am an elf," you say to yourself. "I am an elf, I am an elf, I am an elf..."
You keep saying it, first in your mind, then aloud. Over and over. A mantra. "I am an elf."
You are not an elf. You know this. You do not have pointed ears, you cannot do any sort of magic, you aren't even the right hue. You've never heard of a black elf. Everything is against you. But you think that if you keep saying this to yourself, maybe it will come true. Maybe.
"I am an elf."
Your bedroom is dark, but you sit under the blankets anyway, in case anyone comes in, in case anyone hears you. Not that anyone would. They're busy making their own noise downstairs. You drown out the noise, fingers in ears, repeating over and over.
"I am an elf."
Things will be easier if you are an elf, you reason. Elves can do wonderful things. Elves can be wonderful things. Elves have knowledge and beauty and ethereal qualities. Everything you don't have, everything you are not. You can fix this.
"I am an elf, I am an elf, I am an elf..."
And then you are. And then you disappear.
Finley Larkin is not an elf, but she does want to be one. She (temporarily) quenches her burning desires by writing fiction, editing for two webzines and finding new ways to make her website look interesting.
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