The Corporate Witch

My name is Mildred Poisonapple and I’m a corporate witch. Now before you start thinking that means that I’m a real go-getter in the board room, guess again. The fact is I’m just a witch that happens to work for Modern Witchcraft, Inc., or MWI, a large corporation that employs witches and other magic practitioners. And I’m not corporate material at all. I’m quiet and unmotivated. All I want is to go to work, get a paycheck and go home.

I am sitting at my desk musing on these matters when the silence of the office is shattered by the ear-piercing alarm of the smoke detector.

Beep, beep, beep.

In any other business, that might mean that the building is on fire, but here at Modern Witchcraft, Inc., it’s more likely that Research & Development screwed something up.

R&D apologizes for the interruption. There is no danger. Please return to your seats, the PA system announces.

There goes the little break outside in the warm summer air I was hoping for. My shoulders slump as I return to my little office.

A mild rumble shakes the building.

The dragons are restless today. Without waiting for a response from me, Shelly Newton, my boss, walks by, enters her office and closes the door. Unlike me, Shelly takes everything in stride.

I lean forward and look at the alarm box that’s mounted on the wall next to the smoke detector. The light is off. Considering the number of dragon hatcheries MWI maintains deep below the ground level, rumblings are common, but I always keep a watchful eye on that alarm. If there were a serious problem, it would be lit up and issuing a shrill constant warning, as opposed to the intermittent beep of the smoke detector. Alarm orientation is part of the first day’s training at MWI.

Mildred? the intercom on my phone is talking to me.

I press the button. Yes?

Get Toby Jingleman on the phone.

Toby Jingleman is the head advertising writer here at MWI. He was responsible for the successful The Poof is in the Pudding campaign, which caused our instant spell—just add full or new moon water kits to sell like hotcakes. The campaign drove sales so high that Shelly received a huge bonus from the company. She celebrated by taking her fellow managers to lunch at a nice restaurant. I only got to make their reservation.

Right away.

I hold my hand over the rolodex and say, Rolodex, please flip away, Toby Jingleman’s card to display. The rolodex spins around and stops, with its cards coming to a halt when Toby Jingleman’s contact information is showing.

I dial his extension and wait for him to answer. Hi Toby, please hold for Shelly Newton. I put him on hold before he can say anything—a trick I learned during ad crunch time when people are desperate to avoid calls from bosses.

I buzz the intercom. Toby Jingleman on line one.

My job is pretty boring. I’m the administrative assistant to the Marketing Director. Shelly Newton is a typical corporate executive, more concerned with the way things look on paper than real-life circumstances. As long as she looks good to her bosses in reports and memos, she’s happy.

You’re wondering why I work here if I hate it so much, right? Well, the main benefit for me is that MWI portrays a Traditional witchcraft face to the world in order to boost sales. The official company holidays are the Traditional Witch ones, such as Yule and Beltane. Since my family is Traditional, those are my holidays. That’s something that might be a problem for me if I worked for a non-witch company.

I return to staring at my computer screen. I’m supposed to be checking Shelly’s schedule for conflicts during the upcoming weeks, but I’m so bored that I can’t keep the words in focus. This is my afternoon routine. An hour after eating lunch, I get so sleepy that my head keeps nodding forward. I’m afraid that one day I’ll fall forward and hit the desk.

I prop my chin up on my hand. This should keep my head in place until my hand falls asleep. I begin to daydream about working from home, because I feel as though a small part of me dies every time I enter this building. That may seem over-dramatic and I am prone to exaggeration, but MWI is a soul-sucking corporation.

I’d be much happier staying at home working with Mom and Grandma selling herbal remedies and spells. And I would if I had any talent, but I don’t. There isn’t a creative bone in my body. Even spell writing is hard for me. And my visualization techniques? I once tried to do a green thumb spell, but the only thing that turned green was me.

You should see my spell dolls. My grandmother calls them sock puppets, but they’re really just formless blobs. Perhaps that’s why spells I do with them don’t always work as intended, although Grandma says that any gelatinous, unformed ooze in the Universe had better watch out when I take up needle and thread. I can’t even draw a stick figure, so the whole craft thing is out.

I sit up startled as I realize that the Vice President of Sales and Marketing is standing in front of me. Hello, Mr. Spellman.

Mr. Spellman, who prides himself on knowing every employee’s name, says, Hello, Martha. It seems that only Shelly and—lucky for me, payroll—know my real name around here. Is Shelly in?

Yes, sir, she is. I pick up the phone to intercom Shelly, but Mr. Spellman is already walking through her office door, closing it behind him.

Mr. Spellman, like all MWI executives is a powerful witch. Surprised? Don’t be. Witches are not all female. And male witches aren’t warlocks, either. Warlocks are just people that worship the demon who calls himself Devil and professes to be the biggest evil there is.

I’d like to say that we as a company have integrity, but MWI has a line of products geared toward warlocks that worship the Devil, including black robes, chalices with images of their horned demon, and upside down crosses.

I know, you’re wondering why anyone would pay extra for inverted crosses when they could just buy a regular one and turn it upside down. It’s all in the marketing, you see. You have to admire the genius of someone like Toby Jingleman who can sell an ordinary item at an extraordinary price by packaging it with the motto Inverted Crosses: Turning Goodness on its Head. The label states that they are made by minor demons that chant evil phrases and work amongst burning rocks as they forge the crosses, using their demon sweat to cool the metal when finished. Personally, I think they’re mass produced in some third world nation, but I’ve never seen a purchase order or inventory form that would confirm that.

I glance through the blinds on the glass wall of Shelly’s office and see that Mr. Spellman has made himself comfortable. That means that I have to stay alert and awake until he’s gone, so I continue checking Shelly’s upcoming schedule.

Beep, beep, beep.

There goes the alarm again. I’m sure it’s still the R&D thing, but I go into the hallway to check anyway. This time, in addition to the periodic beeping of the smoke alarm, a foul odor in the air makes me gag. Other employees are making faces as they breathe in the horrid stench.

Cries of "What is that? and Does anybody have a gas mask?" fill the corridor.

The overhead PA system answers. Attention all MWI employees: R&D is experiencing some difficulties, and we apologize for the inconvenience. There is no danger of fire. All employees are to return to their desks immediately.

I turn back to see Shelly and Mr. Spellman passing by on their way to the elevator. Mildred, we’re going out for some fresh air. Tell anybody who calls that I’ll return their call in an hour or so.

This is why I hate business executives. Did it even occur to Shelly that I might not want to breathe in the horrible stench? I return to my desk and flop in my chair.

I’d like to say that things like this don’t happen often, but they do. MWI caters to the entire magic community, and that means that unusual things can happen. We supply everything from simple incense and candles of all colors, to eye of newt, and as I mentioned before, dragon eggs, the collection of which has resulted in the occasional incineration of a nursery worker. Not that there aren’t incinerations in other departments, but those are usually the result of an R&D screw up or the occasional dispute between employees, even though the use of magic on a coworker is forbidden.

As for the alarm, R&D is probably working on a new variety of incense. It’s not as though they’re developing household fragrances. Many of the scents they create, such as Eau d’Ogre Sweat, are offensive to humans, especially when there’s a mishap in the lab like just now.

This is one of the reasons that MWI has its own building. The dragon hatchery is a big part of it, too, not to mention the occasional presence of non-human, magic beings. Mundane (that’s we call the non-magical world) reception staffs are too intimidated to ask for ID from ogres and trolls, etc. And for their part, ogres and trolls are not inclined to hand over their ID to a human … even if they did carry it, which most don’t.

The government once attempted an OHF documentation program, which required OHFs—Other Humanoid Forms—to register for government IDs. It was a complete failure. Few of the OHFs could read the applications, and even if they could, the government refused to accept third cave after twisted oak tree in big forest as a legitimate home address.

Since MWI owns its building, they have golems guarding the entrance to its headquarters. Golems aren’t intimidated by anyone or anything.

Oh Martha? I hear a cheery, sing-song voice heading my way. Oh no! It’s one of my least favorite coworkers, Andrea Liaison. I look for a place to hide but it’s too late.

Chapter Two

Hiding may seem extreme, since Andrea is pretty benign when compared with other people at MWI, but for some reason, she really gets to me.

In the Modern witch world most witches have veered from their families’ traditional type of employment, which is usually indicated by the family name. Andrea has not. She comes from a long line of diplomats and mediators, as well as some infamous courtesans. True to her name, she acts as the liaison officer from Sales to Marketing. She makes sure that Marketing always knows what Sales is up to and vice versa. However, she favors Sales, and whenever there’s a conflict, she expects me to adjust Shelly’s schedule to fit with the Sales schedule.

Oh Martha, Andrea has one of those high-pitched voices that can drive you to distraction. Her falsetto inflections are worse that nails on a chalkboard. Martha, we have a problem.

It’s Mildred.

No, dear, Mildred isn’t the problem … who’s Mildred, anyway?

Me. I’m Mildred.

"Oh. Well, anyway Mitzi, we need, need, need to have Shelly attend our monthly meeting with the engineers and designers." Andrea likes to repeat words for emphasis, which leads me to believe that she might actually write worse spells than I do. I can just imagine it; let my Prince Charming come to me, oh please, please, please because it must, must, must be. It’s enough to make any god or higher being stop listening. I make a point of stopping what I was pretending to be doing.

She can’t. You rescheduled the monthly meeting from its usual time, and she already has a meeting set up for the new timeslot.

"Listen, Mitzi, the Sales Department is eager to get started on marketing the latest ritual robe styles. You know the MWI Fashion Show is coming up soon, and we simply must, must, must make a good impression there."

The MWI Fashion Show is legendary and one of the hottest tickets in town when it’s presented. It’s the only fashion show where the all-weather gear is demonstrated in actual rain and snow. Magic is used to change the scenery, virtually transporting the audience to the exotic locations for which some of the garments are designed. Levitating runway models add to the mystique. Of course, I’ve only heard about it, as I’ve never gone, and I might be more accommodating if Andrea ever thought to send some of those free passes she gets my way. Although, since she doesn’t know my name, I doubt she’d be able to find my employee mail slot anyway.

Then put your meeting back to its original time. Shelly’s free then.

Now you listen here, Mitzi, I can’t do that. None of the sales people are available then.

But this is the same time and day that you hold that meeting every month. They know that. I made Shelly available for every meeting when I got the printout in January, but you guys keep changing it.

Well, that’s because it just doesn’t work for them this month.

Funny, it didn’t work for them last month or the one before that, either.

I can’t help it if other things come up. Nothing is set in stone here, Mary; you need to be more flexible.

So, I’m supposed to keep rescheduling Shelly Newton, the Marketing Director, to accommodate Frank in Sales because he can’t read a calendar? I’ll explain it that way to Shelly and see if she wants me to do that.

Andrea is furious. If it weren’t for the edict against intra-company hexes, I’m sure I’d be wishing for a lily pad about now. Or perhaps I’d be wishing for three depending on the wording of Andrea’s spell: Mitzi has angered me, therefore a frog, frog, frog she’ll be. Now that I think of it, I don’t have anything to worry about, but if there is anyone in the building who is actually named Mitzi, Martha or Mary she could have a problem. Without meaning to, I laugh aloud.

Andrea is glaring at me. Fine, I’ll send you the minutes.

Thanks, I give her a cheerful wave. Have a great day!

I can tell that she’s angry, because she’s leaving scorch marks in the carpet as she storms away. Most witches have a hard time holding their emotions in check when those feelings are strong enough. Andrea is what you’d call seething mad.

Shelly returns from her refreshing escape from Eau d’Ogre Sweat and throws a flash drive on my desk. I need the document on here proofread by the end of the day. Without a second glance at me, she goes to her office, closing the door behind her.

I look at the clock. I have an hour and a half to finish it. I hate staying after office hours because I’m salaried and don’t get compensated for it.

I wish I had some magical means of accomplishing this task, but I have to insert the flash drive into my computer’s port and open the document up just like the Mundane world.

I rush to get started and open the document up only to find almost all of the text underlined by the error checking program. Frustrated, I begin to read. Then I realize that I opened it with Spell Checker instead of the word processing spell checker.

MWI employs software engineers who tailor software to the particular needs of magic users. For instance, the spell writing department reported problems with their grammar checker, so our engineers wrote a new one, called Spell Checker. Spell Checker looks for good rhyming and metre, and Karmic disclaimers to prevent bad Karma for the spell caster in the case of ‘white’ spells, although the black and gray Spell Checker programs naturally ignore this criterion.

I close Spell Checker and open the file with the normal spell checking word processor. I finish with a few minutes to spare, sighing with relief when it’s quitting time. And it’s Friday, too. No work for two whole days. I’m even more anxious to leave today than usual, because I’ve had this feeling all day that something good is about to happen. I grab my bag and change my shoes to comfortable flats so I can run for the train.

I wind my way through the maze of cubicles to the elevator bank. There’s someone waiting there already, and he presses the button again as though it will make the elevator come faster. It doesn’t work, and he and I avoid making eye contact while we wait.

After a long wait, the doors slide open. The car is already full, but I’m determined to catch the early train home, so I push forward. The other guy slips in before me, but I squeeze on just as the doors close. I try to turn around to stare at the front of the elevator without making any eye contact as everyone knows you’re supposed to do but my skirt is stuck in the elevator doors. Embarrassed, I have no choice but to smile at the twelve squished people I am face to face with.

Looks like we’ve exceeded the maximum occupancy for the elevator, I say with a grin. Nobody smiles back. I hate this place.

It seems like hours before the elevator arrives on the main floor, and as soon as the doors open, the occupants surge forward, pushing me backwards. Good thing I changed from my heels into flats, I think as I struggle to keep my balance.

I hurry out of the building and hit the sidewalk running. Arriving at the subway station even a minute later than usual can mean the difference between catching the early train and missing it. Slow moving people and tourists are blocking the way. I’m weaving in and out of the crowd wishing that I could use magic to clear a path, but I don’t have the time or energy to visualize that properly.

I wish I could fly home, but broom traffic was banned over the city years ago after multiple complaints by air traffic controllers of broomsticks interfering with metropolitan flight paths, so I have to take the train home with all of the other unfortunate commuters.

It’s a hot, late summer day and the air on the subway platform feels at least twenty degrees hotter. The sight of masses of people waiting there fills me with both happiness and dread. On the one hand, the crushing crowd means that I haven’t missed the subway. Nothing is more depressing than seeing the train you just missed disappearing into the tunnel. On the other hand, a crowd of waiting passengers can also mean that there’s been a service interruption. I join the people standing at the platform’s edge to stare into the darkened tunnel for signs of approaching headlights.

There’s no light in the tunnel, and I’m starting to feel sick from the overwhelming heat, so I back up as far as I can. I can’t reach the station wall to lean against it because there are too many people in the way. I balance for a minute before closing my eyes to concentrate. I take hold the small wand I keep in my pocketbook to focus my energy and chant in a whisper, Mist of seas and ocean breeze, come to me now, refresh me please! I picture a gentle, refreshing wind coming off the ocean.

In an instant, I’m aware of my hair blowing back from my face, and I feel about twenty degrees cooler. I smile. I continue to concentrate on my ocean scene, adding the wonderful feel of ocean spray to the gentle breeze.

My smile broadens as the mist cools me even further. Then I feel the mist from the ocean getting stronger and stronger. Cries of disgust from the other passengers make me open my eyes. As usual, I’ve blown a good spell with my visualization and caused an overhead pipe to spring a leak when I added the mist. Any refreshing feeling I might have had disappears as I ponder what might be in the pipe. Everyone in the crowd around me is moving away, except for one man.

I turn and look at the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.

Chapter Three

The gorgeous man turns toward me and our eyes meet. I catch my breath. He looks like the cover model from one of my trashy romances, with his hair blowing in my spell breeze. It seems that he’s been enjoying my refreshing spell, too.

He’s about to open his mouth when I see his eyes drop to my work ID, still hanging around my neck in the plastic carrier that also holds my subway and train passes.

I was about to ask how you found the only breezy spot down here, but I see from your company name that it’s no coincidence.

His voice is as lovely to hear as his face is to look at. Even my painful shyness can’t make me look away from him. I’m sorry, it was just so hot, and I wasn’t feeling well.

Don’t apologize, I feel much better, too.

Well, I’m sorry about the mystery moisture, I say with embarrassment.

Hey, it’s not the first time I got splashed by some unknown liquid down here. Probably won’t be the last. He smiles and I melt. My name is Peter.

Hi Peter, my name is— but the sound of my voice is drowned out by the thunder of the train’s long awaited but ill-timed arrival at the station.

I turn to look at the train, and I’m pushed forward by the masses of people trying to board. I turn back and see Peter’s back as he’s pushed in a different direction.

I board the train and search the crowd, looking for Peter, but I can’t see him anywhere. I try to think of a spell to let me find him, but I can’t concentrate because I’m so busy trying not to fall. I can’t even reach the handhold. In fact, the only reason I’m still upright is that I’m crammed between several other commuters.

When the doors open at my station, I follow the crowd off the subway, all the while trying to spot Peter, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Dejected, I trudge toward the platform to catch my train home.

As a rule, I love the last train trip of the week because I settle into my seat and daydream about two whole days with no stress or office politics. But today, I’m miserable. I can’t stop thinking about Peter. I know it sounds corny, but meeting him felt like my destiny, and I let the opportunity slip through my fingers. I’ll have to ask my grandmother what I can do about finding Peter again.

Despair must be pouring out of my body, because the air conditioning on the train stops working, making everyone else feel as wretched as I do. It’s situations like this that gave birth to the expression misery loves company. When you’re a miserable witch, your feelings spread like a disease. And boy, am I one miserable witch.

After a long, agonizing trip home, the doors open at my station. I shuffle off the train and traipse through the parking lot. I used to bring my broom with me so I could fly straight home from the platform after they first banned broom traffic over the city, but it’s too cumbersome to carry. I suppose I could buy one of the portable, collapsible brooms that MWI sells, but my grandmother hates everything about MWI, and I’d never hear the end of it. So I started driving to the station in my car, the purchase of which, even though it’s an eco-friendly, hybrid model, started a huge fight with my grandmother.

A bunch of flyers had accumulated on my windshield during the day, and I take a minute to thumb through them. Apparently, I can lose ten pounds in three days, increase my libido in two, and have my house repainted overnight. But there’s none that will let me travel two hours back in time to repeat my brush with destiny.

I’ll have to suck it up and ask Grandma for help. I throw the papers in the car and get in. I spend the drive home trying to figure out a way to tell Grandma just enough about the meeting to get her to help me find Peter again but not enough that she finds out that he’s a Mundane.

Chapter Four

I pull up to the drive that leads to the house where I live with my grandmother and mother. My traditional neighborhood with its private houses that sit on secluded lots is a world away from the bustling, technology-filled city. There are few cars here and no traffic lights.

Grandma won’t allow any cars within the immediate perimeter of the house, so I park at the end of the drive. My car is a constant source of friction with Grandma. We live in the Mundane world because like most witches, my family left their ancestral kingdom centuries ago, and that means we have to pay taxes, but as registered Traditionalists, we get huge exemptions due to our environmentally-friendly lifestyle. We have limited need for public sanitation and many other government services. However, since my car contributes to pollution, we have to pay additional tax money.

Witches don’t believe in land ownership, so we live as stewards on the property. We have what are called eternal, but renegotiable, stewardship agreements with the local governments. This means that we have the right to live forever on the land, but we have to renegotiate our stewardship arrangement with the government from time to time. The Ruling Council of Witches sponsors bright young students to go to Mundane law schools so they are able to represent us in those periodic negotiations.

I pass by the government-issued sign at the foot of the property that reads:

You are entering property under the stewardship of the Poisonapple Clan. Pursuant to the principles of stewardship, you incur personal liability for all actions and activities that occur within the stewardship boundaries.

Basically, that means don’t slip and fall because we don’t have any liability insurance, and you’re not allowed to sue us.

My clan added our own more user-friendly, or should I say user-unfriendly, sign that reads: Enter at your own risk. Our sign is aged and kind of spooky looking and means don’t do anything foolish here because we’ll take care of you ourselves.

I start up the walkway. The house sits on a small hill, so the winding walk is on a gentle incline surrounded by brush and shrubs, all of which keep the house secluded from the street.

As I pass by the largest privacy hedge, the house comes into view. Witch families tend to stay together and our houses are rather odd looking, due to the many additions made to accommodate growing families through the years. We are also a matriarchal society, so male witches move in with their wives’ families.

I open the thick front door with its old-fashioned iron knocker and head straight through the hall to the kitchen. With misery exuding from every pore, I’m not two feet inside the kitchen when Grandma spins around. Who rained on your parade? she asks in her usual brisk manner. She puts down the ladle she was using to stir the cauldron and stares at me.

My mother, on the other hand, is a nurturer and gets up from the bench at the