The casting director steepled her hands on the desk and looked at the broomstick. “Are you…Mr. B. Rümschtick?”

The broomstick standing before her answered (she wasn’t sure where from) in a reedy voice: “That’s right. I’m here to read for the part.”

“Uh, I’m not sure you fit the type we’re looking for,” said the director.

“The cattle call sheet says you want tall, thin, tan, and blond,” the broomstick replied. “I think you’ll find I meet all the criteria to read for the part of Chris.”

The assistant director leaned over and whispered in the casting director’s ear: “The call sheet doesn’t specify humans. Let it read for the part or we could be in big trouble with SAG.”

“Shit, really?”

“They sued when a pig auditioned for a senator three years ago.”

Turning back to the broomstick, the casting director smiled. “Okay, we’ll let you read for the part. Would you like to tell us a little about your background?”

“You’re not allowed to make them say that!” the AD hissed.

“It can be volunteered! Don’t tell me you’re not curious!” the casting director whispered back.

“Well, I’m a witch’s broomstick, given unholy life through arcane rituals which rend asunder the veil between living and dead, seelie and unseelie,” the broom said. “But I’m trying to branch out and try different things.”

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