Being a Tale Originally Told Upon Twitter, in Thirteen Parts
The Elves would come every full moon, stealing young men from the village and dancing them to death in the forest. Priests prayed. Wizards chanted. Witches tried to trap them in silver circles. Nothing worked, and they danced on.
"Superstitious crap," scoffed Auntie. "We need less magic and more thinking," she said, heading for the clocktower. Auntie spent all day disassembling the clock's mechanism, hamming and welding and cursing and wrenching.
The moon rose, and the piping began. But when the young men stumbled towards the woods, a new figure followed. Auntie and I watched from the clearing's edge. Her clockwork man, tall and bronze, gleamed in the torchlight. The Elf Queen's cat-eyes glittered. He bowed. She kicked off her unicorn-hide moccasins and took him in her arms. Pipes and drums echoed. She was dark and fluid, he was cool and metallic. She laughed at the moon, and they danced.
All night he clicked along, the Queen sweating, her people stamping feet and cheering. The moon sank, the sun rose. The elves left at dawn. The Queen led the clockwork man into the wood. Auntie threw her his key. The Queen waved.
The elves still dance, but now they don't take our young men. You can hear pipes, and laughter, and his ticking. For saving them, Auntie had her pick of the young men. I don't believe she's decided on one, just yet.
That's when I developed my love of science. Thanks for considering my application to your University's program.
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