A Magical Girl Retires

by Park Seolyeon

Genres: Contemporary Fantasy; Feminist; Paranormal

Synopsis

A millennial turned magical girl must combat climate change and credit card debt in this delightful, witty, and wildly imaginative ode to magical girl manga.

Twenty-nine, depressed, and drowning in credit card debt after losing her job during the pandemic, a millennial woman decides to end her troubles by jumping off Seoul’s Mapo Bridge.

But her suicide attempt is interrupted by a girl dressed all in white—her guardian angel. Ah Roa is a clairvoyant magical girl on a mission to find the greatest magical girl of all time. And Park Seolyeon’s protagonist just may be that special someone.

But the young woman’s initial excitement turns to frustration when she learns being a magical girl in real life is much different than how it’s portrayed in stories. It isn’t just destiny—it’s work. Magical girls go to job fairs, join trade unions, attend classes. And for this magical girl there are no special powers and no great perks, and despite being magical, she still battles with low self-esteem. Her magic wand . . . is a credit card—which she must use to defeat a terrifying threat that isn’t a monster or an intergalactic war. It’s global climate change. Because magical girls need to think about sustainability, too.

Park Seolyeon reimagines classic fantasy tropes in a novel that explores real-world challenges that are both deeply personal and universal: the search for meaning and the desire to do good in a world that feels like it’s ending. A fun, fast-paced, and enchanting narrative that sparkles thanks to award-nominated translator Anton Hur, A Magical Girl Retires reminds us that we are all magical girls—that fighting evil by moonlight and winning love by daylight can be anyone's game.

Translated from the Korean by Anton Hur

Release date: April 30, 2024

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 128

Sample

What’s the best way to die that would create the least amount of annoyance for everyone else?

 

I think I’ve worked hard enough at life—I wasn’t given much, but I tried my best not to waste any of it, at least. But even as I’ve come this far on my own two feet, I can’t help but feel other people have been pushing me along all the way.

 

The wait number dispensed to me at the bank was 777.

 

Twenty-nine.

 

Doesn’t everyone feel like this at that age?

 

I once read an article online titled “Thirty-Six Questions That Lead to Love.” It was in the New York Times, and evidently, any couple who answered these thirty-six questions together was bound to end up in love. Question #7 went like this:

“Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?”

I’m probably going to die without anyone knowing. That’s my hope and also what’s probably going to happen. It’s the one wish in my life that I honestly feel has any chance of coming true.

And the opportunity for this wish to come true is very close at hand.

 

Tuesday, 3:00 a.m., Mapo Bridge in western Seoul

An average of 0.3 cars per minute zoomed by, taking for granted their right to move at the speed of bullets at this hour. As I sit leaning against the railings, I’m certain none of their drivers have seen me. I have been sitting here for the past two hours. The last time a pedestrian passed by was about forty minutes before. I could tell they were drunk even from afar (Who else would cross this long bridge in the middle of the night—someone in their right mind?), but afraid of being bothered, I hugged my legs so tight my heels touched my behind. I stopped breathing.

Given this stumbling, drunk person had passed right in front of me, I figured he’d had plenty of time to notice my presence, but he seemed not to. He was walking slower than I had expected, and so I had to gasp for breath as soon as he passed me—pah!—but he didn’t look back. Which, weirdly, made me sad. Was I invisible? Had someone pressed the mute button on me?

Maybe my gasp sounded louder to me than it actually was. I was wearing a mask, after all; it could have muffled the sound. I’d been imagining he would discover me and pick a fight and—oh no oh no oh nooooooo—one of us would push the other over the railings, but once he simply passed by without incident, I felt not relief but sadness . . . How odd. Not that I couldn’t exactly understand why. After all, I hadn’t only imagined the man and me struggling against the railing—I had another fantasy that alcohol had unfurled the man’s busybody flag, and he would ask me why I was sitting here alone crying and be concerned for me.

I’m such an idiot.

The tears that had paused began to flow again; I drank some water, and feeling pathetic about how I’d come here to throw myself in the river yet was drinking water because I felt thirsty, I threw the plastic bottle over the railing . . . That was half an hour ago. Sorry for polluting the environment. I’m the real pollution. But then I started feeling thirsty again and regretted my decision. Why did I throw away my water? Maybe I was just born to regret everything.

 

It was exactly three years ago that I tried to think of a way to kill myself without being a nuisance. Which means I was not the unhappiest person in the world. If I were truly unhappy, I would’ve thought up ways to die much earlier than that. Grandfather always used to say, The world is full of people who are

worse off than ourselves—so when someone asks for help, you have to help them as much as you can. That’s building virtue. Virtue that will help me when I’m in the afterlife and your mother and even your father . . .

But Grandfather, I’ve really thought about it, and I think if someone like me sets out to help anyone, I’ll only do more harm than good.

There’s something I’ve been carrying around in my pocket for a while. Nothing special, just a slip of paper with the number 777 printed on it, my waiting-in-line number at the bank. Like it’s a talisman of good luck. That day I took that number out of the machine, I thought I was having a lucky day. It was the first time I had ever applied for a credit card. Isn’t it amazing that I could even own a credit card? You weren’t there, Grandfather, to pay off my loans anymore, but now I could buy things in zero-fee installments of three months, sometimes even up to seven months. My hands were shaking a little and I felt almost scared; that’s how happy I was. There was a little bin at the teller window where you were supposed to throw away your crumpled ticket, but I pretended I didn’t see it and snuck my number out of the bank.

I don’t think I had many worries when I had a job. I’d been using my debit card, which took money right out of my account at every use, but I had simply changed this method to getting a bill at the end of the month and paying later. Every payday was me being paid for work done the month before anyway. I loved the fact that I didn’t have to save up to buy; I could buy first and pay it off little by little. There wasn’t a fridge in my apartment, you see. Since I didn’t have a fridge, I couldn’t cook anything, and that meant wasting money eating out. These days I don’t even remember how I lived without a fridge, but I’ll never forget how happy I felt when it was delivered. Now that I had this fridge, everything would get better little by little, I thought. I still don’t hold the slightest bit of resentment toward the fridge.

I don’t really think I spent that much money. All I did was live my life and the debt just accumulated. Well, the pandemic costing me my job was the biggest thing. Thankfully, I had enough money to pay off my bills for that last month, but there were still three installments left on the fridge.

I’ve been thinking about this lately—even if the pandemic didn’t happen, and I never lost my job, I probably would’ve gone bankrupt anyway. It’s just that instead of becoming poorer in increments too small to be noticed, I happened to really crash into it, saving me some time.

I had an interview yesterday. I really wanted to get the job; it was for a full-time position this time around, which made me a little excited about it. But I couldn’t find the 777 I’d been carrying around

with me like a talisman. It wasn’t in the pockets of the clothes I’d worn the day before or stuck under the magnet on the fridge—looking for it made me almost late for the interview. Because I’m not stupid enough to think looking for one’s lucky number is more important than getting to an interview on time, I just gave up and left. And because there’s no washing machine in my apartment, I wore the fancy, neat clothing I had washed and dried in the coin laundromat. If I’d saved up the money I’d spent on the laundromat, I would’ve been able to afford a small used washing machine, but my apartment is so small there isn’t really a place to put one . . .

What have you been doing all this time at your age? That’s what the interviewer said to me. I sat on a stool being interviewed by some midlevel manager at that company, and he spoke so loudly that I’m sure everyone heard what he said. How can your résumé be this short when you’re a whole twenty-nine years old? He probably felt no compunction saying that out loud. Because he wasn’t wrong. As I left the building later, holding back my tears, I put my hands in my pockets and felt a piece of paper there. ...