Scorpio by Jay Thompson

Ines Vuckovic (c) 2016

Katie sat on her padded office chair and folded over with a sigh, staring at the beige carpeting. How many times could her coworker Linda belittle her before it destroyed her? Before she quit by bursting out the front door crying, running down LaSalle Street with her heels clicking against the sidewalk, looking at the concrete through a blur of tears all the way to the red line?

Katie reminded herself she was a Scorpio. She sat up straight, closed her eyes, and imagined a hard, black shell appearing on her abdomen and spreading across her sides and over her back. It snaked up her neck and over her head, encasing her arms and legs then extending into a segmented tail that curled up and ended in a hooked point.

Linda was a Pisces.

Katie knew she needed to leave soon, but no, she won’t run from the Chicago Board of Trade alone and scared. She will leave in victory. First, she’ll swim into Linda’s water of gossip and fake smiles. She’ll unfurl her tail, piece by piece, and stab through Linda’s two fish, lifting them up to heave and wheeze from the gills. Katie will clip across the pavement down LaSalle Street in front of the tourists, God, and everyone, letting Linda flip and fry in the sun.


Jay Thompson is a Chicagoan living in Florida. She writes fiction and creative nonfiction, edits weirderary, and produces the monthly live lit event First Draft. Her work can be found in theEEEL and Revolver.