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a suitor spurned

I met him at a party.

I told him he was sweet, but not my type.

It wasn’t exactly a lie.

It’s not like I threw the glass of wine he bought me in his face for asking or anything.

I tried to be nice about it.

But now, whenever I go outside, flocks of birds follow me.

Even statues of birds turn their heads to watch with vacant stares as I pass by.

It’s like being in a Hitchcock movie.

I’m not sure if they’ll lose interest eventually or if they’re just waiting for the right moment to swoop down and peck my eyes out.

I wish someone had told me who he was before I turned him down.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

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