Witch's Child, The

In the spirit of the coming May, "The Witch's Child" in zine form.

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This story has been expanded

This story has been expanded a little to fill an important gap. If anyone can reformat it with the completed text, that would be great. I’m pasting in the missing part with parts of the sections around it so it’s clear where it goes. Love, the author

This is why we celebrate May Day with sabotage. For we will not surrender the rhythm of life to the timing of gears.

All their new techniques of warfare could not quench our rage. Even in the factories, or in the private places where they tried to confine the women, we formed new communes. Major upheavals shook the halls of the well masked princes, and they began to call these upheavals revolutions. They said the old forms of authority were finished. They said we were all free, and could participate in their project as equals. And most of us were fooled. Just like the barbarians before us, we reacted more to our exclusion than to our domination, and tried to become the new Romans.

But our new freedom was worse than the slavery that had come before it. We spent our days chained to assembly lines, not by links of iron or steel, but by our own vulnerability. Our lives were dedicated to the production of objects, and we became objects as well. Our masters no longer worried about keeping us alive because if we fell from hunger or disease or were consumed by the machines themselves, ten more would step forward to take our places, desperate to sell themselves so they could buy back the little they needed to survive. The world was stripped bare and filled again with objects, and we produced all of them, but they no more belonged to us than we ourselves did. We were fed to the roaring machines so they could continue without stop, filling an empty, hungry world with more emptiness and more hunger.

This is why on May Day we go on strike. To listen to the silence as we bring all their machinery to a halt.

So they negotiated with us and gave us some privileges, gave us some fancy clothes so we could pretend to be like them, and they let us decorate our lives with their abundance of objects. But more and more are beginning to realize that this project we’re invited to participate in is the war against all of us. It allows us anything but mutiny. It keeps us alive as long as we do not nourish ourselves. It demands only our complicity in this constant uprooting, and the suppression of those who still remember their roots.

They put our freedom down on paper, the better to silence it.

This is why we celebrate May Day with riots.