by K. Tempest Bradford.
read by Marguerite Croft.
“I 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.
Rated G. The last story of elf month.