Have you heard, honey? Heard of that country right next door, the one that your grandparents whisper “could have been”? All right, I’ll tell you, but be warned – it’s not a happy story.
There once was a beautiful realm near our own land, one that had no name, for it did not need such a mundane label. It was known far and wide for its toys – fun for every age, style, and taste. Such variety! Such originality! Such astounding, awe-inspiring creativity! The makers created pieces and gave them life, putting a little of its personality in each one. Every single toy was unique, and each one was praised for it. But that was a long time ago and there is nothing left but a wasteland of remains.

It was a gorgeous time, when villages were filled with shining laughter, and children played indiscriminately, secure in the aura of comfort and giggling around the chatting adults’ ankles. The streets seemed to glow yellow with happiness and excitement, and the chimes of various bells, toy ones and chapel ones, sounded everywhere, even in the alleys. And the shops! Oh, the open market was filled with people everyday and every hour until the owners closed up their stands and went home to a hearty dinner and soft bed. It was stuffed with stalls, squished side-by-side, overflowing with goods and bright pops of colors and unusual noises that would startle the crowd before it fell apart laughing. There were stalls just for glitter-filled bouncy balls that would squeak and roll around on their own. Stalls dedicated to marionettes and puppets and dolls that could flirt and hold conversations about everything from the weather to philosophy. Stalls with games! Stalls with candy! And goodness gracious, there were even stalls covered in piles and piles of books.

But what did it matter in the face of human nature? Because just when the country reached its brightest and happiest time, a woman came, appearing suddenly at the far end of the country. She came, and she was beautiful. A goddess crushed into a simple human form, but with divinity still shining through the pores of her skin. Brighter than the sun, more mysterious than the moon, one could only watch in awe as she moved past and wonder where such wondrous, stunning, gorgeousness was born. She was, simply put, the ideal human being. The people fell to their knees and worshipped her, and she? She simply looked upon them and smiled in a honeyed, yet cold, way. She had no name, for she did not want such a mundane label.
This angelic woman strolled on through the land, graceful and flowing, hair fluttering in the breeze, skin burning with internal light, chin high in the acknowledgement of her power. She walked to the center of the country, to the center of the capitol, and behind her came a long parade of awestruck crowds that were blinded by her magnificence, joining from every house she passed, every town she travelled through. In the middle of the city square, the woman finally stopped, prompting the parade to quickly circle around her, and turned imperiously towards her followers, who whispered and pointed in awe. She called for a seat and they hastily picked the most beautiful chair that could be found and brought it over. After all, their gift must be worthy of her majesty. The chair – no, a throne, really – was a handsome one, covered with jewels and gold and from the most prestigious furniture shop in the country. When it was set down in front of her, she smiled prettily and carefully glided over, and as soon as she finally graced their offering with the presence of her bottom, the crowd cheered as loudly as they could.

The woman granted them with a thank you, arrogant tone ensuring that they knew it was a rarity, and they fell over in delight in the presence of her charm. This woman is incomparable, they said, abandoning all their crafts and shops in disgust at their unworthiness at matching such regality, instead choosing to kneel at her feet. The masses made her their queen, melting their gold and saving their jewels to build a palace worthy of her splendor. The people worshipped the woman, praised her, and all the while, she simply preened, well aware of her supremacy over the masses. She knew she was beautiful, of course, she had been told so since she was a little girl. They told her that she would go far in the world, that she was always right, that she was perfect.

It wasn’t long until a social order formed, with the queen’s clique at the top. A clique, yes, dubbed so by those unlucky or unworthy enough to not be a part of it, and called by the queen to be “her best friends” or “her court”. It was an exclusive group, made up of the people she favored, and it was extremely hard to become a part of it – and, of course, what else could be a greater honor than to do so? There were, obviously, strict regulations for the members, regulations the queen came up with after hours and hours of intense thought. Always agree with the queen. Always compliment the queen. And never, ever tell her that perhaps, just perhaps, that dress makes her look a little…rotund. The court was made up of the “posers” and the “informers”, titles for the two main groups that made it up.
The posers were considered to be the most devout worshippers of the queen, doing everything possible to become like her. They threw out their old clothes, overflowing the trash bins, calling them “unfashionable” and “tacky”. The posers instead favored whatever the queen wore, inspiring new fads that they followed with a fierce intensity. They studied her makeup, her clothes, her interests, thoughts, ideas and even the way she flipped her hair. When the queen started dieting, they did the same, restricting themselves to point when some would appear to be nothing more than skeletons. The posers weren’t her, obviously, and they were careful not to copy the original completely – whenever someone stepped over that fine line, they quickly fell in disgrace as the queen glared at them and accused the unlucky victim of “attempting to steal her style”, prompting the everyone else to despise the rule-breaker too. This was the easiest way to curry favor with the queen, and most everyone changed accordingly, doing their best to attract her attention as she paraded around.
The informers were seen as the second stage of the posers – in much higher standing then the average copycat off the street. There were only two or three of them, but it wasn’t rare for one to suddenly be taken out and replaced. They were constantly on both sides of the queen, talking to her behind cupped hands in whispered voices, always watching the masses around them and reporting what they saw. They told her about this man’s affair, that court member’s rebelliousness, every single piece of information on the lives of others they could get their hands on. They operated in secrecy, but when confronted by one, it was best to stand down and take the punishment that was given.
Finally, and most importantly, this clique also was the judge. They looked at everything about the people around them and, quite simply, judged. They decided if this haircut was “in”. They chose whether or not those shoes were fashionable. The queen, of course, was the supreme ruler on all of this and made the final decision on what was allowed – as in, what bought her favor. Those that earned a negative reaction were mocked mercilessly and often shoved down in the social ranking as far as possible in disgrace.
With the new hierarchy in place, competition for one of these positions was extreme and brutal. The higher classes constantly fought each other and backstabbing was frighteningly common. Fake laughter echoed through the streets, and “friends” would walk arm in arm before separating and immediately starting a vicious campaign against one another. Side-glances were constantly shot, and mutters circulated, blowing rumors up to epic proportions, ruining a hopeful poser’s reputation. It got to the point where money would exchange hands and leading competitors would suddenly, and usually violently, suffer an unfortunate “accident”. The streets became gray and muddy with negligence, stalls were shut down and toys broken and shoved into trash bins. Salespeople came into the country, smelling an opportunity, and sold products that promised to “Clear your skin and shrink your pores at the same time!” or to help “Get buff quick! 10-pound muscle gain in one week!”. Even the children followed the adults’ example, jeering at classmates and creating groups of their own.

The queen watched this all with glee, laughing at the petty fights beneath her and aiding those she took an interest in. She swelled with pride whenever someone was knocked out of the contest, due to an unexpected death. Snickered in amusement when two friends got into a catfight in the streets, yanking out the others bleached-blond hair and smearing makeup everywhere. Blew kisses to the men poisoning their body with fake muscle-increasing medicines and wasting their time running laps around the city boundaries. This beautiful woman sat on her throne and gradually took over the minds of the ex-toymakers. She poisoned them, working her charm and charisma for evil, and turned what once was a colorful and creative country to a mass of dead, empty clones. Minds became superficial, losing their capacity for imagination and instead dedicating their thoughts to the next plot to rise in the ranks. Bodies became unhealthily skinny, elbow bones poking out and rib cages showing, or became artificially engorged with plastic muscle, following the new fashion rages. The streets became a sea of the same hairstyles, the same clothes, the same makeup, the same thoughts, the same ideas, the same personalities, the same interests, the same emotions, the same taunts, the same, the same, the same. A visitor to the country would have sworn that the realm was filled with the same person, in very slightly different forms, but with the same shallow, conformist soul.

The queen delighted in everything about the new country she had created. Get rid of what was original! Throw away what was unique! Call them “freakish”, call them “weird”, call the “ugly” and “dreadful” and “disgusting”. Turn your nose up at them, she encouraged, and make sure everyone knows that something different was something unacceptable – and it should be driven out. Thus, she took great pleasure in perusing each member of the lower class and doing her best to make them leave the country or simply die.

The lower class was made up of the people who had little or absolutely no standing with the queen. Unlike the middle class, dubbed the “wanna-bes”, and the upper, the queen’s court, they often showed no wish to gain favor with her, believe it or not. The lower class was made up of the few people that refused to follow the new fads, the new trends and stubbornly stuck to their traditions and individuality. They were all that was left of the old, magical kingdom, where streets shone gold, dolls talked, balls squeaked, and there was no bloated monarch in the middle of the country. They represented everything the queen detested, and she did her best to get rid of them, enthusiastically joined by her followers. She often would march down to a chosen victim’s house with a large group of people behind her and set fire to it, while the poor toymaker wept in a circle of a jeering, taunting mass, often throwing stones and rotten fruits. Such treatment would continue day after day and month after month until the person would pack up whatever they had left and leave as quietly as possible, leaving the rest of the country to crow in success.
A few of the more stubborn people embraced the conflict and stayed strong, defying the upper-class with their rough language, laughing right back at them, never afraid of punishment. They were sneered at, regarded as drunks and fools, and when passing “a rebel peasant” in the streets, they would turn their noses up, whispering about the coarseness of their outfits, and their “unpredictable and dangerous” ideas. To be able to be one of them, to be able to defy royal authority, and to be able to simply not care was a blessing
But then there were the others. They were less defiant, because it was simply not in their nature. They were the peaceful toymakers, who were satisfied with their shops, their books, their toys. They never bothered anyone, but simply took peaceful interest in their own individual crafts. They did not bother to follow the trends, instead preferring their more eclectic or comfortable clothing. They did not attempt to rise in the ranks, enjoying the simple company of those who they got along with – no need for connections among them. They were happy as they were and felt no need to change. Until the queen came after them, and then they became the people who were hurt the most, the people who would often die from the brutal treatment. They would be too injured by the stoning, too hurt by the harsh words, too lonely, too hungry, too hopeless. Some would die starving in the streets, homeless, some would suffer, screaming under the onslaught of sharp rocks and splattering tomatoes, some would take their own lives in the quiet of a corner or an alley, eyes dead and shining with tears. Eventually, all of the lower class degraded and lost, even the defiant ones as their masks cracked to reveal rotting insides.

Soon, there was nothing left in the country except for the queen and her copies and broken toys. Smashed colors in the dirt, crushed limbs, dirty eyeballs, glitter sprinkled over the ground and smeared with dirt. The masses tramped over them, giggling to cover the rising rivalry. More and more suffered unfortunate “incidents” and breakdowns and fights – harsh words, sincere shoves, punches, broken noses – were common. They began to exterminate each other, and soon there was no one left.

The queen ruled over her empty country and pouted. No fun left when everyone was gone. No worshippers, no adorers, no court to fawn over her. No posers to approve of, no informers to gossip with. No rebels to hunt, no lower class to mock. What a bore. She watched from her throne, still golden and gleaming, and saw nothing but a wasteland filled with the corpses of herself – just in different forms. Well then, she sighed, it was time to move on to another place, so she picked herself up and began walking yet again, leaving in her wake a path of crushed bodies that once were human – people that had done their best to do the impossible, to be perfect.