Citrus Coven: Florida’s Juiciest Magical Mishap
Everyone in Lake Helene agreed on one thing.
The oranges had started whispering.
It began subtly, the way Florida problems usually do. A hum in the groves at dusk. A low, sticky sound that clung to the air long after the sun gave up and slid behind the pines.
At first, folks blamed the heat.
They always do.
The Women Who Meant Well
The Citrus Coven never meant to cause trouble.
There were three women who met every Thursday behind a roadside fruit stand that sold oranges by the bag and gossip by the pound.
There was Marlene, who believed Florida soil remembered everything.
Joyce, who swore citrus trees had moods.
And Irene, who had once read half a spell online and decided the rest felt intuitive.
They wanted one thing. Just one.
A better harvest.
Florida oranges weren’t what they used to be. Too dry. Too sour. Too… disappointed. And the Coven figured if tourists could pray for sunshine, they could whisper a little encouragement into the roots.
No harm in that.
When the Juice Went Wrong
The spell was simple. Too simple, in hindsight.
Moonlight. Fresh peel. A chant that involved gratitude, abundance, and something about sweetness returning home.
They didn’t account for Florida’s sense of humor.
By morning, the oranges were glowing.
Not metaphorically. Actually glowing.
Bright, warm, pulsing softly like they were pleased with themselves.
By noon, people noticed the taste. One bite and you felt energized. Two bites and you felt optimistic. Three bites and suddenly you were telling strangers your dreams in line at Publix.
By sunset, the town was buzzing.
Literally.
Side Effects Nobody Asked For
The oranges worked too well.
People laughed longer. Arguments fizzled out. Regret evaporated.
Dogs stopped barking. The humidity felt… forgiving.
But Florida magic is never free.
The juice began to ferment on its own. Bottles popped. Groves shimmered. And somewhere deep in the trees, the whispering grew louder, syrupy and smug.
The Citrus Coven knew they’d crossed a line when the mayor declared the town “emotionally unstable but thriving.”
That was Florida’s polite way of saying stop.
The Undoing
Undoing magic is harder than starting it. Especially in flip-flops.
The women returned to the grove at dawn with humility, regret, and one very clear rule.
Never improve Florida too much.
They thanked the trees. Apologized to the soil. Promised not to mess with sweetness again.
By the next day, the glow faded. The oranges returned to normal. A little sour. A little stubborn. Familiar.
The whispers stopped.
Mostly.
What Remains
Now and then, someone swears they find an orange that tastes like the best day of their life. Just one. Never two.
They don’t tell anyone.
Because Florida has a way of reminding you that magic, like citrus, is best enjoyed fresh and in moderation.
And always with a little mess.
Fiction in Flip-Flops
Short stories where Florida slips sideways.
Sunburned magic. Accidental enchantments.
Nothing too serious. Nothing is entirely safe.
Share if you smiled. Until next time, watch the tide
Earl Lee
