Factories are more than buildings; they’re beasts. They are endlessly consuming, constructing and forcing their product into the world to find their place. Factories are more than buildings. They’re systems. Malfunctions spawn from small glitches in the belly of the beast, and they are suppressed immediately.
This particular factory was filled with winding halls, full of winding lines, full of winding children. The silent clanging of the factory breathing echoed through the halls. The line stretched for miles, and concluded at a door. Beyond this door was a room that harbored string and stables and picks and droppers sprawled across the floor. Standing among these were three figures: a Politician, a Principal, and a Priest.
A young boy stood at the front of the line. The single door beckoned his paralyzed body into the room, and his legs strode him in. The room was massive, dome-like, and was broken up into three circular areas of light with a chair in the center. The Politician was the first to meet him. The man was tall, and had an aura of reassurance. The man plastered a gleaming smile and held himself with confidence beyond measure. The anxiety that gripped the young boy through miles of shuffling through halls melted away at the sight of The Politician’s demeanor. The Politician chuckled. The boy giggled. The Politician spoke.
“What say you put your hand on your heart, son?”
The boy ecstatically complied. The Politician strode over to a table and picked up a staple gun. Caressing the handle and the trigger, he turned back to the boy.
“This won’t hurt.” he assured the boy.
He lined up the gun with the boys fingers. He pulled the trigger, and the punch of the staples pinned the boy’s hand to his left breast. It hurt immensely. When The Politician was finished he set the staple gun down. The fingers of the boy were encased within thin metal, and his face had wretched into a twisted mess of tears and babbles. Upon seeing this, The Politician pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away the boy’s tears.
  “Come now,” The Politician purred, “Don’t be unpatriotic.”
At this the boy scrambled to maintain proper composure, as the Politician led him to the Principal.
The Principal was the polar opposite of The Politician. She was stern, held herself within cloud of complete control, and the young boy could feel it choking him as The Principal glared him down with the gaze of a viper. The Politician patted the boy on the back and shoved him into The Principal before returning to the first spot of light.
“Sit.” The Principal ordered.
The boy indeed sat. Next to the chair was a small table. Resting upon it was a lobotomy pick and a mallet. The anxiety returned to the boy when The Principal caressed these instruments with bony fingers and sleek fingernails. She picked them up and turned to the boy.
“Do not move. Do not speak. Do nothing.” she snarled.
She maneuvered the pick into the corner of his eye and with ease, painlessly slid it onto the area of the skull protecting the prefrontal lobe. She lifted her mallet and tapped the pick. The bone chipped. She tapped again. The bone cracked. She tapped again, and as she did all sense of personality left the boy as the picked pierced the prefrontal lobe. With that, she slid it out and placed the instruments back on the table. The prefrontal lobotomy was successful.
“Get up.”, she hissed. The boy got up, feeling around for his sense of imagination. The Principal handed him a small scroll, held together by a blue ribbon, and ordered him to the final figure in the dome: The Priest.
Somewhat more relaxed than The Principal, The Priest was nevertheless stern. He was tall, on the older side and plump. His eyes were fixated into a scowl, and the weight of his large cheeks dragged his mouth into a consistent frown. The gowns he wore were ornate, of green patchwork, gold stitch and white fur. Through his wire frame bifocals, which pinched the end of his portly nose he stared at the boy with very small eyes. Enclosed within the circle of light was a metallic fountain. With a gravelly voice, The Priest sputtered out the words,” Sit, child.”
The Priest’s hands left his sleeves and picked up a dropper. He reached his hand to the fountain, and filled the dropper with his left hand. With his right, he gripped the mess of hair on the boy’s head and tugged so that the boy had an unbreakable gaze with the ceiling. The Priest hovered the dropper over each eye and water droplets fell, evening themselves over the boy’s eyes. His vision began to blur. He lifted his head, and in a frantic contraction of manic panic, used his left hand to wipe his eyes and blink out the water. The Priest displayed a flicker of disbelief before his composure became furious and taut. Gripping the boy’s hair with much less calmness, he bellowed:
“You’re SINNING!”
The Boy was too distraught to resist the drops. His vision blurred and the objects in front of him became somewhat transparent. They were there, but he could not bring himself to see them. The Priest beckoned him to a door parallel to the one he came in through. He was then greeted by another line, full of children with stapled hands, fractured minds and subjective blindness. The boy joined the winding children, in a winding line in winding halls leading them away from the belly of the beast.

A young girl stood in front of a door. The door slid open and beckoned her. As it did, something was placed into the corner of her eye. Turning left she saw a new hallway, a small one. None of the other children seemed to notice as she left her place in line and entered the small makeshift tunnel. She carried herself through the rigid walls for what seemed like eternity. Eventually it spit her out into a large cubical room, full of people: odd people. They were sitting and standing, leaning on each other and some slumped on the floor. They had all found an unconventional spot that they found comfortable. They all bore heavy eyes, but gripped a half-chuckle between their teeth at all times. They were raggedly and oddly dressed. There were leather jackets covered in silver bits, many neon orange work vests, distressed hoodies, blazers and camouflage jackets. Under them they wore flannel shirts, button ups and suspenders, shirts with odd symbols, tank tops, and in some cases no shirts to be seen. On their feet were boots and sneakers. Big black combat boots, work boots, and platformers wrapped in chains. Chuck Taylors and Jordan’s. Here and there were high heels, sandals and some bare feet. The hair topping this gang of shaggy individuals took the young girl aback.  It was bright, and neon. Some had scraggly afros. The men had hair to their shoulders and girls had buzzcuts and Mohawks. Beanies, headbands, baseball caps, and a larger assortment of unrelated hats hid heads. The young girl attempted to process this crowd as she stumbled into the room. The twanging of guitar strings, laughter, snoring, coughing and burping faded off as the occupants turned and lifted their heads to see had gone through the tunnel this time.
The young girl walked into the center of the room. As she did, a girl curled up on the floor put her fist out.
“Bump it girl.” She compassionately slurred as she fist bumped the young girl and slumped back down to the floor. In unison, two people threw a blanket around her and put a hat on her head with easy chuckles. She took up a spot on a wall next to girl dressed in all black and a young man suited in denim jeans and jacket with long scraggly long hair.
“New here?” the black-clad lady asked. The girl sheepishly nodded so the older girl continued.
“Yeah, of course you are. I was like that too: A bit shy, a bit sheepish. You’ll eventually come into your own.”
“Where are we?” the young girl inquired. The young man lowered himself onto the floor and sat with his legs crossed, so he was slightly below eye level with the young girl.
“You’re gone. Off the grid. The Man can’t lay a finger on you now, sister. You’re with us now,” he explained.
“And who are you all anyway?”
“We’re glitches.” The woman in black yawned out as she stretched his shoulders. “Wrenches in the gears. We stepped out of line and exceeded norms, and now we’re all here.”
As the girl and the rest continued to accommodate themselves with each other, the guitar and piano returned, people began hollering and laughing till they fell, coughing rang through the room and they were happy. And so as the line miles above them moved along, the rebels reveled.