F*** These Wizards

This week, Alex London invites you to consider another side of those magical boarding school admissions … ~ Julian and Fran, September 15, 2024

This month, we are delighted to share with you another spectacular group of stories by Alaya Dawn Johnson, F. Brett Cox, Martin Cahill, and Alex London. We are also grateful to discover ourselves World Fantasy finalists for The Sunday Morning Transport, which is both stunning, and utterly impossible without our immensely talented authors, dedicated editorial team, and you, our brilliant readers. Thank you all so much.

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F*** These Wizards

by Alex London

Through tears: “It was the geese. They just kept coming, no matter where we went, no matter how far we ran. The geese found us, and they came for him, honking and honking. Relentless. Merciless. And for what? Why? Just to deliver . . . what did they call it?”

And his wife says, deadpan, “A missive.”

“Motherfucking missives,” says Paul, staring at the ceiling, shaking his head. “I mean, what is that about? Why not just call them letters?”

“Because that wouldn’t be fucking magical,” Clark answers with venom. “It’s all for show with these—”

“Clark.” I have to warn him again, rein him in for the third time this meeting. There’s a Clark in every group I’ve ever had. The names, races, genders change, but their Clark-ness is eternal. “Right now it’s Paul and Mabel’s turn to share. We don’t try to steer anyone else’s narrative.”

“Our pain is shared, our stories are our own,” the group chants in unison. I regret making a mantra for them. It’s creepy af.

“Except all our goddamn stories are the same, aren’t they?” Clark spits back. “We share and we share and we never actually do anything about it!”

“What do you want us to do, Clark?” says Arvin, one half of the first same-sex couple I’ve had in group. That’s novel, even if their story is basically the same as everyone else’s. “Get a book of spells, join a dark lord, and lay siege like we’re in a young adult novel? You know any dark lords, Clark? You hiding any spell books in your ‘cyber truck’?”

“It’s just a regular Tesla, you self-righteous pr—”

“Ahem,” I say, not even pretending it’s a real cough. “Can we remember the ‘support’ part of the support group, please? I understand tensions are high. I have been exactly where you are. But we are here to listen, to share, and not to judge. We get enough judgment from the world outside this room; we don’t need it in here.”

I pause, look around. Paul and Mabel are the newest couple I’ve got, and they were reluctant to share before. It looks like Clark’s outburst has taken the confidence from them, so I decide now’s a good time for a pivot. We’ll come back to them. Everyone gets their turn to tell the story, even if Clark’s right. They are all roughly the same every time.

I say, “Let’s talk about judgment for a moment,” and everyone leans back in their metal folding chairs, which creak and squeak like dying robots. We’re in a circle and I picture all their sighs mingling in the middle, forming a vortex, opening a portal to another world right here in this church basement.

That’s not how it works, of course.