The Past Is Present

by Colin Alexander

The cigarette clutched between Sprinkles’ gnarled knuckles smelled like toasted pumpkin seeds but tasted like coal. Six strung-out elves huddled together in thin green stockings and button-down vests outside the loading dock, yanking pointed hats down over their foreheads, shoe bells jingling as they shivered in the whirling snow.

Sprinkles ashed his cigarette into his lukewarm mug of cinnamon tea, the temperature signaling they were out of time.

“Break’s over!” shouted Sugarplum, banging his candy cane walking stick against the roll-up steel door.

Twinkle cleared phlegm from her throat, spitting onto the icy concrete, adding to the stalagmite tower of elf mucus below the warehouse gutter icicles.

“Let’s make Santa proud,” she said hoarsely as the group shuffled inside.

She took her place on the assembly, across from Sprinkles’ station. He walked more slowly, favoring his right side, the sharp pain in his left heel still bothering him.

He took his place at the waist-high conveyer belt, next to a basket of chubby left legs; Twinkle stood next to a basket of winking eyes. Sprinkles gripped his well-worn hammer, which felt more part of himself than his own fist. At the head of the line, Fudge rubbed his eyepatch with the back of his hand, then blew the whistle; the machinery hummed to life.

Leg into socket. Two hammer strikes. Twist, drop. Next leg, two strikes, twist, drop.

Sprinkles’ mind wandered. He found himself thinking of penguins again, the small, flightless birds at the opposite pole. He pictured their black, glassy eyes, envisioning a rookery sailing through the air, despite knowing it was impossible.

The crash of Sugarplum’s candy cane against the conveyor belt, mere inches from Sprinkles’ hand, ended his reverie.

Sugarplum placed his right hand on Sprinkle’s shoulder. Despite having only two remaining fingers, his grip was a vice.

“Focus,” he said, loosening his grip, thrumming his stumps against Sprinkles’ neck so he could feel the puckered skin. “Limited management positions for elves who can’t assemble.”

Sprinkles nodded.

Leg into socket. Two strikes. Twist, drop. Repeat until shift whistle, eat, then return to barracks.

Time didn’t matter; it was always frozen and dark outside. The factory lights were impossibly bright, giving no warmth.

The elves choked down sugary gruel, and more cinnamon tea was distributed from the communal bowl. It was all piping hot, leaving an alchemical warmth in the chest long after mugs and bowls cooled. The tea numbed sore backs and aching hands, smoothing out the edges of the day like the small-grain sandpaper used for colored blocks.

Sprinkles cleared his plate, then hobbled to his bunk below Twinkle, falling asleep before her husky “sweet dreams” floated down.

The gruel didn’t sit right.

Sprinkles eyelids twitched as he dreamed of a girl on a high shelf, reaching for a snow globe. Sprinkles was sure he’d recognize her, if she’d just turn around. Then the air was filled with tiny ceramic penguins, the floorboards strewn with tuxedo shards. He ran to catch her with smooth, unblemished hands, and something pierced his foot.

“I’ll never get a Tiny Tina doll now,” she cried, surrounded by the wreckage. Her voice was a lullaby from a childhood he couldn’t recall. He took the snow globe from her grip, then touched her shoulder so she’d face him.

His dream was interrupted by Twinkle’s snores and distant sobbing. Leaving his jingle bell slippers under the bed, he tiptoed to the barracks door, where a shaft of light pierced the darkness.

Through the gap, he saw a half-dozen children, burlap sacks over their heads. The nearest wore a plastic charm bracelet filled with colored beads and an unreadable name. Behind them, jabbing with the tip of his three-foot candy cane, was Sugarplum.

“I’m Gabby!” wailed a girl’s voice. “I want Mommy!”

Sugarplum’s cane whizzed through the air, striking the girl’s bracelet, beads skittering across the floor.

“You’re Muffin now!” hissed Sugarplum, hustling the group towards a locked room.

The next day, Sprinkles had trouble focusing, missing break to meet his assembly quota.

Two strikes. Twist. Repeat.

His stomach grumbled without cinnamon tea to soothe it, and pain bloomed in his hands and back like brambles after rain. He stared at the pile of dolls at the end of the line; the shoulder-length blonde curls, the smiling lips. A doll shifted, eyes winking at him.

Tiny Tina.

Sprinkles took his next break, shivering in permanent midnight beside tall spears of frozen elf phlegm, foregoing tea and cigarettes. He couldn’t stomach that night’s gruel.

It took ages to sleep, but the dream came fast.

The girl toppled the ceramic penguins. Pain in his heel.

“Who did this?” shouted a woman.

“I did,” he said, raising the coveted snow globe, still warm from the girl’s hands.

“You’re going on the naughty list,” said a man.

Then heavy burlap over his head, dozens of small hands shoving him into a waiting sleigh.

He woke, clawing at the raw skin at the base of his foot until it broke. In the near darkness, he raised the orange shard; a broken beak.

How long had he been Sprinkles? Did he forget his family’s faces first, or his name?

He tiptoed to his spot on the line, clutching the shard, carving furiously into left feet.

“Jenny, help!”

He prayed she’d earn her Tiny Tina, and she’d remember his handwriting better than he remembered her face.

As he returned the last leg to the basket, a misshapen hand fell on his shoulder smelling of stale gingerbread and reindeer sweat.

“Sprinkles,” said Sugarplum.

“That’s not my name.”

“Outside,” said Sugarplum.

Sugarplum lit his pipe as snow pelted the steel door.

“We’re elves now,” he chuckled. “Options are warm tea or cold snow. Nobody goes home.”

Sprinkles was as surprised as Sugarplum by the hammer.

Two strikes.

Sugarplum dropped his cane, careening head-first into the sea of green, elf-made stalagmites.

Sprinkles ran into darkness.

He was inside the snow globe now. High above, past the floating crystals, every detail of Jenny’s face smiled down.