to stand out and change tradition!"

"Oh really? And when exactly did we agree on that, between hiving off last week and our very first meeting today?"

Liv rolls her eyes. "Didn't you read the newsletter, Maeve?"

"I told you before, I never get those things. Can't work 'em; don't trust 'em."

"Have you looked into your spam folder?"

"My what? Oh, I see it now… Well. In any case, how can we join the Dianic tradition, what with half our coven being men, as it should?"

"Read the bloody newsletter, Maeve. We adopted McFarland's philosophy, where male witches are just as welcome."

"Well isn't that progressive of us! At least we still have a semblance of magical balance between the sexes, though I reckon it could be better. May the Lone Huntress give us strength."

Liv jams her curved blade into the desk, startling Hellhound awake. The pug jumps off her lap and scampers under Liv's bedside table where clove and black pepper scented candles burn in a pentacle shape. She uses her lowest, raspiest witch voice, "Yes, we've all read your enlightening yet offensive pamphlet, Maeve… Now here's a reminder that gossiping is below us witches…"

"I'm just sayin', someone should get out of the closet and come clean before the coven. I'm tellin' ya, that's why my anti-aging spells have been weakening lately."

Liv checks Camden on the screen, but the young man seems unaffected by Maeve's overt bigotry.

"Scuse me everyone," Saoirse unmutes herself right on time, "But could we just get back to the spell now?" Her heavy blue fringe may cover her gaze, but the disgusted twist of her red lips is just as revealing when she mutters into her microphone, "I really need this creep off my back." As if on cue, the coven hears a rattling then a man's growling voice in the background of Saoirse's room, "What did yer ma say about locking your bedroom door? Doing demonish things again, are you, you wee bitch? Is Mr. Cuddles in there with you?"

The whole coven winces, albeit not completely in sync for the witches with poor internet connection.

"Right, of course," Liv tightens her jaw, and as Stanley's unmasked beard appears back on the screen, she holds up her palm in front of the camera and starts rubbing dried sage and table salt along her life lines while reciting the beginning of the spell, "eyes prying eyes…"

"Wait wait wait!" Camden speaks up for the first time. "Haven't we missed something? The Macbeth High Priest always had us dance skyclad to draw power from the Full Moon before casting a strong spell."

"Considering we won't be meeting in real life for a while, I thought it best to skip some parts, such as wiggling our naked bottoms in front of our cameras. Maintain a little bit of dignity and that."

"Can't draw moon power from under a roof anyways," Stanley coughs in agreement, but Bree interrupts,

"What do you mean, we won't be meeting in person for a while?"

"Well I don't see this pandemic thing going away any time soon, Bree, do you? You are the seer here, aren't you?"

"Still though," Bree pleads, "Isn't there something we could do about this? A banishing spell, like?"

"You mean, world-wide?" Liv raises her eyebrows, "A little beyond our abilities, don't you think? But sure, let's put it on the agenda for our next meeting if it makes you feel better. Now, about that spell…"

"Now hold up your breeches," the single hair on Maeve's wart sags as she frowns, "What other parts of the rituals have you decided to chuck out then? Better not be the sacrifices?!"

"Thank you for asking, Maeve. If anyone had bothered to read the newsletter, you'd know that yes, indeed, sacrifices are off the altar."

"Surely not the virgins?"

"They're off."

"Infants?"

"No."

"Chickens?"

"Forget about them."

"Well, that takes all the fun out of witchin', doesn't it."

"Erm, shouldn't we think of replacement rituals, then?" Camden volunteers, overcoming his usual shyness and getting approving grunts from the other participants but for a pouty Maeve.

Liv's eyes dart to the small square framing the teenager's face, her breath quivers for the briefest of moments as she fears mutiny, but she soon regains confidence and puffs her already matronly bosom to declare, "And we will, once we have less pressing matters at hand. First, we will help our sister in need, then we can bicker all we want about our new coven's technicalities."

And just like that, temporary calm returns while the witches adopt intent grimaces that would make even the Horned God squirm. Liv feels the physical distance separating her from her coven as they recite together:

Eyes prying eyes, shut your lids, screw them tight. Eyes prying eyes, burn to a crisp before the forbidden sight. Eyes prying eyes, our sister never again shall you plight.

Silence flops on the Zoom call, as every witch is holding their breath. Liv's heart tightens as she sees Saoirse hug Mr. Cuddles against her heart, rub her cheek on the soft fur of his ear then peek nervously to her left. Her long blue hair falls over her blanched face as she leans toward her mic and whispers, "I can hear him wheeze behind the door."

The wheezing is covered by the keys scratching inside Saoirse's lock. The voice of her mother's newest rebound catches in her mic and chills the spines of thirteen witches from Inverness to Southampton. "Is that a sock over your lock? You devil spawn, you're as much a tease as yer whore of a ma'. What you doin' in there?" More rusted keys are being rattled into the lock. "Getting weird with Mr. Cuddles, aren't you, you wee bitch?"

After more ignorant insults remain unanswered, Saoirse's creep seems to give up; the rattling stops.

"It didn't work." Bree has always had a tendency to state the obvious. Her seer's inclinations rarely help her in deciphering the present world beyond plain truth.

"Fine then," the man still hasn't left and has now resorted to whining, "Don't show me. How about you just describe what you're doing for me? I won't tell yer ma' when she gets back, honest."

"I told you we were out of balance," Maeve grunts, It's clearly written in the oldest Books of Shadows that covens weaken when sexual tension is off-balance. Now, we all know who here…"

"Maeve, please," As the call's host, Liv is only too happy to abuse her power and force-mutes the elder witch, "Enough of your old crone narrow-minded nonsense. How can there be alleged magical sexual balance in a coven of thirteen anyway? Now rein in your homophobia and let's think straight: did everyone wash in rain water beforehand? Light their candle-pentacle? Anyone breaking up over Zoom during spellcasting?"

A lump forms in her lungs as her peers give her consecutive head shakes of consternation.

"See," the right half of Fern's sheepish hairdo leans in front of Stanley's camera, "I told you you couldn't lead the coven, Liv." Stanley grips his wife's shoulder and sends an apologetic look to the screen. A headache wakes behind Liv's brow as she tries to ignore Maeve's message in the Zoom chat (in capital letters, of course): DO YOU WANT ME TO UNFREEZE A CHICKEN?

"Liv?" Camden's breaking voice rises above the cacophony of opinionated witches, each with their own agenda on why the spell didn't work, many jabbing at Liv's incompetence or clumsy spell design. Liv mutes them all.

"Yes, Camden, darling. What is it?"

Maeve seems to have magically overcome her aversion to technology, and now her whole face appears on screen so that everyone can see her dramatic eye roll. Could she be any more obvious, Liv wonders, but Camden doesn't seem to have noticed and speaks softly, "I know we're shaking things up and not following exactly what the Macbeth coven does" — at least someone read the newsletter — "But how come we don't even have a High Priestess? Isn't it kind of a big problem?"

Somehow, Fern has managed to overrule Liv's moderator power and speaks over Stanley's mic, "Isn't it obvious? Liv has appointed herself High Priestess over the lot of you."

Liv's heartbeat fastens, and she's surprised to find that she tries to justify herself to Fern, who isn't even part of their coven, "I never said I was High Priestess! It's just, someone needed to moderate the call, is all. And Saoirse came to me with her problem, so I figured, just for today…"

"Just for today, eh?" Maeve's snarky voice shuts down Liv's pathetic attempt. How are they all able to unmute themselves like this? Liv brushes the thought off, she has more important frogs to attend to, such as Maeve's sudden suggestion: "Why don't we elect our High Priestess right now? At least then we'll be set."

The coven approves at once.

"Oy Liv," Bree intervenes cheerfully, "What's that voting app you used last Esbat to choose the cake flavours for the feast?"

Resigned, Liv creates a blind poll with the names of each of her coven sisters and brothers and, on automatic drive, sends it over the Zoom chat.

Results come in quickly; they are all eager to solve the issue. Bree voted for Maeve, Liv got two votes beside her own and the rest of the coven elected sweet Camden, even Saoirse did. Not too bad a choice, all things considered, but still a punch in the gut. Liv stares at the screen, at the stupidly condescending smile on Fern's pink face, and tries to remember the spell to make someone vomit leeches. It's right on the tip of her tongue…

"Bollocks!" Maeve startles her by shouting into her microphone, "I call for a re-vote!" Liv mutes her again, but the conniving crone finds a charm to undo it and continues, "Come on now, let's be reasonable. Camden is alright, and I'm willing to put up with a weakened coven, but putting him in charge is an affront to the God and Goddess. Besides, as Dianic Witches, we're electing a High Priestess, right?"

Liv breathes in spicy whiffs of clove and re-focuses her anger on Maeve. "If you're so suddenly into Dianism, Maeve, then you should know we only worship the Goddess." Is that the lamest comeback she could find?

At least Maeve's unwelcome intervention has snapped Liv out of her trance, and she finally notices Saoirse trying to get her attention on the screen. The girl mouths a "Sorry", glances insistently at the bedroom door and snuggles the delicate head of the tortoiseshell kitten under her chin. Liv decides to set her bruised ego aside for her sake.

Hellhound has been scratching her shin, so she lifts the pug into her lap and lifts her double chin up. "Witches! We've been bickering over traditions all day, and it's led us nowhere. Maybe it's time to shake things up. Maeve, if you're unhappy about the coven's decision, feel free to leave it. We're all family here, not a basket of vipers, so quit spilling your venom." Then she completely ignores the old witch's puffed cheeks to address her new High Priestess with as much kindness in her voice as she can muster. "Camden, I'm transferring the call moderator rights to you, ok? Now, how would you like to lead the ritual?"

"I liked your spell, Liv… I have a few ideas to modify it here and there, nothing big, is that alright?"

Liv shrugs. That's as far as her selflessness goes.

"Also, I thought it might help if we all use our brooms at the end of the spell, to chase off the dirt and slime?" Camden adds.

Liv witnesses her fellow witches nod as one. Without a single complaint or grimace, they each seize their odd-looking diy brooms and wait for Camden's signal with more enthusiasm than they've shown until now. She looks at her finally cohesive community, and relief tinged with a hint of pride rises in her chest. They may not be fasting hands, but Liv feels the power of oneness course through her nerves as they chant the upgraded spell in unison,

Eyes prying eyes, shut your lids, sew them tight. Eyes prying eyes, burn in darkness, nevermore see the light. Eyes prying eyes, our sister never again shall you plight.

Click. On Liv's screen, Saoirse's bedroom door bursts open. "You bitch, what you plottin'?" A heavy man strides across the room, face red and out of breath. Saoirse jumps out of her indigo desk chair, Mr Cuddles clutched to her chest. He kicks the chair out of his way, takes another menacing step that blocks Saoirse out of the camera, but allows every witch to witness his eyes get magically sewed shut, and he trips over with an astonished cry.

His shriek is that of a pig at slaughter; it feeds back into every listening microphone, then stops for only a second.

Liv lets out a breath, rests her back against the chair and delights in the renewed howling of the man writhing on the bedroom flooring. "That would be the scorching," she whispers to Hellhound, picturing in her head the man's eyeballs melting from the inside. The pug looks up at her while she rubs his grumbling tummy, tracing the shape of a witch's knot. It doesn't do anything, but always makes her relax.

Saoirse's camera got knocked down in the commotion, so the whole coven watches the creep on the floor. He has adopted a foetal position, palms on his face, and shakes as words blurt out of his mouth twisted with pain, "My eyes… So dark… I can't…" The rest of the sentence is lost in sobs. After a while, even his sobbing stops.

"Saoirse, are you there?" he whines, "What did you do to me?" Then, as the young woman remains silent in the corner of the room, "All's I wanted was to be friends…"

Saoirse comes back in frame, places the scared kitten delicately onto her moon pillow, throws her thigh-length electric blue hair over her shoulder and glides toward the trembling man with a lioness' confidence.

"No," she states with new-found assurance. "That's not what you wanted, and you know it. When I say so, you're gonna leave this house and never come back. But first," her voice drips molasses as she bends down to murmur with her lips brushing his tear-covered cheek, "We're gonna leave my ma' a nice voice message telling her what a filthy bastard you are." She looks back at her magical family watching over her shoulder, at Mr. Cuddles fast asleep on the chair, and smiles, showing white teeth. "Oh, and Mr. Cuddles stays here. Now get off yer arse and leave, or you'll lose more than your cat and your sight."

Once the man has stumbled out of the room and she's sure he's left the flat, she grabs Mr. Cuddles and hops back into her chair like a naughty child, lips parted and rosy cheeks, slicks her thick hair back with both hands and candle light catches the glint in her black eyes before the fringe falls back in place.

The witches stay silent; their kind need not speak to share in a sister's triumph and liberation.

After a gleeful silence, Camden smiles at the camera and scratches his straw hair. "Now, what's on the agenda for next time? Ah yes, 'Is chatGPT a threat to witchcraft?'"

"... And what we can do about this bloody pandemic," Bree chimes in.

"That too, of course," Camden nods in all seriousness, then rounds up the meeting with the habitual, "When shall we thirteen meet again?"