The Changeling (or, a story that will probably freak out my Shakespearean actor boyfriend).



There were no three bearded women in the wilderness, or ides of march circled red on my calendar, or really, any general harbingers of doom. The whole thing was pretty awkwardly staged, my life. Someone should have assumed some directorial responsiblity.

Cause see, I left you in April, and since then, I have not been hounded by ghosts. In the stage left and right of my 20/20 periphery, I cannot see children in gossamer stirring; I will not exit, pursued by a man in a rented bear suit who took four sips of Goldschlager before stepping out beneath the lights and roaring.

I call you drunk at four in the morning, begging for a hex. I tell you, I’m sorry, but the apholstery on the bar stool next to mine was orange vinyl and I could not stand that.

This would be easier if your parents had given you some asshole name like Oberon or Donalbain. This would be easier if when you answered, you did not humor me. Next time, yell blackout. That is generally what I do, anyway.

Art by Ben Grace.


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