text: "...and he burps. He doesn't even say 'Excuse me' anymore. Just yesterday he... he wanted to bed me and place his, you know..." The individual listening to this interaction, positioned on the end of the second row in a rather petite call center, waited for the caller to finish. "Ma'am? Are you still there? Place his 'You Know'...?" The call agent knew what the answer was but after a few years in this job, it's best to let the customer finish their statement. Sometimes it's out of necessity to never assume, sometimes it's to make them say it. "He wants to stick. His thing. In a place where it isn't supposed to be." The agent scratched above where the cheap foam of a call center headset met her upper ear lobe. This was going nowhere, other individuals were waiting for the 'Next Available Representative'. "To be blunt, you're saying he wants to stick his dick in your ass. Is that what you're saying?" A gasp. A pause. The agent continued, "And you don't want to do that. Because you're a princess. And that isn't what a princess does. And why would he want to do that to you? Are these all questions that you're mulling around right now? Does he also want to see a few of the peasant girls? How many times has he hit you smelling of alcohol?" When you've taken enough calls, you can recognize the sound of tears hitting a receiver. "If it's /that/ important to him, you'll do it or he will find someone else who does. That will put your contract in danger." When issuing the hot tears associated with true emotional pain, the human face does this weird thing where it's almost a caricature of a frown. The most unfortunate part is that they often elect this moment as the best time to talk, completely altering their diction. Through that face the caller half-whispered, "This isn't what I wanted." "I know. But you made a deal. How'd he save your life?" Another pause. "Curse. I was turned to stone for a hundred years. He heard of my beauty. Journeyed for a year to find me through the Blood Forest. The Wicked Queen met us there in the clearing where I was a statue. As he lay defeated at my feet, his tears touched the stone and I turned to flesh. He healed." "Tears of True Love package. That's what it's showing on your account. Unfortunately, you're in this until the contract is broken." The file also showed that the witch had been relocated to another story; however, Antagonist Relocation wasn’t her department and they kept notes on an entirely different system for the most part. With a shaky voice the caller asked, "What happens when I break the contract?" "I hope you're somewhere you want to stay a while," the representative said without missing a beat. There's a sound that humans make when they lose everything, when that last door closes, or when they realize there is no escape. That sound was followed by an abrupt and ear-splitting pop. After the three minute rule that necessitates checking once a minute to see if the caller is on the line, the representative disconnected the call. There was no question what had just happened and that would make the fourth call this week. While you know it isn't your fault entirely, it wears on you. She decided to take a smoke break. Just as she was about to press the buttons on her phone a voice echoed over the cubicles: "Glinda? Could you go into three?" When she pressed "1" on her phone, it was a break. Other buttons did other things but those weren't really important. The requested number "3" indicated a meeting with her supervisor. Of the two numbers she knew the meanings of, the one requested was her least favorite. Glinda stood from her uncomfortable chair and walked past several others to the cube of her GM, or Godmother. These individuals oversaw and reviewed the case interactions of the call agents. The GM offered Glinda a seat next to a pair of cheap headphones and said, "Grab a headset and let's review this last call you had." "I just listened to a young woman revise a story's moral. It's pretty fresh in my mind. What do you want to tell me to change or that I did wrong. I need a God damned cigarette." The GM's ever present aura of sparkles always sparkled less when confronted and cursing was always considered an act of confrontation. "Have your cigarette. We need to discuss your future with the company when you return." Glinda walked past 30 other women on her way to the door. She didn't look at anyone on the way out and only heard bits and pieces of them explaining that this was the deal, regardless of their knowledge than a binding agreement had been made; their curse debt was essentially transferred and there are rules.. She quit smoking a month ago but every time. Every time, it's this fucking place. A small area was allocated for smoking outside the center and, if you ignored that area and kept walking around the building, you would eventually wind up at the back of the building which was devoid of light pollution. You could see the Milky Way from here and, after her relocation, that was the only thing Glinda lived for: seeing something that large and feeling small because every other day she just felt small without seeing the profound immensity of the galaxy. Glinda used to protect a location known as Oz. Her sister did a number on it and as bad luck would have it genetics only granted her powers related to changing horse colors, fashion items, and bubble teleportation. The other two nautical directions did most of the fighting when It, proper noun intended, started. Glinda hid and cried often over the tortured citizens of Oz that she could not help. The action of smoking a cigarette was all muscle memory for Glinda. Without even processing the action she had flipped open the pack, extended a smoke with her thumb, grabbed it between her lips, flipped her lighter on her palm once to place the action at her thumb, and placed her cigarettes back into her pocket. "Bitch didn't even come from magic." Glinda was somewhat bitter over the moment that Oz was vindicated from the hands of the Wicked Witch of the West. A lucky shot followed by literally winning through blunders. Dorothy was a sweet girl but sweet girls always cause the most problems. After Dorothy left, Glinda was sort of in an uncomfortable role. The inhabitants of the area already knew she was fully incapable of protecting the realm. And that Oz refused to. For a month the Munchkins would coagulate at bars too small for humans to enter. The night it happened, Glinda watched as 50 Munchkins surrounded Oz -- her hot air balloon quickly ascending. She ducked behind the wicker of the basket. To this day she doesn't know what that first strike was upon his body -- but the sound of it vividly haunts her dreams every now and then. It was guttural and a forceful expulsion of air encountering a profound amount of liquid. It sounded like a man being forcefully drowned and he didn’t know why. They were yards away from the main fountain and candy canes had been disappearing for two weeks. The ‘didn’t know why’ part was quite valid, though. Oz had an awful system in terms of political power. Distrust for a populace of ‘savages’. A magician who ruled through parlor tricks. When the antagonist that held everyone’s attention was defeated, change was in the air. The revolt the Munchkins set up a completely functional form of Parliamentary Democracy. The last time she heard, they had managed to start a space program. Glinda didn't even know if those planets out there were real. Guess they'll find out. Glinda was standing to the side of a call center that was, for the most part, a reception and support line for brokered deals between Godmothers and whomever was destitute enough to take up the offer. The talking mice? The dancing laundry? The subtle hints that your prince charming uses to make sure he doesn't quest himself into the sea? That's all under contract. When a woman accepts the first portions of that assistance, they are locked in an agreement of varying gravity to both the prince in question and to Glinda's corporation. God Mothers were also notorious for working both ends of the game. That prince didn't just appear and vast sums of money had been allocated to ensure that a proper prince had a proper trophy story for his trophy wife. Glinda remembered her first day, looking at the Human Resources manager, and saying that the practice seemed somewhat heartless. The Godmother looked Glinda straight in her eyes and asked if she honestly thought turning a pumpkin into a carriage was effortless. Glendia had never turned a pumpkin into a carriage. She remembered that royal carriage they used to utilize on special occasions. She remembered the royal guard of Oz being dragged behind it -- members of the Lollipop Guild riding on the bodies like sleds as the pack of horses ran through the cobblestone streets. They never changed colors the whole time, remaining black as night. She remembered trying to remind herself that this was an interview and now she was crying and now... The Godmother's formerly stern scrutiny faded into empathy, false or legitimate. "You haven't been gone long, have you?" It had been around three months and after the transition, especially in the case of populace reformation in the power vacuum of an evil ruler, things happen. Those things necessitate therapy before entering into the workforce. Staring up at the Milky Way and remembering this, Glinda had neglected to notice that her cigarette was now burning into the filter. Now her hand was going to smell like that all night. She placed the butt into the trash can and walked in, passing the Indian analogs of 'Good Witches'. Their multiple hands somewhat limited their ability to be accepted in the workforce and, even after saving entire lands and protecting kingdoms from evil: princesses would still ask for someone who spoke English. She sat back down at her desk in the Saves Department. In sales that term is intended for accounts where the customer wants to drop service. Similar concept. This is where the Good Witches ended up: begging princesses not to end it all or run away risking a very real Early Termination Fee. The department offered commissions; however, the success rate dictated an hourly wage. Sitting on Glinda's keyboard, wedged between the 'qwerty' and 'asdf' rows of keys, a piece of paper. 'The Road Takes You Where You Want It' These words, written in gold leaf. An image of a a road spiraling into the center of the card -- each brick also adorned with a small square of gold. The Godmother popped up behind her, startling Glinda nearly to dropping the piece of paper. Someone told her that you get used to that after your first year. "Why don't you go home early. You seem like you need a rest and we'll talk about that call tomorrow." That really wasn't a request so much as a command and Glinda treated it as such. She gathered her belongings, placed them into her purse, and exited the building. In the quiet peace of the late-late evening, playfully bordering just on the cusp of morning, she made her way to the bus stop adjacent to the center. Glinda sat down waiting for the bus to take her home. She stared at the card, unable to focus on anything but the spiral and the lack of sparkle in each progressively smaller brick. The seemingly-wide and inviting starting point leading to an inevitable singularity bereft of gold. There is a sound that humans make when they lose everything, when that last door closes, or when they realize there is no escape. That sound accompanied the irregular beat produced by tears tarnishing gold foil as Glinda waited for the bus. When you've taken enough calls, you can recognize the sound of tears hitting a receiver.