Autumn Short Fiction | October 30, 2020

The Fantasy Palace

by Terah Clifford

Once upon a time, there lived a young woman who owned an operation called The Fantasy Palace. Now, I know what you’re thinking: she’s a hooker. But that’s not true. Because The Fantasy Palace doesn’t specialize in exotic women. It actually specializes in exotic books.

Our story opens on a day like any other in this young woman’s life: she woke up, brewed a cup of coffee, read the newspaper, had a shower, got dressed, and then went out to sit behind the desk of her shop. After a little light housekeeping, she got out a red notebook and a freshly sharpened pencil and began to write.

And then she killed a man.

Okay, so that also isn’t exactly what you’re thinking. Jessica, our heroine, doesn’t have a boyfriend she is trying to bump off, or a pimp coming after her looking for money (I told you, she’s not that kind of girl).

See, Jessica has a secret.

...

The Fantasy Palace boasts a small storefront, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of place. The door is a faded cornflower blue, and the dusty window to the right displays the merchandise sold therein: not scantily-clad ladies but rare and used books.

“Good morning, Bob!” Jessica taps fish food into the swirly blue bowl, almost bumping her wire-rimmed, round glasses against it. Bob is the only man Jessica talks to (well, besides the men frequently cheating on their wives and girlfriends calling her store looking for “a little company for the night...” “For the last time, you want The Fantasy Palazzo!” Click.). Technically, she didn’t know if he was a man or not. But that’s beside the point. She taps the glass, and he swims lazily over, nudging up against her finger. His large blue eyes, above bulging orange cheeks, follow her around the store throughout the day, attentive and watchful. “No suit could ever be as cute as your orange scales!” she coos. His circular mouth opens and shuts rhythmically, always keeping up his end of the conversation. “Now, if only I could find a man who listens as well as you do.”

After feeding Bob, Jessica potters around her shop, straightening books, flicking a cloth ineffectively against the layers of dust on the books, making a lazy attempt to keep the encroaching dust at bay. Bookshelves that stretch from the ceilings to the floors line the walls, every nook and cranny filled to overflowing. Books are stacked on top of each other, hardbacks mixed in with paperbacks, classics next to chapter books, poetry on top of history, cookbooks lined up in front of biographies. They are piled under chairs and on top of tables, all fighting for space on the cramped shelves and crowded surfaces. Small figurines fill any available space. Many of the figurines are the same people, each in a different pose. Faded rugs cover the creaking floorboards, and the walkway between the desk at the front of the store and the staircase that lead to her small living space above the store is worn and threadbare. She rearranges the chaotic shelves without looking at the covers, and all the while she looks over her shoulder and out the grimy window.

“There he is!” She bangs her hip against the corner of the desk, stubs her toe on a low bookshelf, and trips over a stack of books in her haste to get to the window. She comes just close enough to see out (barely) but not close enough to allow the weak autumn sunshine to touch her skin.

Mr. Stiles, the proprietor of the hardware shop next door, sweeps his broom over the concrete, glaring at potential customers who walk back and forth across the street. It’s a quiet street, several blocks removed from the main street of the downtown. The Fantasy Palace is surrounded by an eclectic mix of businesses, a collection almost as disjointed and neglected as Jessica’s books. The jewelry store to the right of The Fantasy Palace sits next to a cigar shop that seems to cater exclusively to a small handful of regulars. There is also a small café and a bakery on the block: one to the left of Jessica’s store, and one directly across the street. They vie for patrons, and the one on the other side of the road usually seems to win, the lawyers in the office above drawn down by the smell of fresh-baked bread and sweet cinnamon buns.

Mr. Stiles’ stooped figure mirrors the tree swaying above his head; his broom sweeping the pavement mirrors the swaying branches. He wears a plaid shirt, as always, and a faded, but clean, pair of jeans. Jessica scowls at him through her round glasses, squeezing her hands into fists like she’s choking the life out of a voodoo doll.

She turns away from the window abruptly, marches back behind her desk, pulls an ornate Victorian key on a chain out of the folds of her loose sweater, unlocks the drawer of the desk, and pulls a slim red notebook out.

She selects a pencil (nothing fancy for Mr. Stiles) and begins to write…

After a few minutes, the door creaks open. Mr. Stiles walks in, a sneer on his face and a swagger in his walk. He kicks over a stack of books, sending dust clouds into the air. He opens his mouth, but before he can even say anything, a ten-foot-tall green dragon crashes through the far wall of the shop and exhales, engulfs him in flames, and then crashes through the front window, shattering glass and plaster, and breathes fire on the hardware shop next door. Mr. Stiles’ frame, charred and ashy, stands still for a few seconds after the initial attack. “I shouldn’t have taken the newspaper off of your doorstep.” He bows his blackened head in humility.

Jessica moves out from behind the desk and stands in front of him, arms folded.

“No. No, you shouldn’t have.” She blows him a kiss and watches with a smile as his body, what’s left of it, disintegrates and lightly dusts the books around him with a fine coat of ash.

Jessica slams her notebook shut and strolls to the center of the room. She picks the tiny figurine of a green dragon up off of the floor and scuffs flakes of ash and cinders away with her foot. “Goodbye, Mr. Stiles.”

She puts the figurine on the shelf behind the desk in between a cowboy with a cocked pistol (she had just finished a Louis L’Amour book a few days before), and a knight on horseback with a jousting lance (she was currently working her way through Le Morte d’Arthur). Miniature versions of Mr. Stiles lie at each of their feet, one with a gunshot wound and one with a broken off piece of lance sticking out of his chest. The only distinguishable difference between the two is the color of the plaid shirt. There are about thirty other scenes of mayhem and gore filling the shelves.

“We might need to start another bookshelf for Mr. Stiles, huh, Bob?”

She drums her fingers across the blue glass as she walks over to look out the window across the street at Sally, the bakery owner who once let her dog poop in front of the store. How are you going to die today? She taps her fingers against her chin as she ponders the possibilities (drowning? hanging? stabbing?), when a man walking past the window momentarily distracts her from her macabre thoughts.

He is tall and blonde, and she imagines blue eyes under light brown hair. He wears dark blue trousers and a lighter blue shirt with a subtle design worked into the threads, and a cheerful red bowtie. Playful, yet professional. His head is held high, a wide smile is on his face. He walks with purpose, at ease in the wide open world outside. He is confident. She catches her breath and follows him with her eyes as he walks across the street towards the law office next to Sally’s bakery. She inches closer and closer to the window, not realizing the tips of her toes are touching the sunshine. A breeze lightly tousles his hair, and her fingertips encounter the window as she reaches out a hand as though to smooth it back into place. He needs someone to take care of him.

“And who might that be, Bob?” She wiggles her eyebrows at the goldfish in his bowl as she walks past to get her laptop from her apartment above the store. Time to do a little research.

Over the next few days, Jessica enters into a kind of frenzy. She signs up for Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook, LinkedIn, sites she had barely heard of before she began trying to learn about this man. She is surprised at how easy it is.

“Well, his name is Robert Jenson.” She sips a cup of Earl Grey tea as Bob stares at her with bulbous eyes. “He works as a paralegal for now, but he wants to go to law school.” Bob speeds up his circles, obviously as impressed as Jessica by this news. “He loves snowboarding and wine tasting, spends his weekends with his family, and does not have a girlfriend.” She ticks these obvious bonuses off on her fingers and unlocks the drawer that holds the red notebook.

As she goes deeper into Robert’s world, her typical schedule of fantasies turns down a different road. Rather than constantly imagining horrific and fanciful ways of killing off the neighbors and business owners around her, she begins to imagine meeting Robert, getting to know Robert, dating Robert, moving in with Robert... They start with coffee, squeezed in on the same side of a booth with lattes on the table in front of them. She laughs at a joke he tells and he listens attentively as she talks about how lonely she is, his hand rubbing soft circles on the back of her hand. Soon they progress to lunch, eating sushi and laughing together when he has trouble maneuvering the chopsticks. This turns into a dinner date, and maybe they see a movie afterwards, their faces close in the dark theater as he leans in to kiss her. Before she knows it, the holidays have arrived and she is making apple pie with his grandmother. Family visits blend into exotic vacations, all within the confines of The Fantasy Palace.

She gets to know his quirky sense of humor, the intense eye contact he gives when he listens, the cute way he snorts a little right before he wakes up. They talk about selling the bookshop, moving to the suburbs, having a little boy and a little girl, and maybe getting a dog to keep Bob company.

Slowly, as the shelves in the main store fill to overflowing, a bookshelf in her living room fills with images in his likeness.

Robert is her dream man, her prince charming, her knight in shining armor.

...

Jessica is startled one day when she hears the bell above the shop door ring (she had just gotten to the part where Robert buys flowers for her before meeting her for a romantic candlelit dinner) and even more startled when she sees who it is.

She freezes, pen hovering over the pages of her red notebook, as Robert walks past a low shelf of classics. He picks up an early edition of The Glass Menagerie and thumbs through it.

“That’s one of–” Her voice cracks, rusty with disuse.

He looks up in surprise, his wide smile spreading across his face. “Hi. I didn’t see you hiding back there.” He waves the book. “Worth reading?”

Jessica nods eagerly, coming out from behind the desk and knocking over a pile of books in her excitement. He’s here, he’s actually here! “Yeah, that’s one of my favorites, actually. It’s a play, so a little different format, but definitely worth checking out.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Thanks for the recommendation.” He taps the book against his palm, walking around the small bookstore. He pauses by a bookshelf and picks up a tiny dragon placed almost out of sight between tattered editions of Jane Eyre and The Castle of Otranto in the Gothic section.

Jessica’s heart jumps. I forgot that was there. Her eyes surreptitiously travel around the store, locating a myriad of miniature figurines and hoping he doesn’t notice them.

“Wow, this is so intricate! Where did you get it?” He looks at her, eyes bright, and her cheeks warm. His gaze fixes on the shelves behind her head above the cash register. “Woah, that one looks just like the guy who owns the hardware shop next door!”

Jessica moves jerkily backward into the shelf, intentionally bumping into it and knocking down the figurine. Damn, he’s sharp.

“Oh no!” He moves to help her clean up the shattered pieces, but she waves him away.

“Don’t even worry about it, there’s plenty more where that came from.” If he only knew. A little crease appears between his eyebrows, but he stays put.

He buys the book, leaning patiently against the counter as she tries to remember how to work her old-fashioned register, fingers hesitating over the keys. She finally gets him the right change and hands it over the counter with trembling hands.

“Thanks.” He accepts the assorted bills and coins, and their hands touch for a brief moment. Warmth spreads from her fingertips all the way through her body and down to her toes.

“I’ll stop in when I’m finished reading, maybe we can talk about it.”

He turns towards the door, and she darts from behind the counter to stand in front of him faster than she would have thought humanly possible.

“I’m actually hosting a reading here later tonight if you’d like to come.” She blurts out the words, not stopping to think them through.

“Oh, that sounds cool.” His warm blue eyes light up. “What are you going to be reading from?”

“Um...” Jessica’s eyes roam the bookstore, panicked. What did you just get yourself into? Her eyes light on a volume of Faulkner’s short stories. “A Rose for Emily,” she pronounces triumphantly.

The crease is back between his eyebrows. “Never heard of it before.”

“All the more reason to come; it’s one of the classics. People really don’t spend enough time reading these days, everyone’s so obsessed with their social media accounts...” She can barely hear herself babbling over the anxious rushing of her blood in her ears.

He looks a little surprised by her eagerness, but she already knows what his response will be. He’s too kind to say no. “That sounds fun, I’d love to come. What time?”

She blurts something about around dinnertime. “But why don’t you just head over after work?”

He laughs a little nervously. “Yeah, okay.” He gives a little wave as he walks out the door and heads back across the street towards his office.

Jessica sinks to the floor behind her desk, her head spinning. I have a date tonight!

Of course, it will be a little awkward at first when he realizes no one else is coming. But he’s a nice guy, he won’t mind. And she knows they’re meant to be. He might just take an hour or two to come around.

The rest of the day is spent in flurried activity. Jessica scrounges through the back corners of her cupboards and the dark recesses of her freezer looking for something to serve for dinner. Her scavenger hunt turns up a can of tomato soup, a loaf of bread that is only partially stale, enough cheese for two sandwiches, a chocolate torte, and a dusty bottle of wine.

That task accomplished, she goes in search of her one semi-fancy dresses. “Bob, where’s my blue dress?” He blows out a few air bubbles from his position on the small kitchen counter where she moved him to oversee the preparations. She follows his lazy circles with her fingers, and he nudges against the glass insistently, drawing her attention to the bookshelf in the living room behind her. She swivels and then snatches the small figurines off of the shelves. “What would I do without you, Bob?” Her hands full, she walks down the hall and opens the closet, catching a cardboard box just before it tumbles off of the top of a precarious stack of the same. She throws the figurines inside. “I won’t be adding to you tonight.” A smug smile lifts the edges of her mouth, and a flash of blue catches her eye just before she closes the door. “Oh, there you are.”

By the time Robert taps on the glass door of The Fantasy Palace, her hair is curled, the soup is warming, the chocolate torte is baking, and the closet door upstairs is safely closed on all of her secrets.

“You look great.” He looks around the empty, dimmed store. “Where is everyone else?”

“Looks like you’re the only one who could make it, there were a lot of other people who planned on coming of course, but they all had to cancel for one reason or another, but I made food, you’d love to stay, right?” She holds her breath, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Um, yeah, of course…”

She smiles and leads the way upstairs. I knew he would stay; he’s such a great guy, he would hate for me to be alone.

They chat all through dinner, and he’s almost as easy to talk to as she has imagined. Occasionally, he says the wrong things, reacts differently than she expects, but she decides to forgive him. He’ll learn, she reassures herself.

He puts his napkin down next to his plate, pushing his chair back and scraping the legs against the hardwood floor. “Which way is your restroom?”

She points with her spoon. “Down the hall, and it’s the second door to the right.” Perfect timing. She can dim the overhead lights, put out some candles, maybe put on some jazz music. There should be another bottle of wine in the back of the cupboard. She goes to look for it and sees the chocolate torte cooling on the counter. She picks up a knife to start cutting.

She’s just about to cut the first slice when she hears a door open, followed by a slow, tumbling crash that sounds like a grainy avalanche. Jessica’s heart stops.

Oh no.

She runs down the hall to find him standing in front of the closet, surrounded by cardboard boxes and miniature figurines strewn across the carpet. Jessica racks her brain for an explanation. How can she explain the remnants of her red notebook imaginings now scattered across the floor?

“Wrong door.” He shrugs sheepishly. He holds a miniature version of Mr. Stiles in his hand, tilting his head to the side. “So…you make these? This looks exactly like that guy who owns the hardware shop next door.”

She shifts from side to side. “Uh, you could say that.”

“Okay, I mean, I guess that’s cool. There’s so many. I mean, I saw the figures out in the bookshop and in your apartment, but I guess I thought you had purchased them, you never said anything about-” He stops and bends over, dropping Mr. Stiles and picking up another figurine, then another, and another, and another.

Her stomach drops to her toes when she sees what he is holding.

He looks up at her slowly.“Why do you have statues that look like me?” Confusion washes over his face, quickly replaced by panic, and he begins to back up, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. “I think I need to head out, my girlfriend is actually texting me asking where I am...” He trails off mid-sentence when he sees what’s held in her hand.

Girlfriend?

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” She lets the words hang in the air.

He laughs nervously and backs away, staring at the knife clutched in her hand. “Well, yeah, it’s kind of a new thing, I mean, I didn’t think to mention it.”

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

“I really didn’t feel like it was any of your business, I mean, we just met.”

“You can’t just cheat on me and expect to get away with it.” She steps over the figurines strewn across the hallway.

“Cheat on you?!” He flattens against the wall, his likeness clutched in his hand. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh Robert,” She sighs and grins at him. “How silly you are.”

He widens his stance, “You need to let me out.”

“We’ll see about that, dear.” She sweeps away the pile of dolls with her foot and opens the closet door wider.

...

The next morning, inhabitants and store owners alike are surprised to see a pile of about twenty overstuffed trash bags and cardboard boxes in front of The Fantasy Palace. The bags look like they are in danger of ripping, the outlines of small objects threatening to poke through the thick black plastic. No one knows what is in them, and no one cares to find out. They sit there for almost a week, waiting despondently on the curb for trash day to come.

Alone in her shop once more, Jessica goes about her usual daily routine of redistributing the dust on her books and figurines, browsing the book titles as she does. The red notebook now lies unused and dusty in the drawer of the desk, the key hanging from a nail on the wall next to it.

What should we do today? she asks herself as she flips through “The Raven”. Poe is such a genius. She looks at the clock. It says midday, but it’s said that for months now. Oh well. Close enough to count as lunchtime.

She traipses upstairs to the apartment and fixes lunch for two. She puts two grilled-cheese sandwiches with two bowls of tomato soup on a tray and takes a rose from the small bouquet on her counter. So sweet of him to get my favorite. She picks up the tray, walks down the hall, and opens the hall door.

“Hello, Robert dear.” She sets the tray on the floor and sits down cross-legged. “I really should get a little table and chair in here for our visits, shouldn’t I?” She looks up and brushes a small speck of dust off of Robert’s white femur. “We should get you a new outfit soon too.” She shrugs and offers a sandwich to the skeleton hanging in the closet above her.