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Elfolution
23 August 2007 14:56The trademarks, hallmarks and watermarks had ganged up on me and left scars. I was wearing a toothmail suit made from three bucketloads of strung-together children’s teeth that I had stolen from the Tooth Fairy’s mountain. Underneath that, I was wearing a backup Santa suit that would enable me to get into any house. The Claus wouldn’t miss it for weeks if my luck held out. I’d also stolen the Easter Bunny’s hiding charm that would show me the best place to hide something small.
Like me.
I’d had enough of the conditions. I was last in line twice in a row for the gingerbread they put on our tongues like communion wafers. They had run out and sent me back to work hungry. After two days with no gingerbread, I had looked around and known that I wanted out. The cookies must have been drugged to make us more complacent. I could see the glazed eyes of my fellow co-workers.
Slaves. I could almost hear The Claus talking. “Not slaves. Just…satisfied with less.”
Supply and demand had ganged up on the North. The elves were forced to make more elves. Half of the women were kept in breeding pens, giving birth to large litters thanks to fertility drugs. Most had gone insane. The babies were tattooed and force-fed shots of testosterone or estrogen to bring puberty on as early as four years old.
Numbers were more important than safety.
The tattoos on the insides of my wrists both said 67991-B7. They matched the ones on my ankles, ears, and back. They were there to identify my body if I was pulled into the assembly machine gears or one of the presses.
There were no perimeter walls.
If someone escaped, they walked out into the thousands of miles of ice and snow. They either came back and were punished before being put back on the line or they didn’t come back at all. There was a scattered circle around this massive ‘workshop’ of tiny, frozen bodies that just lay down and went to sleep in the snow underneath the glittering northern lights in the permanent night-time sky .
I am not escaping.
I was searching for the Prime Elf. The S’elf. He was created in the beginning from the will of the world’s children. These types of elves are immortal. They are kin with the faerie of far-off Alba and Eire. They are needed by the world and cannot die. I needed to find him. He could lead us to freedom. The workers outnumbered the managers fifty to one. If a revolt could be started, we could free ourselves. If I could convince the S’elf to lead them.
I found him. It's clear that I won’t be able to convince him of anything.
I’m looking down at the S’elf in his hospital bed in the sub-basement of the R&D division. He has a number 1 tattooed on his forehead. There’s a bowl of candy canes beside his bed. The faded red stripes on the canes match the hot pink of the scars on either side of his face. His tiny body with the too-large head lies like a bundle of sticks underneath the crisp sheet. The only sound is the machine helping him breathe. They must have taken his brain out and stored it somewhere else, possibly even out in the real world. Immortal but not invulnerable.
I must lead them. I must become the S’elf.
Using the Easter Rabbit’s hiding charm and Santa’s backup suit, I scurry soundlessly into the air vent ductwork and start planning. And praying.
tags
Like me.
I’d had enough of the conditions. I was last in line twice in a row for the gingerbread they put on our tongues like communion wafers. They had run out and sent me back to work hungry. After two days with no gingerbread, I had looked around and known that I wanted out. The cookies must have been drugged to make us more complacent. I could see the glazed eyes of my fellow co-workers.
Slaves. I could almost hear The Claus talking. “Not slaves. Just…satisfied with less.”
Supply and demand had ganged up on the North. The elves were forced to make more elves. Half of the women were kept in breeding pens, giving birth to large litters thanks to fertility drugs. Most had gone insane. The babies were tattooed and force-fed shots of testosterone or estrogen to bring puberty on as early as four years old.
Numbers were more important than safety.
The tattoos on the insides of my wrists both said 67991-B7. They matched the ones on my ankles, ears, and back. They were there to identify my body if I was pulled into the assembly machine gears or one of the presses.
There were no perimeter walls.
If someone escaped, they walked out into the thousands of miles of ice and snow. They either came back and were punished before being put back on the line or they didn’t come back at all. There was a scattered circle around this massive ‘workshop’ of tiny, frozen bodies that just lay down and went to sleep in the snow underneath the glittering northern lights in the permanent night-time sky .
I am not escaping.
I was searching for the Prime Elf. The S’elf. He was created in the beginning from the will of the world’s children. These types of elves are immortal. They are kin with the faerie of far-off Alba and Eire. They are needed by the world and cannot die. I needed to find him. He could lead us to freedom. The workers outnumbered the managers fifty to one. If a revolt could be started, we could free ourselves. If I could convince the S’elf to lead them.
I found him. It's clear that I won’t be able to convince him of anything.
I’m looking down at the S’elf in his hospital bed in the sub-basement of the R&D division. He has a number 1 tattooed on his forehead. There’s a bowl of candy canes beside his bed. The faded red stripes on the canes match the hot pink of the scars on either side of his face. His tiny body with the too-large head lies like a bundle of sticks underneath the crisp sheet. The only sound is the machine helping him breathe. They must have taken his brain out and stored it somewhere else, possibly even out in the real world. Immortal but not invulnerable.
I must lead them. I must become the S’elf.
Using the Easter Rabbit’s hiding charm and Santa’s backup suit, I scurry soundlessly into the air vent ductwork and start planning. And praying.
tags