# The Sand-Witch of Portsmantown, Florida

Founded by settlers who trudged out of the nigh-impassable forests, took one look at the sandy clearing, and decided it was better than going back through that mess, the little village of Portsmantown, FL boasts three standing structures, a dock, and a rusted bar-b-que grill. Of the two dozen people who live there, fully half live between the cracks in the large rocks that dot the rough beach; they all stay far away from the only decent stretch of beach, a powdery strip of sand upon which stands a teepee, a little stone table, and far, far too many rotting tomato slices. In the hut lives Tonia, the Sand-Witch, and she is feared.

The only profitable business in all of Portsmantown is the Stand-Wich, a shack upon the most prime real estate (a small, grassy knoll near the edge of the forest furthest from the beach) from which Father Sneagle and Little Timmy serve inexplicably greasy subs, hand-pressed paninis, and what could only be described as tuna salad sandwiches by a pathological liar with a marketing budget. Poor though it may be, their little shop is the only restaurant in all four acres of Portsmantown, and the local home-cooked brined seashell stew is oftentimes even worse.

One early morning, Old Rag (a spry young man named Steven whose incessant monologues put Mark Twain to shame) sat on a log in front of the Stand-Wich eating a 4-inch footlong sub and complaining about international geopolitics. He'd never read a newspaper in his life, but that didn't stop him. This was considered perfectly normal behavior to the tired citizens in line at the sandwich stand, and multiple people actually woke up from a half-slumber for surprise when he, abruptly, stopped. Rag's gaping mouth showed a mushy ball of bread and mayonnaise, his dull eyes staring towards the beach. From the nice sandy stretch there was witching being done.

Tonia the Sand-Witch was witching up a storm. Unwilling mutilated shreds of sweaty cheddar left out on the beach for several days smashed into slices of limp and soggy white bread, topped with rancid pepperoni and circles of tomato so overripe as to be legally ketchup. Tubes of somehow green salami gashed themselves into strips on the sharpest of the rocks, which were then lovingly folded into beds of wilted lettuce, and shoved between the bloated bread, topped a disgusting amount of the mayonnaise stored in the sun in a bowl made of human hair. Spoiled meats and putrid cheeses and offensive breads and horrid vegetables whizzed through the air as Tonia advanced grimly on the Stand-Wich.

The people ran for cover, excepting Timmy and Father Sneagle, who stood grimly in front of their beloved stand, prime-quality (for Portsmantown, that is) baguettes at the ready. Tonia smirked cruelly as Sneagle used his bread to smack an onion, which exploded in a shower of spicy gunk all over the huddled sandwich-goers. With a flick of her hand and a magic sign, both baguettes crumbled into breadcrumbs, which were swept soggily off the ground and incorporated deviously into a meatball-and-hatred sub. Timmy and Sneagle dropped to the ground and clutched one another as the entire shop began to shake, shatter, and then implode in a flurry of bedeviled eggs and kale. With that, Tonia turned around and walked grimly back to the beach, leaving the best plot of land in Portsmantown, Florida permanently coated in the results of her witching. The wailing and moaning of the people was tremendous as they limped away to their brined sea-shell soup, leaving Timmy and Sneagle to attempt to clean up the refuse.

As Tonia reached the beach, a luxury yacht pulled up to the rickety dock, smashing several planks. Down the ladder came the Joneston family: Papa Joneston, an oil magnate and all-around family man; Mama Joneston, a dedicated entrepreneur; and Emily Joneston, the genius daughter. The family was all smiles as Mama Joneston delightedly photographed the rickety dock, the choppy waves, the much-besandwiched beach, and the boring grey sky: while pointing the camera up, she missed a step along the dock and fell in. Many chuckles were had as Papa Joneston pulled the jubilant Mama Joneston out of the water, and by this point the family was making so much noise that all of Portsmantown was watching them.

Little Emily Joneston sprinted the last part of the dock, giggling as she stumbled and barked her knees on the sharp and unpredictable rocks, and fumbled her way to the nicer part of the beach. She stepped in spoiled tomatoes, cruelly-malodorous eggs, and the occasional Kraft single (all of which looked exactly like they had when they were first unwrapped, despite having been sitting on the beach for the last month). Mama Joneston's smile became slightly less pronounced when she saw the crazed Tonia climb irritably out of her teepee, but it did make for such darling pictures.

Tonia advanced on the child, threateningly Witching up a megatonne-yield chicken parm, and Emily froze in terror. The Joneston parents rushed in front of their daughter, provoking an evil grin from Tonia. The sky got even blacker than before as Tonia prepared to witch up a truly disgusting combination. Emily screamed and her parents knelt down to comfort her as Tonia got ever closer. A slice of gunked-up Havarti flew through the air, just barely missing the terrified family, quickly followed by a few sticks of accursed bacon that grazed Papa Joneston's ear. Lettuce straighted out into limp shapes as slices of carrots and Rye coalesced around them, accompanied by salami worthy of several war crime hearings.

In that moment, time froze. Emily drew herself up to her full height of 1.4m and flicked her hand. With an orchestral strum, cucumber older than most dirt manifested in thin slices. She waved her arm in a wide arc and thousands of tortured connoisseurs cried out in agony as a whole wheel of gruyere separated into uneven chunks and bathed itself thoroughly in a mixture of mud and brined seashell soup. Emily's eyes widened in fear, surprise, and a certain excitement as she Witched up a positive hurricane. A quiver of unease passed through Tonia as she increasingly desperately Witched away Emily's onslaught of mustard mixed with soy sauce, pesto full of ants, and deli turkey that probably witnessed the first Thanksgiving. Thick slices of deep-fried rye bread joined the storm as Tonia blocked bread-and-butter pickles left and right with a slowly weakening force of mildewed mashed potatoes and wiggly celery. Emily advanced slowly pushing Tonia further off the strip of sand, her parents huddling in the barrage of corrupted lunch. Finally, with a bolt of hairy prosciutto and mayonnaise so thick it could be used for caulking (if it weren't for all the chunks), Emily sent Tonia flying into the forest, never to be seen again.

She turned to her quivering parents, hair wild and well-seasoned, flaps of pepperoni flittering down in the wind.

"I think", said the girl, "I like it here". She sauntered into what was now her teepee as the yacht, unmoored in the violent hurricane of bad health choices, floated away in the distance.

And that's how you make a Sand-Witch!

this was a submission for the purpose 42 september short story contest, but it ran almost 2x over the max size, so it never actually served as such.
copyright 2024 Tyler Clarke