So I found this short story I wrote back in 2009. I am not a fiction writer. It’s really not my forte. And while I don’t even remember writing this piece, I do remember WHY I wrote it and what was happening at the time. I have not bothered to edit it. So with that, I will let you enjoy a piece of what I will call magical realism. -Katherine
“Witchcraft once started, as we all know, is virtually unstoppable.” –from Mikhail Bulgakov’s ‘The Master and Margarita’
I intended to start it myself.
It would begin with Voodoo.
First, I made the effigies.
That part was easy.
Upload the photographed faces from my camera to the site that produced muslin dolls.
They came out perfectly—little, ugly replicas of the real thing, ten of them, arms stitched and loose, the way I would need them to be. I glued on the google-eyes, fabric-painted big, red mouths.
Getting a piece of something each council member owned would be something different, something requiring wile.
But I was mistress of wile.
The after-meeting opportunities to ask questions, the swipe at the suit for a piece of fallen hair, a little “Let me tuck your tag in” or “You have a piece of lint. Let me get that for you.” I was the consummate caretaker for those who considered me enemy.
I derived pleasure from dressing the dolls, went out of my way to buy clothing, added yellow yarn hair and drew on fingers. Shoes—must have shoes. They could wear baby booties, footwear appropriate to their human behavior.
I would be ready for the meeting.
Sitting in the back with my dolls stashed in my oversized, quilted bag, I looked innocuous. A granny, that’s what I was. Glasses, white hair recently set by the salon, serviceable, blue coordinated pants and top made of Calcutta cloth, white canvass sneakers that could also pass as casual shoes. I was just a listener.
I didn’t sign up for citizen’s time. I would get more than my allotted three minutes to voice my opinion to the committee that governed our city.
Five minutes into the meeting: “Do we have a motion to approve the minutes from last week?”
No, it was not my time. I didn’t care a hoot about their notes.
So moved. Approved.
“We now move to citizen time.”
Then, the rules. No clapping, no booing, no response from committee members. When the buzzer rang, the speaker would be dismissed—or booted, depending.
A woman, face contorted like an angry bull’s: “You can’t run a highway by my home. I’ve lived there for 30 years. It’s not right.”
The buzzer about to ring. The woman went on.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but your time is up.” She left crying, not back to her seat but out the side chambers door.
“Next.”
“I am here for the same reason,” said the man in a yellow shirt and plaid pants.
“There is a way to run the new road around our neighborhood so it won’t increase noise, traffic and pollution. I….”
“Sir, you time…”
But it was my time, now.
On their own, my practiced hands reached in the bag, my eyes barely needing to confirm I had the correct doll.
“Sir your time…”
The speaker continued in spite of the Chair’s warnings.
Tear a little bit off the roll. Masking tape over the doll’s mouth.
“And so I ask you to consider this plan which I have set forth in this report.”
That’s all he needed—another minute.
The man approached the dais, handed the committee the report.
Next: “I am here to request you fund expansion of the homeless shelter. The waiting list is long.”
Next: “Please, don’t make cuts to the special education program.”
“Please get more police presence in our neighborhood.”
“Please continue to run the Blue Bird buses for seniors.”
All 10 dolls plastered with post-it notes.
I stood the dolls upright in the bag. I plastered their arms to their sides.
Likewise, the committee rose, rigid, confused.
I nodded the heads of the dolls.
The committee members nodded, eyes like adults lost in a corn maze.
I tore off the tape.
“Move to grant the citizens’ requests,” said the Chair.
“Second,” said the Vice Chair.
“All in favor?”
“Aye.”
“Motion passes unanimously.”
Sharp inhale from the crowd.
Standing ovation.
