The war

All around is mess. Papers - everywhere, books - everywhere. The clutter is taking control. The mind is loosing.

When no one is around, the elves come out and produce more -- leaving it to be found the next morning. Just a little here and there. Not even enough to notice, unless attention is being paid. A few more papers on the desk, a book laying on the floor, some dirt scattered on the table in front of the plant pot.

Insomnia kept them at bay for a long time, but the little sneaks, in their proud pointy shoes and ridiculous hats, are smart. The wait on the fringe for the eyelids to droop and finally close. Then they tiptoe around, knowing where the squeaky floorboard is and how close they can get to the family dog without waking him. Snickers muffled, they create just the ever so slight difference.

Their hope is to gain control Their prayer is that the human will either leave or be locked away. Their freedom is at stake, and the war is on.