The Property Known As E. Bell by West Ambrose

Doesn’t wish to be commodified, or
have his hair touched (thank you,)

The property has no affiliation with:

terf-lite, classics-upholding, gatekeeping,
one in a million diversity-hire that needs

to be shushed--

(This author is: A fairytale. In a fairytale world.
It is one he created to even have privilege
To breathe--)

Welcome everyone, tonight's play will follow
the standard three-act structure:

​Act One: I die. I tell you I am a boy. I make people afraid
because I have chosen— and because I have chosen
it’s worse than Destabilizing, it’s Restabilizing–

it’s saying, Maybe you need to think about why I make
You uncomfortable– not the other way around.​

Act Two:

                                                THIS STORY IS

                                           A.      LOVE.      STORY.

                                      THERE IS NO OTHER STORY.

(ft. hothothot sex. There will be
no refunds. no trigger warnings. No take backs
for the ticket to our 1 marvelous [after]life, please.)

Act Three:

There’s seventeen days until I see you, in which there will also be: eighty tender moments, three
unhappy ones, and a singular, passionate denotation of lovegrief. Who will grieve for me after
I’m gone? Do I care if I’ve gone to heaven, if it’s not of my queer design? I prefer Hell if you are
there, darling. If we dreamt it together, nothing compares to our splendid Inferno, guarded by the
churning, monstrous seas of darkest blue...

Anne is fine, but needs her inhaler refilled— and Charlotte has always been a total bitch,
what else is new?
                                                                                     (Ah, father tries, but
                                                                                                  he has his share of problems...)
Branwell, keep count— I know, I do, do I do
                                                                        Do I care if I skip heart-beats
Between you and that boy and the rest of the world,
                                                                      dazzling from afar?

Do I divinate
            only to
                     drop-dead? No. After all, this will be a play about Living. That’s the white moth
fluttering between our flushed lips; slumbers, scepters, and summer’s pearl-diving back to
Dark spring. I ate the heart of Winter and crowned myself a prince. Now I write the
auto-biography that will never be read— now I make each Secret

a kingdom
            unto my own heart.





​West Ambrose is a scrivener and performing artist. Check out his ever queer works at
westofcanon.com. If you want anything published in The HLK quarterly or The Crow’s Nest,
just ring for the masthead, and let them know.