Christmas Present (bp coyle)

I am tying this note onto the leg of a little snow bunting. If by some miracle it should find somebody, should find you I guess, please help us. We elves were trapped by Santa Claus eight hundred years ago. We cannot break the spell he used. For generations now he has kept us in his workshop in the North Pole. Every day hundreds of us, young and old, work on the production lines making toys. We do not know why Santa wants so many toys. None of us has ever seen him play with one. He walks along the lines constantly, gulping from a large bottle of whiskey, shouting at us to work faster. Always faster. He kicks and punches elves at random. Today he hit my little sister with his empty whiskey bottle and broke her arm in two places. At the end of every day, Santa takes one of the children away with him. Usually a girl but sometimes a boy. They are never seen again. We hope, tell ourselves, that he has taken them somewhere better or set them free. But I don’t know. I just don’t know. Please send help. We are desperate.

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