Witch Cults of the Ohio River

Convenience Stories Chapter 17

This is the penultimate chapter of Convenience Stories — which, as you know, means the last chapter is coming tomorrow. Subscribe for just $7 a month for more exclusive content.

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I felt wired and tired, simultaneously. I drove home and took a nap. I woke up and made a cup of coffee. While Mr. Coffee did his thing, I asked Hecate for wisdom. Then I sat down in the living room to drink my coffee and think this all through.

For all my bitching about my job, I do have a nice apartment at least. My landlord is a local guy who’d rather have a few loyal tenants stick around than bleed them dry and have to put the place back on the market every few years.

I looked at the room. A bookshelf full of books, exposed roof beams, a picture window overlooking the hills of Pittsburgh’s West End. It’s a solid working-class neighborhood, but you wouldn’t necessarily know it from my back porch. When I sit on the back porch, I really feel like I’m living the good life.

I took it all in, all the stuff that I accumulated over the last two decades. Mostly books, a TV, an acoustic guitar. Would I take any of it with me when I left? Probably not. Once you start asking what sparks joy, everything seems to. But when you get rid of everything, you find that you don’t need any of it. Grab your phone and charger. A warm jacket, you’re good to go. A toothbrush too.

Electric City?

All I had was that word and the nagging sense that my drift today—through the South Hills to the North Side—led me somewhere.

I burned my talisman and felt immediately better. It was like I had been plugged in for the last week or so. My battery was overflowing, ready to explode. I was full of electricity and had to disperse it somehow. The talisman is a magical tool, and it needs to be discarded properly, with ritual.