Fritz's Fabled Wonders

Fantasy Prompt #2: Mythical storms

Magic shops are dying. Maybe not all magic shops, but Fritz’s Fabled Wonders certainly is. Why would someone buy a signed deck of cards that the Marlon Mc’Magic once made disappear inside his own crack in 1944 when they can just get a fresh pack on Amazon? The latter sounds more hygienic anyways, no matter how many times Fritz blackens and bolds the word ‘STERILIZED’ in Sharpie on the display case. And why would someone want a human-sized, mirrored guillotine for fake decapitations when they can experience true-to-life decapitations inside their Vision Pro goggles? 

And the truth is, Fritz has been thinking about his own decapitation lately. Not the pain of it or anything, but the pleasure. The relief of severing away the diffident, self-loathing voices in his head and existing instead as a 46-year-old, headless, mostly-able body. No thoughts, no skull, just a lumpy torso and pair of bow legs in pilling sweatpants. 

Maybe then he could enjoy the dregs of his youth without the voices. He could take the trolley to work each morning, up and over the foggy hills of San Francisco, without ruminating on the eviction notice coming for his shop door. He could lay down to sleep without the existential doom welling up. The voices, they sound just like his mother. But it’s not her voice he hears anymore, it’s his own. 

You’re a joke. Who could possibly love someone with such infantile interests? Grow up. Life is suffering and then you die. Your little fantasy realms are pathetic. Magic isn’t real. 

 Fritz walks down an aisle. He uses his fingers like little legs to stroll along the shelf, over the box of epoxy eyeballs, over the tea leaf reading kits, and down the cheap plastic of the Magic 8-balls. He holds one of the dusty toys in his hand.

“Is magic real?” he asks and shakes it up.

Affirmative.

He tries again, shaking more vigorously. “Is magic really real?”

The magic icosahedron dances around in the black water, then surfaces again.

Most likely.

Fritz huffs and places the thing back on the shelf. He continues down the aisle, jingling a plate of gold doubloons, then rolling one tarnished coin over his knuckles—a crowd favorite sleight-of-hand trick from his live shows in the nineties. The community theater next door is a boba shop now. Fritz hates Happy Boba and their lo-fi music and their sugary drinks and their long lunchtime lines and their viral Tiktoks.

But sometimes, when no one has set foot in Fritz’s Fabled Wonders for three whole business days, he puts on a prosthetic nose and executioner robe and goes next door for a 24oz Strawberry Mega Milk Tea with extra-extra boba. Then he slurps up the little pearls in the dark of his back office.

One tapioca pearl = one unrealized dream.

Fritz approaches the guillotine. It’s an expensive piece of machinery for real touring magicians, with a complex arrangement of mirrors and trap doors creating the illusion of decapitation. The blade is real, though. And heavy. Fritz used to keep a cabbage head behind his desk in case a prospective buyer ever came in. For a dramatic demonstration, he planned to chop one in half to show exactly how real this thing really is, before climbing onto the body board himself. He got tired of throwing away whole rotten cabbages, so he stopped buying them.

Fritz’s aforementioned collection of rotting cabbages.

Fritz presses the record button on his iPhone and sets it on a shelf facing the guillotine. If he can get a decent video of the decapitation illusion, at least he can sell the damned thing on Craigslist.

He climbs up onto the body board and lays on his back. It feels nice. His spine relaxes into the plywood and he fits the belts snugly around his bow legs and boba-full belly. He feels with his fingers to check and double-check that the lever is switched to ‘SAFE’ before laying his head back into the mirrored box, neck exposed perfectly to the blade above. He lays there for some moments, catching his breath and considering napping here this afternoon instead of behind his desk.

Then he remembers he’s filming and calls out to the camera, theatrically, “Farewell, friends!” and yanks the rope. 

When Fritz comes to, he’s on the floor of the shop peering under a shelf. There are loose jacks and long lost die. He blinks, and blinks again. He tries to press himself up, but nothing happens. He grunts and tries again. Nothing. 

“How long have I been here?” he whispers aloud. He tries to look at his watch, but again, no movement. He stays lolling on the floor, breathing in one hundred years of dust rabbits. His stubble clings to the carpet.

Then he hears footsteps. Someone or something is approaching. 

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” Fritz calls out. 

Two hands close over his ears. And he’s being lifted, up and up until he’s held suspended in the air, staring at… staring at… himself in his own outstretched arms. He surveys his own body, a familiar pair of bow legs, a lumpy torso, and, where his head should be, nothing at all. 

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” Fritz cries out.

He considers if he is in pain. He is not. He considers what went wrong, he cannot be sure. He considers how he could possibly still be conscious, lucid, feeling more alive than he has in recent memory. There’s something else, too. He is terrified. 

The entry bell rings. Fritz clutches his head at his hip. 

“Welcome in!” he says, shrilly. Then he wonders if welcome in was the right thing to say at this present moment. 

The door swings open and a black stallion clops into the shop, barely fitting through the doorway. On his back, a hooded figure draped in tattered cloth. 

“Fritz Fable, your presence is requested.” The cloaked rider extends a yellowing scroll.

Fritz’s body takes the scroll, fumbling to unroll it while his other arm cradles his head. A crest in the blackest of inks flashes before Fritz’s eyes: The Order of the Headless Horseman. And then,

Dear Fritz, 
Sincerest congratulations on your recent decapitation. We invite you into The Shadow Realm for a convening of—

Fritz pauses, gaping up at the hooded man. “The Shadow Realm, as in The Shadow Realm?”  

The Horseman nods. 

“How- how did you find me?” His heart beats, frightened, euphoric.

The Horseman extends his gloved hand again, this time with an iPhone. He leans over on his stallion to show Fritz at eye-level.

“Your Tiktok Live went viral,” he says dully. “Actually, it is still going viral.” 

Fritz gasps. Tiktok Live? Fritz hardly knows how to use his camera app, let alone Tiktok. How could this happen? He holds his head closer to the screen. 11 million viewers. 11 million people around the world tuning into his now motionless, magical guillotine. Comments roll up the screen in real time. 

“actually mythical FYP pull” 
“nearly headless nick wishes” 
“where’d no head guy go??” 
“fritz’s fabled wonders in sf” 

And one comment again and again and again, “im on my way.”

The horseman clears his throat.

“It’s now or never, Fritz. Are you coming?” 

Fritz clutches his head in both hands and looks around the shop. His phone is still propped up on the shelf. His guillotine sits in the shadows. His collectible posters, his vials of fool’s gold, his trick decks and finger catchers. He takes it all in, even, for a moment, the soft lo-fi tunes of Happy Boba.

With a soft smile playing at the corner of his lips, he slings on his executioner’s cloak, hoists himself onto the stallion, clutches his head in one hand and the Horseman’s waist in the other, and together they leave Fritz’s Fabled Wonders. They gallop down Market Street. They leap over an Amazon delivery truck. They pass hoards of teens, phones in hands, clamoring towards Fritz’s shop.

They gallop faster than the trolley, faster than the fog, faster and faster until the stallion leaps off the Embarcadero, over the Bay Bridge, and carries Fritz to a place he has only ever seen in his dreams. 

Hello Campers!

Welcome back. I hope you enjoyed the story today, I know it’s a long one. I wrote Fritz’s Fabled Wonders based on last week’s prompt about Enchanted Objects. It started as a 20-minute exercise, but then I got sucked into the abyss for another 3 hours. You know the drill, it’s strange and unpolished. But maybe that’s where the magic happens.

Thank you to the brave subscribers who sent me your freewrites. Truly, SO fantastic I hardly have words to capture my delight. Remember, you’re always welcome to share your work or other feedback in the comments. I love reading the unfiltered whims of your imaginations.

p.s. can you believe our new vocab word??

icosahedron:
noun. a polyhedron with 20 faces

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Okay my friends, It’s time to write.

• Find a comfortable space

• Set your timer for 20 minutes

• Sink into your imagination

• Remember: It is safe to write from the depths of your soul

• Share your creations in the comments, if it pleases you

Optional: light a candle or put a little totem beside you (mine is a 3D-printed anteater)

Fantasy Prompt #2

A traveller sees a storm brewing on the horizon. This is no ordinary storm. It is a rare and mythic weather system known only to this region. What does it look like? Is it terrifying or wonderful? Describe in gripping detail what happens as it descends upon this watchful traveller.

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Next week: I’ll share my freewrite about this mythical storm. Then, we’ll forge ahead to Prompt #3. And for my paid Campers, something very special is coming early next week, for your eyes only.

Love, laugh, live by the sword,
Madeleine

P.S. Here’s the latest in book-writing land.