Originally shared by Andy Hawkins
There is a Magical Kingdom in a far-away peninsula.
Everything there looks lovely (A fairy glamour is a dangerous thing)
They tell Fairy Stories (But not the original ones, the ones that told you how to defend yourself against the fae and their tricks)
They tell stories of hope (The ones that tell you to go with strangers, make idle wishes, allow yourself to be helpless, perfect for making new victims)
Everybody there smiles all the time (Even when they sleep, their mouths have been altered by delicate surgery)
They are happy to see you (Those who don’t meet the quota of victims are sent to the tunnels below)
Some are coated in cosmetics to give them a glamorous appeal, but when the addiction sets in and their faces warp, they must be kept out of sight. Those whose faces are no longer suitable may get a reprieve. Mouth sewn shut and with a costume stitched into their skin, with a large comedic animal mask on top. Those who are not suitable even for this, are set to labouring in the sweat shops beneath the perfect streets. They are those who have burnt out, those who will not be missed. They work, all day, sewing and stitching, soldering and moulding, cooking and cleaning like the dwarves in the stories.
Do not go beneath the magic kingdom.
They teach our children, twist our stories, direct our emotions and thoughts down the paths that most suit their masters and mistresses.
It’s a magical place.