Changelings: An Autistic Trans Anthology

Changelings: An Autistic Trans Anthology

Edited by Ryan Vale & Ocean Riley

Copyright

ISBN: 978-1-3999-4398-7

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Cover Art by Michaela Oteri

Introduction by Ocean Riley

Copyright © Ocean Riley 2023

Introduction by Ryan Vale

On Belonging by Ryan Vale

Copyright © Ryan Phillips 2023

A Chrysalis for the Emperor

Copyright © Briar Ripley Page 2022

Don’t Play With My Heart

Copyright © Ray Rhys Phillips 2022

Fate Turns the Light On

Copyright © Rafaella Rul 2022

Hyacinths & Other Purple Plants

Copyright © Alex Lakej 2022

Mizmor L’David

Copyright © Dorian Yosef Weber 2022

The Doll in the Ripped Universe

Copyright © Jennifer Lee Rossman 2019

First Published in Spoon Knife 4: A Neurodivergent Guide to Spacetime

The Door

Copyright © Laurie Doyle 2022

The Ghost on Oxford Street

Copyright © Riley Swan 2022

Those That Came First

Copyright © Miles Nelson 2022

Vanishing Names by Mary Buffaloe

Copyright © Mary Buffaloe 2022

Wandering Stars

Copyright © Isa Elias Boog 2022

Who Were You, What Are You

Copyright © Andrew Joseph White 2022

These works are works of fiction. Names, characters, place and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher or copyright holder except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Second Edition published by Rainbow Giraffe Books (2024).

Dedication

For everyone who’s ever felt like they don’t belong.

Contents

Introduction by Ocean Riley

Introduction by Ryan Vale

1. The Door by Laurie Doyle

2. Vanishing Names by Mary Buffaloe

3. Fate Turns the Light On by Rafaella Rul

4. A Chrysalis for the Emperor by Briar Ripley Page

5. Don’t Play With My Heart by Ray Rhys Phillips

6. The Doll in the Ripped Universe by Jennifer Lee Rossman

7. On Belonging by A.R. Vale

8. Those That Came First by Miles Nelson

9. Mizmor L’David by Dorian Yosef Weber

10. The Ghost on Oxford Street by Riley Swan

11. Hyacinths & Other Purple Plants by Alex Lakej

12. Who Were You, What Are You by Andrew Joseph White

13. Wandering Stars by Isa Elias Boog

Acknowledgements

Introduction

by Ocean Riley

THIS ANTHOLOGY IS for every autistic trans person who has ever felt misunderstood or underrepresented. As an avid reader, I felt a distinct lack of characters that represent us at this intersection. So, as Toni Morrison once said: If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.

Alas, creative writing is not my forte, but I decided that co-editing an anthology was absolutely within my capability, and thus, Changelings was born.

Research indicates that autistic people are far more likely to be transgender than their allistic counterparts. It’s not easy to be autistic, or trans, especially in the current climate; but to be both is to face attacks on all sides simply for existing. We deserve stories that represent these integral parts of our identity together.

I hope you find a story within these pages that resonates with you; you deserve to be seen.

You are enough. You are worthy. You are loved.

Introduction

by Ryan Vale

THE CHANGELING IS a creature found across European folklore. A human baby gets replaced by a faerie or otherwise inhuman creature. Often portrayed as a strange, quiet child with large eyes, unusual sensitivity, and poor social skills. Unsurprisingly, historians and folklorists have linked the myth of the changeling to the reality of autistic people.

The other meaning of changeling is, of course, a shape-changer: someone or something that alters their appearance. To be both trans and autistic is to be a changeling on all fronts. This term may have been used to harm in the past but we chose to reclaim it here when titling this anthology.

This book was created to share the authentic experiences of autistic trans masculine and non-binary people; stories told by us, in our own voices. The diversity of our community and its creativity was shown by the submissions to this anthology.

This book was written for all the autistic trans changelings in the world. Thank you for picking up this book. I hope it means as much to you as it does to all of us.

The Door

Laurie Doyle

Content Warnings: Gender Dysphoria

The Door

Laurie Doyle

THERE’S A DOOR in my bedroom.

I guess that doesn’t sound all that strange, really. It would be weirder if there wasn’t a door. I mean, how would you get in without one? The window works, but only if your room isn’t too high up. Or maybe–

Wait, I’m getting off-track.

Let me start over.

There’s a door in my bedroom that shouldn’t be there. I don’t know when it appeared, just that I noticed it one day, half-hidden behind my wardrobe. I was in the middle of clearing out a bunch of old clothes, sorting them into bags to take to the local charity shop, and I came across the outfit Mum had made me wear for my brother’s wedding a few years before. Plum-coloured dress, white cardigan, slip-on shoes that made my feet ache with the memory of staggering around in them that endless day.

Anyway, I found that outfit and immediately dumped it in one of the bags. I mean, I’m not going to wear it again, not unless there’s a secret third child in my family who also wants to get married.

So I tucked the dress, cardigan and shoes into the bag and, at that moment, I noticed the door. It stood there, the same magnolia as the walls, just about my height—which isn’t that tall. Most doors are eighty inches high; I’m not even sixty.

Of course, I dropped what I was doing and dragged my wardrobe away from it, inch by inch, until I could get a better look.

It was just about the most bland-looking door I’ve ever seen. No panels, no engravings, just a flat rectangle of what felt like wood beneath a layer of off-white paint. It did have a handle, though—a brass knob, scratched and dull—and, below that, a keyhole.

Huh, I said, which didn’t convey my feelings at all. I mean, most people might be a little thrown off, finding an extra door in a room they’ve spent most of their life hanging around in.

For me, it was more than that. My bedroom is my sanctuary, a place where everything can be just right. I’ve got books slowly cascading from my shelves to the floor, notebooks full of scribbled ideas for the table-top games I want to make, mugs of pens, piles of cushions, matchboxes of pins and staples and paper clips, all in the Right Place.

So seeing something that shouldn’t be there—something I hadn’t noticed—made my chest go tight, my jaw clench, my skin prickle with unease.

I stood there for a long moment, facing off against the door. It stayed bland and ordinary, strange and unsettling. I reached for the handle. I needed to find out where it led, what it was doing there. But the door didn’t budge. I yanked and shoved, gently at first, then putting my whole body weight behind it. It still didn’t move.

I stepped back, breathing hard. Frustration swelled in my chest, gathering like a storm, and I forced myself to look away before it overwhelmed me. See, sometimes I get overloaded, like a computer with too many programs running. My fan will start whirring, my processor slowing, my internal temperature rising until I can’t ignore it any more and either burst into flames or shut down completely.

Not the best experience. So right then I turned away from the door, letting myself calm down before I went back to it.

It helped. A bit. I tried the handle again and, of course, the door didn’t budge. Which meant my next point of call was the keyhole.

Obviously, a keyhole means a key and, despite my parents calling my room ‘absolute chaos’ and ‘a disaster zone’, I know every single item in here. There are no keys.

Still, there are other keys in the house. Keys to every window and door and cupboard—and keys that don’t seem to be for anything at all. My house is old. I mean, really old. It was built centuries ago and, even though the landlord tried to spruce it up for us renters, he left the wonky window frames, uneven floors and cracked slate roofing in as ‘features’ that my parents have to pay for the privilege of enjoying. And by enjoying I mean freezing in draughts, propping shelves up with books, and constantly alerting the landlord to the damp patches on the ceiling after heavy rain.

These keys I’m talking about were handed to us when we moved in, a massive bundle so tightly packed it barely jingled. My parents asked what they were for and the landlord pointed out labels he’d helpfully stuck to most of them. ‘First floor bedroom left window’, ‘kitchen door’, ‘cupboard under the stairs’, stuff like that. Still, a fair chunk had been left blank and, when my parents pointed those out, the landlord just shrugged and repeated his usual spiel about this being a beautiful old house, full of character. Which my parents seemed to like.

I figured maybe one of those keys would help me get this door open, so I rushed downstairs to the kitchen and made a beeline for the top drawer next to the washing machine where my parents keep the toolbox, loose screws, elastic bands, stray bolts—and the spare keys.

They were easy enough to find, given their immense size, and barely a minute passed before I was racing back upstairs.

I tried the keys one by one. Some didn’t fit, which made them a quick ‘no’, but others I spent a good few seconds struggling to turn. Like I said, my house is old and some doors or windows have to be jiggled about a bit if you want to get them open.

By the time I reached for the last one, I was getting tired, and when I jammed that key—my final hope—into the lock only to find it wouldn’t turn, I had to bite my lip to keep from hurling the whole bundle across the room.

Still, there was nothing I could do. Short of getting my hands on a battering ram, there was no way for me to make the door open without a key.

Tension squeezing my shoulders, I pushed my wardrobe back into place and continued sorting my old clothes. I needed to think of a plan.

Said plan is currently underway. I lean against the wall of the maths building, drumming my fingers in a steady rhythm against my arm and waiting for Alice to finally finish talking with Mr Owens.

Students stream past me, all heading for the main gate in a desperate rush to their parents’ cars or the bus stop. My school’s out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by open fields and rolling hills. Which means it’s pretty picturesque, but no one’s walking home.

It also means that, thanks to Alice being set on discussing coursework with our maths teacher, I’m going to miss the first bus.

I scratch my neck, the rough polyester of my shirt a constant itchy reminder of how uncomfortable I am. This stupid uniform seems like it’s designed to quietly torture the wearer by being too cold in winter and too hot in summer, coarse no matter how much fabric softener you use, and with a collar so stiff, it’s liable to take your eye out if you look down too fast.

It’s uncomfortable for other reasons too. Girls aren’t forced to wear skirts anymore, but they’re still expected to have trousers from the women’s section, a shirt that’s fitted, and a ribbon instead of a tie. All those components come together to make me feel like I’m wearing some fancy dress costume and, any minute, people are going to notice how ridiculous I look.

So waiting for the next bus isn’t my idea of a good time.

I’m on the verge of leaving to find a bench, so I can at least take off my tight black shoes for a while, when the door bursts open and there’s Alice, tucking a notebook into her bag.

Sorry about that! she says, shooting me a smile. Just needed to get a couple of equations checked.

I shrug. Honestly, I don’t understand why Alice is so worried about this piece of coursework. It’s ten percent of our total grade—basically nothing. But then, I’m not the one aiming for straight As. Any chance we can still make the bus? Alice asks.

I push off from the wall and peer at the gates up ahead. Fewer students pass us now, the stragglers who were either too busy chatting with friends or talking to teachers to get out quickly.

Still, I haven’t actually seen the bus go by yet, so–

Ah. My shoulders slump at the roar of an engine. Seconds later, a double-decker bus rushes by like it’s as desperate to get home as I am.

Oh well. Alice sighs. I guess we should head to the orchard.

The orchard, as it’s generously named, is a patch of grass off to the side of the main gate with three scraggly apple trees overlooking a bench. Alice sits, but I stay standing. I’ve had to wait all day to tell Alice about the door, what with her lunch break taken up with an extra class for gifted students, and now the time’s come to do it, it’s hard to figure out where to start.

What are you doing next week? Alice asks, startling me from my thoughts.

I blink at her. Next week?

Activities week, Alice says, raising an eyebrow. You never told me what you picked.

Oh. The reminder is like stepping on a sharp rock I didn’t realise was in my shoe. Activities week is my least favourite time of the year. Sure, it’s nice not to have to go to classes, but it’s a series of forms and deadlines and changes in routine that make my stomach clench. I’d like it more if they just gave us the whole week off.

I don’t know, I say, dropping onto the bench beside Alice. I forgot it was that soon.

Isn’t the deadline for your choices list tomorrow? Alice asks.

I nod. It’s hard to focus on something as small as that when the door fills my mind, a mystery I can’t let go of.

What? Alice leans forward, peering at my face with a frown. Is something wrong?

Yes. Of course it is. I sigh.

I saw something weird in my room yesterday, I say.

Weird?

A door.

Alice’s frown deepens. What, like a secret door or something?

I almost smile. That’s what I like about Alice: she always seems to grasp what I’m trying to say. It’s not like with other people, where they look at me like I’ve suddenly transformed into some bizarre creature the moment I open my mouth.

Yeah, I say. Behind my wardrobe. But…

‘But’ what?

There’s something weird about it. It sounds stupid when I put it like that so I quickly add, I mean, sure the house was furnished when we moved in, but there’s no way I’d miss a whole door, right?

Alice nods thoughtfully. She knows better than most that I notice even the smallest details. A frayed thread on the curtain across the room? A thin layer of dust along a half-hidden skirting board? The faintest creases in the spine of a book? I spot them before anyone else.

So if the door has been there since I moved in, how come I’ve never seen it before?

Did you open it? Alice asks.

I shake my head. I couldn’t. It’s locked.

Huh. Weird.

Yep.

So what are you going to do about it?

Ah. I hold up a finger. That’s where you come in. I was thinking you could, you know, pick the lock?

Alice narrows her eyes and I flash her my most winning smile. Technically, I’m not supposed to mention her lock picking skills; when she told me she’d been teaching herself using online videos, I blabbed about it to my parents and they, in their infinite wisdom, told Alice’s dad what she was up to. Alice didn’t get in trouble—it wasn’t like she’d broken into anywhere—but she told me her dad gave her a long lecture about consequences.

My parents are out until later, I say. If you’re still around when they get back, I’ll just say we’re working on that maths coursework together.

Alice’s eyes narrow even further. Have you even started it?

Sure. I’ve drawn one whole graph. Come on, it’ll be fine. Please?

For a moment, I think she’s going to refuse, but then she sighs and pushes herself to her feet.

Fine, she says. But you owe me.

I leap up, unable to bite back a grin. Without the key, Alice is my only shot at getting this door open.

And this is one mystery I can’t let go unsolved.

This is it, I say, waving Alice into my room. She’s still struggling out of her jacket and shoots me a disapproving look that I ignore. No time for social niceties when I’m so close to getting this door open.

I drag my wardrobe aside and Alice folds her arms, staring at the door like she’s sizing it up.

Someone’s painted over it, she comments.

Yeah. I run my fingers across the smooth, magnolia surface. Which makes me think it’s been there since before my parents and I moved in.

Except you didn’t notice it.

Right.

Okay, then. Alice pulls a paper clip from her pocket and sets about unfolding it. This might take a while. You keep an eye out in case your parents get back early.

I start to protest—it feels like I should be right there with her the moment the door opens—but Alice’s expression makes me swallow the words. If she gets caught lock picking, she’ll be in for another lecture and, when she’s doing me such a huge favour, it’s only fair I do my best to help her avoid that.

So while she hunkers down beside the door, I lean against the wall, straining my ears for any sound of a car pulling in or a key in the lock. The neighbourhood’s quiet at this time, when kids are home from school and adults are still at work. Mostly, I use this little bubble of peace to just lie on my bed and let all the tension that’s built up over the course of the day filter out of me. Each clatter of a chair, each shout, the bright lights, the overpowering smell of cooked lunches, and the hum of the crowded bus: it all drifts away from me, like invisible particles seeping from my skin until I’m finally calm again.

Now though, I’m anything but calm; my heart drums against my ribs and I bob up and down on the balls of my feet, twitching my fingers and battling the urge to ask Alice how it’s going. She’s got her back to me, long hair brushed over her shoulders and one ear right next to the keyhole. I don’t know much about lock picking, but I do know how to recognise when she’s focusing hard. The last thing she needs is me breaking that concentration.

Then suddenly, she sits back on her heels and breathes a sigh.

All right, she says. It’s open. I think.

My stomach lurches and I hurry over, so fast I nearly trip over my bag. The door stands motionless, of course. No sign anything’s changed.

Want to do the honours? Alice asks, stepping back.

I nod. My pulse races, excitement like sparks in my veins. I don’t know why, but it feels like this door is important—something I need to open.

To see what’s inside.

But as I reach for the handle, my hand’s trembling, fear shivering up my spine. Once I open this door, I won’t be able to unsee what’s behind it. Sure, I can close it, maybe even lock it with Alice’s help, but that knowledge will stay with me.

I swallow, pushing those thoughts away. It’s some empty cupboard, that’s all, full of dust and spiders. Nothing special.

So why does this feel so huge?

Go on, Alice says and the sound of her voice helps me remember to breathe.

The brass is cool beneath my fingers, smooth despite the scratches. I turn it, feeling the mechanism inside click, and gently tug it open.

Woah, I say.

There’s no cupboard inside. No dust, no spiders. Instead, a wall of solid darkness faces me, unmoving despite the light streaming through my window.

Well. That’s not how darkness works.

What the… Alice trails off and I feel her lean over my shoulder. What is that?

I don’t reply. There’s no way I can even begin to describe the feeling growing inside me. The cool certainty that this darkness isn’t meant for Alice, or my parents, or anyone else.

It’s for me.

Hey! Alice grabs my sleeve and I flinch, finally pulling my eyes away from the inky rectangle. Her brow is furrowed, fear bright in her eyes.

What are you doing? she asks.

It’s only then I notice I’ve stepped forward, toward the darkness.

I need to see where it goes, I say. It’s connected to my room, remember?

Alice chews her lip, eyeing the door like she might a venomous snake. You don’t know what’s in there.

Exactly.

You know what I mean. It’s not… She waves a hand. It’s not right.

She has a point. Darkness shouldn’t be so solid, so unmoving. The light from my window should be enough to chase it away.

Still, something inside me knows—not thinks, knows—I don’t need to be afraid. That I have to do this.

Alone.

It’ll be fine, I say, shooting Alice the best smile I can muster. I’ll be back before you know it. Okay?

No, not okay! What if there’s something in there?

Like a monster? I grin for real. If there is, it’s being pretty quiet.

Alice glares at me. This isn’t a joke. What if you get hurt? I could...I could come with you.

It’s a tempting offer. The idea of stepping into the unknown by myself is a bit like diving into a lake without knowing how deep it is. If Alice came with me, maybe it would be easier.

But I find myself shaking my head. No, thanks. I’ll be fine, honestly. You just wait here and, if my parents get back, tell them… What? That I’ve stepped through this weird door into who knows where? I shrug. Tell them I’ve gone out, or something.

Alice gives me a long, hard look. You’re really doing this?

Yeah. I have to.

Fine, she says. But be careful, okay? If anything happens to you, I’ll…

I place my hand over hers and give it a squeeze. She sighs, so quiet I barely hear it, and releases me.

I step through the door.

The darkness isn’t cold. I thought it would be, like the gloom of a deep cave, but the air is still and warm. Which is no more weird than anything else about this.

My feet scuff against a wooden floor, mostly smooth, but with the odd splinter here and there that makes me wish I’d left my shoes on. It feels a lot like walking around my bedroom, which makes sense seeing as this place is connected to it I guess. Whoever built this passage must’ve used the same materials.

I try to focus on that rather than the nagging sense that I’m at the centre of some immense space, too big to possibly fit inside my house, and the fact that the light which should be filtering in from my room is gone.

That I’m in the dark, alone.

I dig my nails into my palms. There’s nothing to be scared of. Monsters aren’t real and, anyway, it’s not like I’ve heard anything moving around in here.

Except… There is a sound. Quiet, distant. A scratching. Not like the tiny claws of mice, but softer. Strangely familiar.

It’s the only sign of anything in this world of darkness, so I head towards it, step by careful step, the sound growing steadily louder, clearer. A pen, that’s what it is. Pen against paper. Someone’s nearby, writing furiously.

Without a light to see by?

No, there is a light. It’s so faint, at first I think it’s my eyes playing tricks on me, but then I make out a tall rectangular shape in the blackness.

A doorway.

My heart begins to pound. I haven’t gotten turned around, I’m sure of it. Which means this door is connected to my bedroom.

That’s an uncomfortable thought, one I don’t want to deal with right now, so