The Isolation of Hecate

After the massive outbreak of bovine tuberculosis overtook the magick population, Hecate fled Queens to reunite with her lover in Ixelles. The Ten of Cups, where Hecate had been contracted to produce an array of potions for hedonistic covens throughout the continent, was under new management by pustule-ridden elves from dark magick combat backgrounds who knew nothing about what it took to craft high-quality rituals for increased senses, vitality, and pleasure. Witches and elves have always been at odds.

Hecate had spent years leading a team of new witches who brought along exciting new methods, inventive Latin prose, and plant-based ingredients to an otherwise arduous process. Alas, the latest expansion of Ten of Cups downgraded bespoke potions to the level of takeaway food. Youth serums were made from cheap whale excretions, dressed up and delivered like a trendy direct-to-consumer service. Careful labor was sidelined in favor of faster tactics that tripled the pipeline to improve product reach into the deeper avenues of The Underworld around the globe.

Though Hecate was distraught over the unfortunate chain of events stemming from both the disease and the automation of her craft, she knew that chasing after her hunky Gorgon lover, Cestla, would be fun enough to help make the troubling work conditions somehow bearable. After all, she was a head witch and managed to afford herself duty-free movement throughout The Underworld.

In Belgium, Hecate spent her days drinking warm cappuccinos on cold, gray streets while eating expertly crafted croissants. Once the hour struck half-past sixteen, she confined herself to the vampire dungeon while Cestla and their blood-sucking pals pillaged. She didn’t vibe with vampires, but she stomached their stench in the interest of being perceived as “chill.” Hecate often worried about neglecting Cestla, so she thought being kind and accepting of their brutish friends would balance out her feelings of shame and guilt for her devotion to work. She had given many years to her craft and refused to allow an elf kingdom to summon its downfall.

She set up a remote workplace filled with totems for optimal performance:

• Lighting
  Though her Leo moon favored the sun, persianas blocked light from entering the dungeon which was actually on the third floor. She sometimes opened them to watch for magpies, her favorite bird.
• A New Laptop
  Since she and her work coven had been isolated from each other, they worked over video calls and trained an AI to create a spell generator for at-home potion making. This was sad, but they got paid well to do less fulfilling work.
• Back-up
  A hard drive in case of mass layoffs due to a tumultuous market and inflation. An iPad for potential work on the go. She found it difficult to disconnect from screens.
• Ergonomics
  A laptop stand to counteract the hard, wooden stool she sat on for hours. A wireless mouse to reduce hand cramping. AirPods and brown noise playlists to drown out the piercing screams.
• Location
  Access to a clean bathroom which was more difficult if there was prey around.
• Basic Needs
  Pre-prepped, poached endives in citrus and butter for a comforting snack. Coffee. Water.

Things got pretty rocky with Cestla. Even after convincing them to join her back in Queens once her travel allowance expired, Cestla grew tired of being with someone who went from being fiery and exciting to offering no more than their PR faerie ex who built cookie-cutter sparkle-dust startups with kitschy one-word names like Parsley and Thyme. Completely one-dimensional!

She lost her skills in making any spells of real hedonistic value and instead spent her days exhausting herself over templatizing mass-produced cheap-thrill potions and skin balms. Sadness swelled in Hecate. Her lover found their joy elsewhere. She hadn’t slurped the youth out of children’s souls in over six months. Her supple skin became cold and brittle, her once luscious hair aged into wiry strands of silver, her nails split and cracked from high cortisol levels, and she could no longer eat carbohydrates without forming scaly patches of psoriasis.

Crafting potions for the Ten of Cups had been a lifelong dream, but there was little left to be proud of. The other witches were also wasting away from the rising of the elves and the gluttonous amalgamations of once-coveted Latin spells that they generated. She had to break away, not only to save herself but to somehow reignite the vibrant community of witches she became separated from in the darkness.

Credits: Written under the advisement of Ian Lynam, Edited by Angela Paladino.