The Witches’ Reunion: A Special Guest

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 112

As the High Priestess, I decided to host the first witches’ reunion in the city of Pasadena while everyone was distracted by the Rose Parade.

Our faces looked more tired, but the spells and our old-world cooking recipes remained the same.

Witches came from everywhere.

Some parked their brooms in the bicycle area, which immediately caused problems because several of them looked identical in the dark.

Others Ubered to the reunion because they did not want to deal with confusing their broom with someone else’s and accidentally flying home on a stranger’s emotional baggage.

But we denied access to the ones who bought their sage and palo santo at Silver Lake boutiques and translated English into Latin as if Latin were the native language of the supernatural world.

We had to draw the line somewhere. We openly discriminated against Hollywood witches.

“Blessed be,” I said.

“Now, sisters,” I said, tapping the microphone. “Tonight is a very special night.”

The room had been decorated with battery-operated realistic flame candles from Costco.

“For centuries, we have had to go through intermediaries. Spirits. Minor entities. Ouija boards. Magic 8 Balls. Occasionally, a very overworked raven.”

Several witches nodded.

“You remember the raven,” I said. “He took forever to relay messages because he had accepted too much work. Funerals. Omens. Breakup dreams. One woman kept asking him to check if her ex had moved on, and eventually the raven was named in a restraining order.”

“At some point, he was carrying so many messages that he started misdelivering them. He sent apologies to the wrong widows. He delivered bad omens after the person had already died.”

“It got so bad that the raven exceeded the number of liens legally permitted on a single nest.”

A witch whispered, “If you can no longer trust ravens, who can you trust?”

“The devil,” someone shouted.

The room froze.

That voice sounded familiar.

I paused.

Then I continued, because when you are hosting an event, you cannot allow every demonic voice to derail the program.

“Recently, my cable company upgraded my internet at no extra charge.”

“I do not know exactly what plan I have now. Fiber? Ultra? Max? Something with bandwidth. The point is, I was finally able to host a night with the spirits without buffering.”

A few witches gasped.

“Yes,” I said. “The connection was strong enough for the spirits to carry a message all the way down to him.”

Someone whispered, “To the devil?”

I nodded.

“To the devil.”

“And tonight, sisters, for the first time in his devilish life, he has agreed to appear not through a dream, not through a Ouija board, not through the smoke of a campfire, but through the projector.”

The room grew still.

A witch in the back dropped her candy canes.

“No other witches’ convention has ever brought you the devil himself as a guest speaker,” I said. “Not Salem. Not Voodoo Doughnut. Not even that overpriced retreat in Joshua Tree where they made everyone sleep in yurts and called it spiritual resilience.”

Several witches murmured.

“You remember the one,” I said. “The retreat where they released goats into the camping area to police negative energy, but the goats immediately turned against the participants and began trampling through the tents.”

A few women nodded.

“By the end of the weekend, every participant needed a chiropractic adjustment.”

“And then,” I continued, “instead of apologizing, one of the organizers tried to add another healing activity.”

“What activity?” someone asked.

“Chiropractors with goats.”

Then one witch in the back finally snapped.

“Show us the devil!”

At that exact moment, someone’s phone started ringing.

The ringtone was an eerie little song, the kind of melody that sounded like it had been composed by a haunted ice cream truck.

Everyone turned.

The Costco candles flickered mechanically.

The computers in the back began installing mandatory updates.

On the snack table, the hot salsa began getting hotter.

A witch dipped a tortilla chip, tasted it, and immediately started coughing.

“It’s increasing,” she said.

Then the fire alarm went off.

The projector screen flickered.

A figure appeared on the screen, seated in what looked like a very Wayfair-decorated home office.

The devil adjusted his horns.

“Can everyone hear me?” he asked.

The organizer rushed forward.

“You’re muted.”

The devil rolled his eyes and cursed.

“I have been summoned across dimensions,” he said, “and still somehow, the first thing I hear is that I’m muted.”

“For centuries,” he said, “humans have been using my name irresponsibly.”

The room went still.

“They keep blaming me for everything. Wars. Son of Sam. Greed. Reality television. Men who own acoustic guitars. I have nothing to do with most of that.”

He sounded tired.

“I have not had official business on Earth since they crucified Jesus.”

Someone gasped.

“What?”

“That was the last time the assignment made sense,” he said. “Jesus was there. There was structure. At one point, we even tried to be civilized and went out for wine to resolve our differences.”

“And did you?” someone asked.

The devil looked away from the screen.

“In a way.”

“We made peace with each other. I went back to the underworld. He went back to his father’s kingdom.”

No one spoke.

“And both of us,” he said, “gave up on humanity.”

“After that?” someone whispered.

“After that,” said the devil, “humans started freelancing.”

“Do you know how annoying it is to be blamed for every terrible thing people do when I have been retired for two thousand years?”

“So you retired after the crucifixion?” someone asked.

“Spiritually, yes,” he said. “Administratively, it took longer. The final paperwork wasn’t processed until the end of World War II.”

The room went still.

“After that, God accepted my resignation, and I looked around and realized humanity no longer required outside influence.”

“That’s dark,” someone whispered.

“That’s documentation,” said the devil.

“So who won?” someone asked.

The devil smiled.

“That depends who you ask.”

Then he logged out without saying goodbye.

“Okay, everyone,” I said, returning to the microphone. “This concludes our reunion.”

The witches looked disappointed.

“I know. I know. Traditionally, this is where we would dance around a fire.”

Several women nodded.

“Unfortunately, we are not allowed to do that here.”

A few witches started heading out.

“I did try to negotiate. I told the owner of the center we would keep it casual. Nothing dramatic. Just a small ceremonial flame. Maybe roast a few marshmallows and twerk a little.”

“He wasn’t buying it.”

“He said if he smelled anything burnt or sulfurous, we were not getting our deposit back.”

The room went quiet.

““And sisters,” I said, “since we are not allowed to have a fire anywhere on the premises, please place your lists of unwanted burdens, attachments, and problems into this black bag.”

I held up the bag.

“I will personally drop it off at the local shredding center for destruction,” I said, “so our release spell can be completed.”

“Also,” I said, before anyone could leave, “do not forget to take the blueberry muffins.”

“The almond flour blueberry muffins I made to raise funds for Witches Awareness. Everyone grab as many as you can fit in your baskets and sell them on your way home.”

“Please Venmo me the proceeds by midnight,” I said. “And do not eat the inventory. This is a cause.”

“I will be sending owls as your companions,” I said, “to ensure everyone remains honest.”

“These are compliance owls.”

Several witches looked toward the ceiling.

“They will accompany you home, observe your sales activity, and report any muffin-related misconduct directly to me.”

Someone whispered, “What does Witches Awareness even do?”

I looked at her.

“It raises awareness.”

“For the fact that we are still here, still misunderstood, still being blamed for TV hauntings, and apparently still responsible for family curses.”

“Also,” I said, “everyone must remain in uniform while selling the muffins. Put on your black cloaks.”

“Won’t that scare people?” someone asked.

“That is why it is called awareness,” I said.

After the reunion ended, some of the witches collected their baskets.

Some witches went to parking validation for their brooms, which apparently cost extra if you left them in the structure for more than two hours.

A few simply disappeared into the rain, walking home in different directions with their baskets of muffins tucked beneath their cloaks.

I decided to walk home too.

Unfortunately, it started raining.