She

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“Kissing It” by Avantika Shaha

One day I’ll write a blog entry titled “Adventures In Commissioning Art”, but until I do, I’ll say it’s been a mixed bag. The above is something I love, taken from the depths of my heart and the deepest love I feel for that tiny man that I wish I had the power to shrink and manhandle. Toyhandle? Yes, toyhandle. That sounds better. The artist is Avantika Shaha, or @aviviavai. She creates art beyond size images, and here’s her Patreon page.

Now I tell you a story. Close your eyes and read.

* * *

The mall was packed with people that Sunday afternoon. The two police officers stood near the escalator and talked as though every muscle in their bodies wasn’t ready for action. Not that it would make any difference. The day before they had been present during the protests on 4th Street, and now they were here, under an equally important pretense. If She had shown up yesterday, there would have been no police, army, navy, air force presence that would change her course of action, and if she made her way to the mall today, two or a hundred or a million armed men would be unable to protect a single soul. Yet they stood, and watched, and hoped.

“Look at them. Every month, the same.”

“They forget. They have to forget. Not forgetting makes you mad. I’d rather they stay home, but you know how She is. Once she makes her decision, she takes what she wants no matter where it hides.”

“Man, I want to go home. I want to watch the game, and I want to drink a thousand beers because I can’t forget. I wish I could. I wish the faces of those men I’ve seen her take could be erased from my memory.”

“What’s the stakes now?”

“$500.00”

His partner whistled. “I could use that money.”

“Get in on it. Talk to Jerry. He’ll be happy to take your money.”

“Forget it. It’s stupid. None of you is ever going to find out what she does with the men after she takes them. After a year of abductions, all we know is that she comes into town near the end of every month, takes one man, and disappears in the horizon with his screaming shape writhing in her fist. Twelve men gone, never heard from again, and we have to sit and watch it happen.”

“I don’t want to remember what happened when they tried to stop her.”

“Shut up. I’m still missing part of my roof. Every time I mow the lawn I find pieces of building hidden in the grass. Once I think I dug out part of a femur. A human one.”

“Fuck.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, shh. Do you hear that? Fuck, fuck. Fuck! She’s coming!”

“Calm down. Everyone sees you freak out- Oh, Jesus God, look at the display windows!”

As though affected by some spell, the crowd of thousands came to a near complete stop. They all moved in perfect synchronicity as they lifted their gazes to the tall ceilings, and tilted their heads to listen to the rumbling crescendo. Then all hell broke loose.

The man walked out of the dollar store with a Gatorade and a couple of lipstick tubes in a bag. There was a $5.00 purchase minimum at the store, and he never carried cash anymore. He hoped his girlfriend liked the shades and looked for a place to sit. Across the walkway there was a play area for children with some tables and chairs and a couple of benches. Only one of the latter was unoccupied, and he wondered if he could sit there and down his drink in peace without getting the evil eye from parents who might think he was a pervert. He was a pervert, but his only interest were adult women.

Maybe if I close my eyes and pretend I’m asleep, he thought, taking his place on the wooden bench. It felt warm and welcoming, and he let his eyelids droop, and the surrounding noise lull him to tranquility. It was over in a moment, when he felt the sort of vibration one might perceive if in a still position and someone stomps the floor in close vicinity. He opened his eyes and looked around, wondering whether he had heard or felt that slight shaking of the floor when he heard the next one. After a year of monthly invasions, there was no mistaking those shockwaves.

Everyone around him felt the third one, and when they did, parents grabbed their children; some stood in place, knowing there was no predicting a safe location; others ran off in whatever direction their legs took them. He didn’t make any effort to leave his spot, and only moved enough of his body parts to call his girlfriend, knowing he would not be able to reach her. He let his hand and phone fall to his thigh and waited as he observed every reflection in every display window distort as though the surface had become liquid. Somewhere near (or far), one of those windows couldn’t take the next booming step and shattered in a spray to the floor.

He hoped no one was hurt, but sat without moving. I have no idea if I’m calm, or hysterical. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know. Poor guy, whoever she takes this time. Why doesn’t anyone stop her? Stupid stupid thought! What if she can read minds and she- Oh, my God! Something had broken loose from the skylight ceiling and crashed loudly into pieces not twenty feet away from him, and he looked up and realized the light fixtures had been shaken from their moorings by the upheaval of her steps. She’s coming here, isn’t she? Please oh please I beg you I don’t want to see her again I never want to see her again A shadow blotted out the cloudless afternoon sky quilted through the trembling patches of glass, and hell was unleashed.

She had made the trek again after her last disappointment. None of the little men she had chosen had been able to stand her attention. Her devotion was unfiltered, and her love was one of a kind. When she entered this world, her mind filled with wild scents, and her skin tingled to new depths, with new electricity. The power here was like a drug. There were many here; why the ones like her were so small, she didn’t know. But the other ones, the ones with hair on their faces, and full muscles on their legs, and different pitch in their squeaks… among them was her mate.

She had been able to follow his trail every time. Once she spotted him, she plucked him from the crowd of scattering little toys, and she took him home. There she built a life around him and gave him everything of herself. Each him had lasted a few days before failing to fulfill his role. Each him had broken her heart, but she didn’t stop. She was no quitter, and she could feel him out there. He had to be there. So today she had left her home again, and walked the path again. She followed his trail again, humming to herself, stroking her belly as she imagined their children, drumming her fingers gently over her lips, sleepwalking for a few moments as she imagined him there, swimming from shallow to deep end.

She smiled when she saw the mall. She walked on old streets that still held the shapes of her feminine footprints (she noticed one had been turned into a vegetable garden and shook her head with glee), and over new ones, freshly black after the previous layers had succumbed to her visits. She strutted past cracking structures and buildings that held firm to her glancing advances. She caressed them in passing, plowing four vertical trenches where only clouds of dust would ever be planted. People ran from her, and she smiled, loving their beautiful bodies even though she knew none were perfect for her. Only he was. She could feel he was not running. She almost stopped in her tracks. The other ones had always fled. How did he know she was coming? Did he know she was coming for him?

She was so close she could taste him. His little body was perfect. She could see him with her heart as she drilled the mall’s wall deep with her fingers, and lifted the roof as though it had been hinged on. Bits of flesh were running out every entrance, but she was blind and deaf to them. She only felt his heat. The roof cracked in half as she removed it, and she drove her other arm deep into the space she had created to support the cracking material. It would not do to crush her mate when courting him. Next into that space followed her head and shoulders, and the ceiling/roof held together even as it groaned. She looked down and saw him sitting there, looking at her, utterly still but perhaps not calm. There was a dark stain on his pants.

Kisses.

He was drowning in them.

Kisses.

She had pummeled the air with her giant hand and had removed him from his life. His Gatorade and his girlfriend’s new lipsticks a weak goodbye to his humanity.

Kisses. His neck bent painfully when she delivered the next volley. Lips alive and on him, unforgiving masses of thick red.

He had finally screamed when she brought him to her face and said something that felt like hello and wrinkled her nose at his pants. He had continued screaming when she tore them from his body like they had been a layer of soap suds and her fingers an interminable flow of water.

Kisses.

He screamed with the strength of two men when she looked at his member, hidden from his own view by her grip, but not from the cameras of hundreds, if not thousands of people.

Kisses. There. His screams turned to gasps and then to a different scream.

Laughter. Hello.

“Hello.”

Kisses. My perfect one. I’ve found you. We’re going home.

Kisses, kisses, kisses.

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Language

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Friday mornings were the worst. There should have been some forethought to easing into the weekend for government employees that had difficult jobs, but it didn’t seem anyone had cared when legislation passed, and the Rehabilitation and Inclusion Policy was implemented. RIP, or Rest In Pieces as the opposition gleefully called it, was executed by various institutions and clinics around the country. In cases of emergency, even schools were called in to help out. What the public didn’t know—and she was determined to keep it that way for as long as she could—was that RIP included termination procedure for those tiny people that were found injured beyond repair, or too antisocial to join polite society. And all terminations were scheduled to occur on Fridays.

Maura sat in her car and drank her coffee. It was a very cold morning and she had been up early, peeling a layer of ice from her windshield. Doing that had felt like heaven compared to what her job was on Fridays. Every previous workday she took tally of new arrivals, newfound and captured tiny men and women that were brought in by volunteers, or had been abandoned by previous owners. Plenty of these tiny creatures (she didn’t dare call them people openly) could speak and understand language. Many could perform small tasks after some training. Quite a few found their way into new homes where they were cared for and maybe even loved. It was the rest of them that had really begun to bother them. The Friday lot.

The terminations, she thought. What a joke. Why don’t we call it what it is? Murder. Assassinations. Mass killing. Her stomach turned and she looked at the entrance of the clinic where she worked. Four of five days she sat with tinies in her workroom and evaluated them for possible mental or developmental disorders. She reached for them to see if they shied away from her touch or welcomed it easily. She spoke to them in English and ascertained how many of them spoke that gibberish they seemed to have invented for themselves a couple of centuries ago. If they talked, they could learn to speak properly. She trained, hugged, fed, taught, cleaned them. She loved those days of evaluations and care, but on Fridays she was obliged to terminate the ones that were deemed, by law, to be permanently unfit for placement.

She looked at the time, finished her coffee, and prepared herself for the stabbing of cold weather. She enjoyed the Winter months, but this temperature only woke her up even more, and she wished she could show up drunk for work. At least today. Today she knew two of the tiny men she had examined for days would have that nauseating diagnosis added to their files. She made the trek from her car to her office and sat down to look at her schedule. Yes, there they were. Two terminations today. Fantastic. She thought of buying a bottle of tequila during lunch.

One was an old man that could no longer walk. He had been found on a roadside by a volunteer, and all week he had cried out the same words, over and over again. She wrote them down, knowing what they meant: “hi-dey-tee-gee”. Hide the children. She read them again and thought of every hour she had spent with the fragile critter, trying to calm him down, watching him soil himself again and again, washing him as he struggled and spat at her, and getting nowhere fast. She knew it would be very difficult to numb him. She sighed, positively yearning for tequila, and looked at the other file. Yes, here, this was the reason she’d been unable to sleep.

She looked closely at his file on her tablet and stared at the beautiful face. He had taken her breath away when she found him in the cardboard box brought in by church workers. It had contained tiny clothes, sewn to impossible perfection by hands that only cared that the tiny people were not nude, as nudity was a sin. She didn’t mind because she loved to wash those little bodies and have them choose new clothes for themselves. In most cases, little people only wore rags and bits of plastic they fashioned into basic covering they never seemed to want to clean. To watch them wear garments made to fit them perfectly filled her heart with something close to joy.

The box had contained a stowaway she had only seen when she dumped its contents on the washroom table to clean and disinfect them, and saw the tiny body descend with a soft thud on the pile that soon continued to cover him. She stopped with a gasp and started peeling tiny pants and shirts and dresses from the pile until she found him. He screamed and charged her, and she was too amazed to stop him before he fell into her lap and started pounding and kicking at her thighs. After she placed him in a cage all by himself and made some phone calls, she found out that none of the people from the church knew anything about him. She then admitted him and started treating him. Nothing had worked, and after enough days her supervisor had determined he was mad beyond recovery. She was to kill him in a few hours.

She’d done it before. The clinic lacked enough funding for a Crusher, a newly developed, fully automated machine that took a tiny person from a living state into a deeply drunken or drugged stupor, and finally crushed them into a paste that was them marked “medical waste” and incinerated. Here, she had to do it all herself. Initially, there had been enough funds for drugs that stopped their tiny hearts, but after a few years all they could give her was tequila. She had to force the tiny drops into tiny mouths until they passed out, and then she had to place them on a medical mat, and wear a special bootie to cover her shoe as she crushed their unconscious bodies with it.

In the beginning, it had been easy. She was following the law and she knew when someone was no longer mentally competent. She had a degree that showed the world she could make that determination, but after years of seeing and hearing them, of touching them and talking to them, of teaching them words and seeing their faces light up when she treated them with civility, it wasn’t easy anymore. And she was afraid this little guy was going to be impossible to terminate. She didn’t care that he seemed rabid. There was something hiding in the gleam of his eyes that seemed more than she could understand. Something she wished she could reach. She didn’t care if it got her a Letter of Reprimand in her file; she was going to dip into that government tequila if she was to do her job today.

She left her office and went to the barracks, a euphemism for the room where the little people were kept in cages. She walked over to his cage and saw that he was still sleeping. The clothes she had put on him were torn to shreds, as had been every set of clothes she ever forced him to wear. She sighed and stared at his perfect little legs. His ass was the most adorable shape she’d ever seen, and she thought of how much fun it had been to clean it constantly as he made every effort to defecate in her presence and fling feces at her from his cupped hand every chance he got. She looked at the webbing between her thumb and finger and saw the tiny welts he had left there every time he bit her. It had required every ounce of patience she possessed not to shout at him or squeeze him hard. She thought only love would bring him around, but she had gotten nowhere, and she was out of time. He was out of time. Her eyes filled with tears, and she wept silently.

She wipes her cheeks dry after a few minutes, not knowing he was awake, his eyes blinking with hatred he could hardly contain as he stared at the wires of his cage. He heard her walk to a different cage, and remove the old man from it, the one that couldn’t walk. The Chief, as he called himself, of the Boyardee clan. A grandiose name that only meant his people were landfill folk. He listened to his feeble cries, and knew the man’s mind was no longer there. He kept crying out to people that weren’t there. Whatever reason there was to bring him out of his cage, it couldn’t possibly be a good one. He shut his eyes and ears to the plaintive sounds and waited for the woman to leave the room so he could keep on trying to figure out how to escape.

Maura pulled the paralyzed elderly man out of his cage, and placed him in her soft palm. She was supposed to wear gloves, but never did on Fridays. If there was any comfort to be drawn from the warmth of her touch, she wanted this old man to feel it. She left the barracks and took him to the Room With No Name, called that way and many other ways across the country, she was sure, because it wasn’t an official room. It didn’t exist. But it did.

She held the tiny man in her palm as she fetched the dropper, the bottle of tequila, a medical mat and a bootie for her shoe. As gently as she could, she sat at the wheeled steel table that had a drain and an attached water hose just like autopsy tables. After years of practice she could, using only her free hand, remove the cap from the bottle of tequila, pour a few drops in a shot glass, fill a dropper and leave it resting on the side of the shot glass while she removed the medical mat and bootie from their sterile covers, and placed them each on the floor and on her right shoe, respectively.

She then forcefully fed a couple of tequila drops to the old man, though after the second drop he demanded a third and a fourth one. She kept pressing the tip of her dropper into his mouth until every bit was gone, as was he. She didn’t wait to see if he’d recover and wake up to his surroundings before she placed his unconscious body on the math, and applied her protected shoe on his tiny shape. Adding pressure as quickly as she could, Maura felt his body give way and spread under her sole. Quick and painless. She placed it all, mat and bootie, now stained in deep red, in a hazardous-waste bag, and tossed it into the incinerator chute.

Damn it all, she thought, and downed three shots of tequila, fast and into a stomach that had only contained coffee up to this point. It hit her very quickly, so she braved her way to the second scheduled termination, and once again stood outside his cage. It seemed to waver in space as the barracks walls spun all around her.

”Hello, you cutie,” she said, and giggled when she caught a glimpse of his behind again. “Boy, you’re beautiful. Lemme look at ya,” she added, puzzled because he wasn’t moving. “Turn ‘round I said.” Slowly, his head rotated until he peered up at her over his shoulder. He leapt to his knees, and much to her shock, grabbed a hold of his little member. At first she thought he was going to masturbate his contempt at her, but the translucent stream rushing from his penis told a different story.

”You sure know how ta influence others an’ make friends, don’t ya? Well, I really wish it’d been diff’rent for us. For you I mean. You’re so gorgeous I just wanna… mmm!” She brought her lips together and made a smacking sound that could have only been translated as the lascivious regret of a delicious missed meal. She saw he was done peeing, and he saw he was done peeing. They both looked at his drained bits simultaneously, and he decided that the next offense should be a lewd demonstration. His hand flew to the tip of it, and back to its base. Once, and again, and once more, hard, like an insult.

She smiled and considered watching the show, earning a look of surprise from him she was too drunk to catch, and a reconsideration of his methods. He stopped what he was doing and flipped his body onto his fours, pointing his ass at her and pushing with all his might.

“Oh, no, little one. No more shit from you. You can shit when you’re dead. Now we drin’ to your health. C’mere!” She opened his cage, and reached for him, clasping his prone body tightly. She felt his struggles and she was sure he was screaming, but there was nothing he could do from the tight hold of her fist, and she returned to the Room With No Name with him.

Everything she did before, she repeated.She opened her firm grip on his body enough to release his upper body from her hold and turn him around so she could push drops of tequila down his throat. As soon as he had some freedom he went nuts, screaming wordlessly and scratching at her with fingernails too infinitesimal to inflict any damage. She ignored the nature of his anger and wondered how all that movement would feel between her legs. She considered terminating him that way for a moment, but shook her head at such a notion.

When she began to force the first drop of tequila into him, she had to pin him by the throat with her thumb, her palm cradling his thrashing body as she held the plastic tube tip against his tiny mouth, and squeezed tequila into it. For every drop he took, she swallowed a shot. After the third drop he started yelling at her in perfect English.

”You fucking bitch! I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill all of you!” She thought it was the tequila in her making her hear things, but it was the tequila in him making him say things. He went on for a while, saying terrible things, calling her horrible names, but all she could do was smile until she couldn’t help herself anymore, and started kissing him.

”My precious lidl one, you get to live! I don have to kill you now! I can juss keep you forever. You’ll be mine and I’ll be yours!” She kept placing her lips on his angry face and fists until he stopped moving, lost to exhaustion. She smiled and looked at the door. She’d lock it, and have a little fun with his wonderful shape before taking him home for the rest of his life.

Stuff that is happening

—I’m writing more. I haven’t waited to publish a book to call myself a writer, and I’m not going to start now. Technically I am a published author, though to reveal the venue and the event would start a joke since it’s such an insignificant footnote of an event, I shouldn’t even count it. Irrelevant. I’m a writer, and I’m doing a better job of getting up every day and writing something every day.

—I’ve slipped back about answering emails. I’m very sorry about that, and I’m doing better as well. Don’t think for an instant that I don’t appreciate your notes, your messages, and your stories. I haven’t forgotten you, I haven’t forgotten them, and I will answer them as soon as I can. Before 2019, I promise.

—I just ate an olive.

—I got one of these in the mail recently:

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I ordered it despite mixed reviews about it never arriving from China. Fortunately, in my case it did. I’m very happy with it, and I think it will help my efforts to be able to one day draw my own Size images. I love paying for commissions, but there’s stuff in my mind too depraved to share with anyone and hope to leave their wholesome minds intact. We’re supposed to protect and support our artists, not destroy their psyches until there’s nothing left but a mass of tears and blood.

—Don’t forget this thing. I haven’t. It’s still a thing. It still exists. I’m going to update it this weekend with actual entries. I expect at least a thousand of you continuously write songs about giantesses and tiny men. It’s not just dorky, non-musician me that does it, and my friends Aborigen and others. But what do I know? There are Size people that are musicians, writers with some talent, and simply refuse to compose and write*. Fine, see if I care.

—Someone send me doughnut holes. I’m seriously craving some. And cocoa. Chop-chop.

That’s it for now. I’m off to read, drink, and write. And possibly eat another olive, since they are shaped like doughnut holes anyway.

*You’re on my list.

Enough

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“Gg180” by AmGiPi

“Guess how many different kinds of handshakes Stephen Colbert has for his guests,” she asked him, her words only slightly slurred. These past weeks she’d been working diligently on drinking every bottle of alcohol she’d accumulated in the last decade and had never consumed. Years ago she’d claimed she was saving them for a nuclear winter, or Armageddon, or some such calamitous event. He only thought of it in passing, because all he wanted to do was fall asleep. He was resting comfortably on her chest, right between her breasts, where it was warm. Not calm, given the strength and proximity of her heartbeat, but after all these years he could virtually sleep through all her quakes. Well, most of them.

Only tonight she’d been drinking from a bottle of sickeningly sweet blood orange liquor, and the scent of citrus permeated the air. His air. His atmosphere. He didn’t want to play games or guess things. He was so relaxed he was practically purring. She’d allowed him to rest a surprising amount of nights lately, and his bruises and cuts had almost healed. Every part of his body looked nearly the same color. He was glad about the new sleeping hours and happy he was not being brought to the brink of death every night by her constant sexual needs. Her fingertip was running down his back, caressing him from neck to calves, only dragging him in the slightest by friction.

“Four? I don’t know. One,” he ventured, knowing she’d see he was only throwing numbers in her direction, not interested in giving her question some thought. That was something he knew irritated her, his lack of enthusiasm, but he was too comfortable to care at the moment. Still, he regurgitated another number, half drunk from inhaling the alcohol in her breath.

“Unbelievable. You’re not even trying to guess, Toy. Look. Just look! You’re not looking.” He could feel her heartbeat speed up under her skin, and he made a half-hearted effort to look over his shoulder at the TV screen that blinked and shone at them from blocks (to him) away. Stephen Colbert was talking to some British man he vaguely recognized. Some kind of funny man. “What am I waiting for, Owner? They are just talking, and I’m this close to falling asleep…”

“Count them in your head: He has one handshake for people he loves and respects, like Michelle Obama. He shakes their hand very gently, and then lets go by spreading his hand flat… not completely flat, but almost like a concave wall of fingers. I don’t know what to call it yet, but it’s quite different a shake from the one he gives the people with whom he can go love-nuts. He goes in for the shake, and keeps holding their hand, and then covers both hands with his free hand. I call that one Moving In Together-“

“Kill me now,” he interrupted disrespectfully, turning away from the TV and burrowing into her skin again, making that warm fingertip on his back stop and press down onto him a little too hard. “Ow, Owner! Stop, I’m sorry. I mean, Kill Me Now is the handshake he reserves for people he despises! That’s what I meant. I really-“ She pressed her finger down on him again, forcing the air out of his lungs and effectively shutting him up.

“You need to be quiet now. I’m tired of your lies and your disrespect. But yes, he has a special handshake for people he doesn’t like, like that guy… what’s his name? The really rich guy that wants to go to space or sell space in space or some shit like that… Elon Musk. Yeah, let’s call it Kill You Now. He gives them the briefest of handshakes, and then he disengages his hand as though the other person is a leper.” She tucked her chin into her chest to look at him and saw he had turned a reddish blue. She unpinned his body and massaged it gently until his breathing normalized, and his face turned pink, and then an angry red.

“Or maybe you’re just imagining the whole thing, Owner. He doesn’t really know most of the people he interviews. He probably doesn’t have any definite opinions about any of them. Can I go to sleep now?” He didn’t wait for her answer, and curled his shape into a fetal position, breathing deeply and closing his eyes determinedly.

“Understand something, Toy; I wanted to keep you forever, but I’ve decided I’ve changed my mind. This arrangement no longer suits my needs. When I saw you and chose you to shrink, I thought you were the one I wanted. I mean, you were. I wanted you, so I took you. I made you mine and I didn’t care what you thought. I endured your constant complaining even as I made you the center of my universe. You tried my patience endlessly with your ill temper even as I moved heaven and earth to give you my every attention. You had no worries. I had all of them. Your only concern was my happiness, while I had to deal with family, friends, work, chores, your health, and your constant emotional absence.”

“Run that by me again?” he asked, lifting his head and looking at the outline of her jaw. “I really don’t want to fight. It sounds like you want to fight. Why can’t we just have peace?” As small as he was, she could feel his body tense up. She had wanted a little man that had a modicum of patience, of fortitude, of love. But this man had none. The world revolved around him, and he took no notice of anyone’s needs but his own. She wondered what in the world she ever saw in him.

“Soon you’ll feel an intense pain in your joints, Toy. It will spread inexorably all throughout your body. That signifies the beginning of your regrowth. It should start tonight, at some point. I mixed the formulation in your food, and you had enough of it to return you to your original size. Probably a couple of extra inches, which I’m sure your girlfriend will like. I contacted her… anonymously of course. She’s waiting for you at the airport. She moved on after you, but she seemed nice enough to want to see you and let you stay with her, at least until you get back some semblance of a normal life.”

“Excuse me? What the fuck? What did you do to me? You’re growing me back now? Without my permission? Who do you think you are? No! I don’t want to go back! This is my life now, with you. This is what I want. This is what I’ve always wanted! Why are you sending me away? You said you’d keep me forever! That you’d never give me up! Why are you doing this?”

“Love, my little Toy. I’m doing it for love. I gave you everything, and you gave me next to nothing. I want love. I deserve much better than what I have. I deserve everything. All you gave me were lies and betrayal. I need a tiny man that stands on his own two feet and does what’s necessary to make me happy. You either never moved a finger, or only pretended that you did. I see you’re upset, but I know you have no understanding of how this feels for me. It feels I’m losing everything after realizing I had nothing. You are losing everything after having everything, and you never knew it, or appreciated it, or cared.”

Feeling pain begin to radiate from every joint in his body, he tried to respond with obscenities as was his habit, but instead he gasped and began to tremble. She pinched his body between her thumb and finger and deposited it in her other palm. Slowly, she left her couch and called a car service. By the time he’d finish regrowing he’d be unconscious and she’d be able to dress him and leave him somewhere she could observe his coming to. Whether he found his way back to his girlfriend with the information, phone and money she’d placed in his pockets was his business. He was no longer her problem.

Confession

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Some of my ideas for vignettes are sparked by Tweeter discussions. At some point near the end of last year, I not only decided to write more but to keep better track of my writing ideas with notes, screen caps, sketches, whatever it takes to solidify my story ideas long enough to get them written. It’s working very well. The following is an example of that, and the idea originated from this.

* * *

She entered the confessional and sat down, wrinkling her nose at the heavy perfume from the previous occupant, an older woman that had taken twenty minutes to spell out her every transgression. The line behind her was mostly, if not entirely, composed of women. There was something inexplicable about Father Healy that inspired trust. Something about his voice that made her tell him everything, the way she’d been doing for a few weeks now.

There was nothing about the cross outside that made her feel a single thing. Nothing depicted on the stained glass windows, nothing she had heard when she’d been a young girl and her father had dragged her to church, where she sat and watched girls from her class bow down and pretend they were good when the following day they would tell her terrible things, cruel things about her clothes, her hair, her glasses. She had no faith in the building, but what else could she do? She had to tell someone.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”

She heard a quiet gasp at the other side of the latticed opening, and then silence. She knew he was there. She could smell him.

“Father Healy? Are you there? I know you’re there.”

She heard a sigh, and then he cleared his throat, his only acknowledgment. It was enough for her.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.”

There was another sigh before she heard him speak again. “My child, I’m no longer sure I can help you. The things you say to me don’t seem like real sins-”

“Father, how can you say that? I’ve come here for help. There’s no one else that can help me! Please, just listen. I need help.”

“Of that I’m convinced… but I’m not sure I’m the right person-”

“I’m here because you are the conduit to God. He or She has to know I’m truly sorry for what I’ve done. I am!”

After a brief silence, the priest only whispered the quietest, “go on.”

“Yes, Father. My sins are numerous. I’ve been absolved of all, but I still feel terrible every time it happens again.”

“Child, do you mean to tell me it’s happened again?”

Tears started rolling down her cheeks, and she nodded, hoping he could see her from the darkness of his half of the confessional. He must have, given what he said next.

“Then I can’t absolve you of your sins. You have to show honest contrition, and if you continue to commit the same sin, then you are not sorry. I’m afraid I can’t listen to this anymore. Please leave, my child. May God be with you. And… if you could call my office later, I can give you the number of a psychiatrist friend of mine. He might be-”

“I AM SORRY!” She was shouting now, and she was sure the entire church’s occupants could hear her. She didn’t care. “I’m sorry for every single one of them! I never meant for any of it to happen! But they are all so fragile, Father. So small and delicate. I know, I just know I haven’t found the right one. As soon as I find the right one, I can stop looking. I can stop hurting them!”

“Child-”

“Stop calling me ‘child’. My name is Emily. We went to school together, Michael. We sat together in class. We were never friends, and you never said a kind word to me then. You’ve listened to me now. Help me. No one else can, I’m sure of it.”

“Okay, okay. Emily. Lower your voice; you’re in the house of God.”

It was her turn to sigh. She took a couple of deep breaths and started talking again. This time she brought her face to the window and whispered words like they were corkscrews scraping her throat on their way out.

“I killed another one.”

“Oh, God.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I can’t face it otherwise. It’s so horrible.”

“Emily, I’m sorry for the way you were treated when we were in school, but I was never mean to you. I want you to get the help you need.”

“I brought his body. I know you think I’m crazy, but I brought his remains. This happened last night, so they haven’t spoiled yet. The other ones were simply too rotten to recognize. Most of it I had to leave on the dancing floor, but his head is intact, and-”

“Jesus Christ. Emily!”

She reached into her purse and pulled out something that sounded like plastic. He couldn’t help but turn his head and peer down past her delicate, anguished features, and look at the dark coagulate contained in a small sandwich bag. Despite his every instinct, he felt the sting of curiosity. After weeks of listening to different versions of the same confession, he wondered how far this clearly insane woman would go to substantiate her mad claims. Her “sins”.

“See?” She brought the bag to the window, and he stared at it. He told himself that whatever he saw was a clever manipulation, but it looked real. Whatever material she had used to create the mostly unrecognizable crimson mass, the broken bones were exquisitely carved, as was the tiny face. He’d seen his fair share of dead people, and this one was a convincing facsimile of one.

“Yes, I see. Go on, Emily. Tell me what happened.”

“This power, Father Healy, this power I have, I can’t control it. I’m trying, and I’ve gotten better, but last night I was so drunk. So drunk. I was trying to forget the rest of them, in particular the one I shrank last, the UPS guy, remember him?”

“Yes-”

She ignored him and went on, taking breaks to drink something from a flask he was sure did not contain water. “He was the one that brought the treadmill I ordered up the steps… and his hair was red, and I don’t like redheads, but his legs, father… he was wearing those brown shorts, and I asked him to bring in the large boxes, and when I saw those calves stretch and flex as he moved… I had to touch him. I thought he was the one. He looked so strong! But then, after I touched his shoulder, he disappeared into his clothes, and when I found him, he started screaming, and wouldn’t stop!

And then I tried to calm him down with sex, and I was so gentle, Father. So careful! I held him so sweetly and brought him between my legs, and pressed him into me, pretending he was made of petals or glass… but I’ve told you how it gets when- when I get close. I lose control, and I was looking down at him the whole time, and he seemed calm. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be sleeping. But then I got closer and closer, and I shut my eyes, and I don’t even know when it happened, but after I came once I had to do it again, and then I just couldn’t stop myself. After the last time, I finally saw that nothing was left of him but a smear.

I was so sorry, Father. I cried so hard. I cried all week. When police officers came by the house to ask me about him I still had his hand truck in my basement, but they didn’t come back to do a thorough search. I’m a woman, and my record was expunged, and there was no body to find anyway…”

“Emily, for God’s sake!”

“And last night I wanted to be good, Father. I thought being out in public would help, so I went dancing with my friends. But then I started drinking so I would not be as horny, but I saw him, Father. He was so hot I just melted right then and there. I wanted to fuck him right there on the dance floor. So we danced, but I never touched him. I swear I kept my hands to myself! But he touched me, Father. He went right for the money, right on the dance floor, right in front of everyone. I reached for his hand to get him to stop, and he shrank. I didn’t meant to, I swear! You have to believe me. And there was a guy dancing next to us that stomped right on his pile of clothes. He tripped and fell, which made me laugh… but then I picked up his clothes to look for him, and this is what I found.”

“This… you mean this glob of corn syrup and red No. 40?”

“Father, this is a human body.”

“Emily, you need help.”

“Father, I’m sorry for my sin. Give me forgiveness. Give me absolution.”

“I can’t do that, Emily. I need you to get real help.”

“Father, I want God’s forgiveness! Please!”

“Emily, listen to me-”

Emily wasn’t listening. She made a fist, a tight coil of her fingers and thumb, and she drove it like a battering ram through the lattice that separated her from her old classmate. He drew away in surprise, but there was nowhere for him to go. Her hand closed around his wrist as he pulled it close to his face, trying to shield it from what he assumed was a drunken attack. He felt it right away, the plunging darkness that was worse than anything he’d ever felt, the swirl of space that was no longer what it had been a second ago, and the heavy downpour of his robe, no longer his size. Then the skies thundered with a voice he knew but had never known.

“Let me show you, Michael. You’ll see I wasn’t lying. And you’ll forgive me, won’t you? You’ll forgive everything I do because I truly am sorry. You’re strong, aren’t you? All those years of soccer, then the army. Yes, Michael; I think you’ll make it. I think you’ll tell God I’m sorry.”

Perks

Couch_2_by_mike973
“Couch 2” by mike973

“I’d kill for you,” he said, his voice calm, as though he was talking about the weather, or where his parents took him for vacation every year. But tiny critters didn’t have vacations, did they? It wasn’t as though they could pack their cars and go to the beach. What might have been the equivalent of that in tiny size? Pack their rat and go to the pond across town? She felt her mind dive into the ridiculous. It always did that when she didn’t want to face something. And she had to.

“I’d steal for you,” he continued, and she smiled at him with her lips only. “I think you’ve stolen from me plenty, haven’t you?” she said, and he gave her that crooked smile, the one that highlighted the scar on his cheek that looked like a dimple. Irritation flashed through her, but only because of how distracting his little face suddenly became. She should have squashed his body as soon as she caught him; instead, they were having a conversation. They were talking.

If my friends could see me now, she thought as she stared at him. She recognized bits of her own clothes in his shirt and shorts, and fully understood the disappearance of her favorite panties, and the odd cut-out shapes that had shown up in different pieces of clothing, the clearest sign that her home had, at some point, been invaded. She sighed and watched her breath play with his curls, push them flat and away from his adorable face. He brought his eyelids together the way people do when they are out and it’s too sunny or windy. She sighed again on purpose.

“I’d die for you,” he said, and that stopped the smile she was about to give him freely. “Stop that, silly bug. You’d do no such thing. You’d kill me, more likely.” That earned her such a look of shock from him that she must have mirrored with her own expression. Boy, he’s a good actor. He’ll have me feeding him and keeping him- No, oh no. Hell, no. I’m taking care of this now! “Now you’ve messed up. I should have killed you the moment I caught you! I’m going to do it now. You’d die for me? Very well, you’re about to get your wish.”

“Wait! Please! I’m sorry! I don’t know what I did wrong. That’s not what I mean- Ouch!” She’d been looming over him after she placed him on the couch, a cushion his background. Her hands had framed him, and her heart had jumped in her chest until it hurt. Now she moved her hand and pinched his left arm between fingers and thumb to lift and carry him to the bathroom, where she would flush him away. When he cried out in pain at her rough treatment, her mouth watered, and her breath quickened. Her ears burned red, and on her mind there was a crazy thought, and another thought she imagined sane. I want to hear that sound again, and I’m fucking losing it.

She realized she was no longer walking to the bathroom. She was standing still, holding her arm high enough to have brought his dangling body up to her face. Her burning face. He was moving back and forth from her face like a pendulum, and she realized she was panting. At him. On him. Jesus Christ, what is going on here? What is wrong with me? When he extended his tiny arm in her direction and touched her face with the gentlest of caresses, she should have swatted it away with disgust. Instead, she heard herself moan, and felt fire between her legs. No coherent thought presented itself this time.

“Make that sound again,” he said, breaking the spell only to cast a new one. “What?” she said, “What sound?” Her voice sounded strange to her, as though it was coming from far away. “Stop,” she added, half-heartedly lifting her free hand, finally thinking she should do something about this little bug getting his germs all over her face, her lips, the roundness of her nostrils. How had he gotten so close? His chest was bouncing gently off the tip of her nose, and his free hand swept across her cheek like the wings of a butterfly, or something far more beautiful. And what in the world was that thing pressing insistently against her philtrum?

That woke her up, and she yanked his body away from her face, understanding what that thing had been. Her mind did the math, and she calculated that thing to be at least half an inch long. She now desperately wanted to see that thing. She thought of that thing stretching under his shorts as she flushed his body down the toilet, and grunted with displeasure.

“No, not that sound, my giant owner; the other sound. The one that’s like a song.” She must have moaned again, because he smiled brightly at her as though nothing was wrong with the world, and uttered dreamily, “that sound.”

“What did you call me?” She thought she had heard the word “owner”, but that couldn’t possibly be right. Roaches didn’t have owners. Wasps, spiders, disgusting bugs were not owned or beloved or wanted desperately when they molested a human with their squiggly little front legs, were they? No; they were crushed underfoot, and flushed away or tossed into a trash bin. They didn’t have hard little things anyone wanted to see and touch and taste and maybe even- Why was his body moving closer to her face again!?

“Owner,” he repeated, “owner… owner,” and that last one sounded like it had been ripped from his throat, a strangled sound that made her smile with her eyes as she watched his unfettered arm reach for her face again. Before he could hypnotize her again with his tiny fingers, she dropped her hand to her side and with it his tiny body, and walked straight to the bathroom. He screamed all the way to the blue-walled room.

“I’m going to flush you down the toilet now, little infestation,” she sing-songed, bringing his squirming body over the toilet, “though I think I should kill you first so you don’t have to drown.”

“Owner, please don’t kill me. I can be good. I can make you happy if you keep me. There’s an upside to letting me live! Please, allow me to show you!”

“Upside? What can something like you do for someone like me? And don’t give me that shit about killing and stealing. A mere bug-”

“Samuel J. Cole,” he said, in that same the-weather-is-fine voice. She almost dropped him from the shock.

What did you say?” she managed to ask.

“Owner, Sam Cole was your boyfriend a few years ago, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Until he died.”

“Yes.”

“Under mysterious circumstances.”

“Yes.”

“After beating my beautiful owner, and breaking nearly every bone in her body throughout the course of several years.”

She only kept looking at him in response.

“I’ve killed for you. And I’ll do it again if I have to. I’ll kill the world for you.”

No one died that night. All across the land of her bed, all that could be heard were the slightest chirring of bedsprings and those sounds, repeated again and again.

In My Grasp

grasp_by_sorenzer0
“Grasp” by SorenZer0

How does it feel? I’ve wondered how it is to be so small. I don’t want to relate or understand your feelings. I only ask because I want to watch you gasp for air as you put words together in your tiny mind, your lungs straining to fill with enough air to make you able to share them with me. You will, no matter how hard I squeeze. Tell me, my toy: How does it feel to stand tall one moment, and the next to fall as you shrink, to sink so low your shoes suddenly stand to each side of you like walls of scuffed leather?

How does it feel to listen to the rustle of your shirt as it empties out of the shape that held it in place? That sound is all around you, like the simultaneous descent of every leaf during Fall. At a distance, but so close, your keys. Your wallet, now filled with useless information. No, you no longer have a social security number. I’m the society you’ll get for some time now, maybe for the rest of your life. I’m the security you need. I’ll hold you for every number of days you have left. Your new social security number is one. Me.

Your driver’s license? I’ll set it on fire in front of you. Every bit of information in it wrong. You have license to do nothing but please me, to drive my senses wild with your tiny size. Your date of birth is now. You are reborn in your new size. Your address is my body, your sex is my body, your eyes are on my body, your height is two inches always glued to my body. Your class? Toy. Sex toy. Your restrictions? Everything. The weight of me is your bondage. Every curve of mine could be your expiration date.

No, I’m not playing, you stupid little thing. This is not a game to me. Shut up and watch my hand come for you now. Feel every shrunken cell in your body tingle with sensation as I sink you into utter darkness, my hand your world now. I peeled your empty shirt and pants, your empty boxers from your struggling, maddened shape, I watched your forearms flutter away from shielding your face, and I saw you open your eyes to the new light that was old a few moments ago. I saw them widen in horror as your head bounced up and down, trying to understand that the thing above you, the mountain sliding over you is a woman. Me. Your owner. Body and heart.

How does it feel to be surrounded by flesh that is only the hand of a woman? What does your mind tell you? Can you smell what I did with that hand before? Can you pick up the scents of my day? Or are you overtaken by the sounds and the rushing of my blood pulsing into every digit and my palm, the muscles and tendons that contract and relax as I shape it into a prison for you? Can you hear my words? Or do you only hear my heartbeat? Can you understand you’ve now become nothing but my property?

You’ll never speak to your parents again. You’ll never see your pets again. Your girlfriend? Wife? Friend with benefits? What was she? It doesn’t matter. She’ll wonder why you never came back from work; she’ll call your number and never get anything but voicemail until I incinerate the thing. Should I leave your clothes for the police to find? Foul play, they’ll call it. I don’t play, fuckers. This is not roleplaying, assholes. This is real, and it’s happening to you.

Squirm. I love it. Struggle. I love it. Fight. I love it. Feel the swing of my fist when I walk away with you in it, your clothes in a trash bag. Your past is garbage now. Your humanity is beyond you. You’re my sex toy now, and nothing more unless I say you are something more. Feel the violent sway of my grasp. Feel how it tightens and slackens as I walk. Scream puffs of little wind into the padded walls of it. Your new padded room, my darling little property. Scream until your throat bleeds. It will make no difference.

Learn the grooves of my palm, the labyrinths of my fingerprints. You’ll see them every day, for the rest of your life. No longer a car owner, my hand will be your vehicle. My body your transportation from place to place. You will study every foot, every mile of it, and map my wants as I dictate them. It all starts now, in my hand. I’m all fingers and thumb. I’m thickness and life and nourishment and heat. I’m blindness and sight. I give birth to you every time I spread my digits to catch your damp shape spill into the center of my spiraling grip. I return you to darkness when I lock you up in the cage of my making again, and rewrap your whole body in my hold.

I’ve done so much for this moment. I gave everything to this moment. Don’t you dare call it a joke, a prank, a roleplay. This is my heart. This is my mind. This is everything I am when you were not around, and everything I’ve been after I decided you were mine. Breathe if you can, speak if you can, scream if you manage enough air in my grip. Don’t think I’ll turn back now. I never will. I don’t care how badly you want to return to that life as a man, those hugs as a man, that job as a man, those vacations as a man. You’re not a man. You’re my plaything. You’re my love. You’re my passion. You’re my everything.

What did you do to deserve this? Nothing. Not one damned thing. You belonged to me before you were accidentally thrown into this world at the wrong size. I’m only here to right every wrong. Call it a game again, and I’ll squeeze your body just a little harder. Call it a prank again, and feel the repercussion of my anger. Call it playing again, and break my heart into pieces I’ll glue back together again in a shape you won’t like.

I love you

I_Love_YouHer feet were used to the path, and she relied entirely on muscle memory as she turned her legs this way and that, and lifted her feet to avoid this parked car, that power line, that neighborhood child. She didn’t have to look down to weave past the family homes in the residential area where he lived. She started accosting him the moment she saw him and finally won his heart five years later. It felt like yesterday. How had she accomplished such a feat? She thought about it as she walked and waited for him to get home from work. She thought about how it had all begun.

Not how her mysterious growth had begun, as that felt a part of her life as menstruation had become, as ovulation was a matter of course. Both changes started when she was eleven years old, and a few weeks after that, abnormal growth had announced itself to her and a few dozen other girls across the planet. Their increasing height had been monitored, managed, and contained until it could no longer be. Until Incident 109. But in her heart nothing had really started until well after most healing and reconstruction had taken place; until she saw him that one day as she made her rounds, watching traffic as was her duty. Until she saw his dark blue sports car advance in slow bursts on a packed highway after work hours.

That day was marked on her mind forever. She had observed vehicles for years and had never had an emotional reaction to a single motorist. When she saw his face for the first time, and watched his one hand on the steering wheel while the other one fiddled with the radio, something exploded in her heart. A more romantic soul would have used the word “blossomed”, but that would have been inaccurate. There was violence in what broke free from deep within her, and she forgot everything else, her focus razor sharp in his direction.

She heard the song playing on his radio, and smiled. His windows were closed in the heat of summer, and she could see his brown curls dancing in the wind of his a/c. She counted the times he blinked and pursed his lips with impatience at the slow advance of cars in front of him. She reveled in the way his head bounced slightly to the terrible song as he listened. She attuned her hearing to the words, blotting out all else, and heard “-but I want something good to die for, to make it beautiful to live.” Fitting, she thought. I want him. He makes it beautiful to live. Everything else is worth tolerating. He’s worth everything. 

She moved then, her building-length legs lifting and pounding the ground over traffic, over homes, following him block after block, street after street, until he parked his car next to a home with a SOLD sign the only red on the green lawn. She stood on designated land for as long as it took to see him get out of his car, dig into his pocket for a set of keys she heard jingle with the keen aiming of her senses, and open the front door of his home. When he closed it, she took the first breath she had inhaled after seeing him, and struggled to keep her balance. All she wanted to do was run to him, peel off his roof, and rush his struggling body to her awaiting crotch.

She didn’t. Instead, she returned to the forest that was her home, and spent the entire night thinking about him, the ground near her hips soaked with womanly issue.  No nearby woodland creatures slept that night. The following morning she bathed and tussled her hair in place a little longer. She considered leaving her gigantic panties behind, tented on a canopy of trees to warm in the sun, but her route pullulated with pious, easily frightened people that would not countenance the view of her enormous sex as anything but a threat and a reminder of nightmares past. At best, she didn’t want to spend any time fielding police officers and polite requests to go back home and cover herself. No, if she was going to make him notice her, she would find a better way.

And she did. Every morning she woke up with a smile, got ready for work, and stamped the path that might as well have been marked “for giants only” as she made her rounds. Every morning she met the same people, if not in exactly the same order. There was the baker with the government contract to feed her breakfast; the school buses filled with teens that stared openly at her, a few with their hands moving under jackets and backpacks; the men and women walking dogs that had gotten used to the constant tremors of her moving body; the cars and trucks like tin cans tied in lines with invisible strings, and finally his red tile rooftop in the distance.

In the beginning, she waited long before he left for work to see if anyone else emerged from his home to catch a bus or taxi. During those days she thought of accidents that might befall that person. They happened. Giantesses had huge feet, and some of them were rather clumsy. She wasn’t, and she’d have had a difficult time explaining the bloody splat on the ground that was once someone to him. Most importantly, she’d have to face his fear and hatred. There was no need to make things difficult for herself. His gaze never lifted in her direction as it was. It was likely her charming personality was not enough to make him notice her.

Unfailingly, she stood on the same spot every morning. The two-block distance from his house seemed appropriate, and as the rising sun turned the sky rose and orange, so did her cheeks when his car zoomed past her feet, music rising to meet the ponding of her heart. One morning she choked on words that might have been “good morning”, but came out as strangled cries that woke a baby and gave occasion to a few annoyed looks from several faces peering up at her through softly lit windows.  After that, she spent a few months standing still for a while every morning, her eyes and mind shut to everything but every sound he made. She tuned out every other noise, and engraved his routine onto her heart.

His breathing changed when he woke up, and sped up when he stirred to stroke himself in bed. She wished she could join his private grunts, peel his stained sheets from him after tearing off his roof, and chew and devour his body between her lips, never drawing blood. She listened to his making breakfast, and her nostrils whipped lively as she picked up the scents of his meals. She heard the rush of tinkling water running over his tiny body, and the rustle of a dry towel wicking him dry. After a year, she could tell what clothes he was wearing before seeing him, by the sound they made when he put them on. A year of saying nothing, a year of watching him patiently.

One day she took a deep breath, accidentally inhaled a pigeon, and intentionally brought down her right foot in his path as he drove to work. The squeak of his brakes was lost in the fit of her coughing, and the broken pigeon finally emerged, a projectile from her sinuses that hit his windshield and shattered it in pieces that barely held together and gave her the opening she needed. He jumped out of his car, his eyes burning on her skin as she stopped coughing. She swallowed hard and apologized profusely as she closed her hand around his body, ignoring his complaints and the protest in his kicks and squirms as she lifted his car with her free hand. She then walked on, not thinking clearly, breathing loudly as she resisted every impulse to plunge his body into her soft flesh, to glide him along her moist, yielding curves right there, so all passersby and drivers could watch.

Instead, she lifted her man-filled fist to her lips, and whispered calming words, only stopping when she reached the industrial complex where she knew he worked. When she bent low to spread her palm open, his shape fell from it and sprawled onto the ground. His clothes were damp with sweat, and his face was contorted with rage. She bit her lip, barely containing laughter, and explained over the bubbling torrent of his vocalized anger than she would take care of all damages. She then walked off with his car and took it to the nearest shop, where she gave employees instructions to have it repaired promptly, to the exclusion of all other repairs.

All damage repairs incurred by giantesses were covered by a federal finance department with very little to no oversight, and transaction immediacy. That meant that any business could charge any amount they wanted for repairs done locally. A windshield replacement would bring the shop more money than any other repairs conducted that day, so when she was back to pick up his car, it was not only fixed but detailed to perfection. When she returned to his place of work, his car tucked between her arm and ribcage like a purse, he was waiting. She watched his mouth open and his cheeks turn red, presumably with anger. She smiled gently and set his car down on the stretch of asphalt in front of him, “I’m sorry” her only words to him. He gasped and shrank away from her, and she noted with pleasure an increase in his core temperature as he rushed to his seat, started the car with a purr, and drove off. She followed him home, no longer bothering to keep a discreet distance.

After that day, she was never very far from him. After that, she started sitting outside his home, singing or talking to him until he came out and told her to go away. After that, he stopped telling her to go away. After that, when the laws changed, she stopped wearing clothes. After that, she started touching him without invitation. One night she couldn’t take it anymore, and she rushed from her bed of leaves and ceiling of stars to his home. His front door flung open and she took him without delay, standing on her two feet, moans turning to screams echoed by the uproar of witnesses, howling dogs and patrol cars, none of which had any effect until they were both done. After that, they each filled every empty space the other one once had.

Now she smiled as she watched the sun begin to hide on the horizon. She grinned at the trail of exhaust his little car left for her ankles. She sighed with joy when she watched him move from car to home, giving her a look and a wave. She knew he’d grab something from the fridge and have dinner out in the balcony, where they could talk. She waited until she saw him emerge carrying something that had been frozen until a few minutes ago. She drew a long breath.

“Mmm. Curry. Your sweat. Your soap. Your drink.”

“But what am I drinking?

“Belgian White.”

“Correct.”

She descended upon her legs, crossing them in front of his home as she touched the street with her bottom, and felt it give a little, cracking under the weight of her massive curves. A different fragrance began to spread in the air from her open thighs.

“Are you looking for trouble?”

“Only from you.”

“Christ, woman. I can’t eat or drink anything if you’re going to sit there like that.”

“This is the only way I can sit and watch you eat. So eat. I have something to say to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He chewed slowly, lowering his gaze helplessly as he swallowed, bringing it to the play of shadow and light between her legs, and lifting it again to take another bite, another swig. He did as he was told. She smiled her approval as she took a deeper breath, and blew back his hair on the exhale of her next words.

“I love you.”

He choked. Choked and coughed the way she had when that pigeon flew into her nostril. She waited until he was done, smelling tears in his eyes. Regret? Shock? Horror? Revulsion? She waited until he could breathe again, and stared at him quietly, trying to stop her rushing mind from giving any meaning to the frantic racing of his heart. She knew he could hear hers, even in the loud hum of nearby city traffic and neighborhood clatter, he could discern the pounding that was only hers.

“I know,” was all he said.

She didn’t have to hear back her words, so his answer was enough. It didn’t really matter what he felt, as she had claimed him for herself in that irrevocable way that doesn’t ever end. Her love was undying, undefeated.

“I love you, and I’m pregnant.”

Craigslist: Shrinking Potions

ShrinkingPotions
Admit it. You want one.

It’s the weekend, I’m doing laundry and contemplating writing, and I hadn’t done one of these in a while. For many years I’ve thought of every possible ingredient I could use to develop a working shrinking formula. It’s all nonsense, of course… but I enjoy letting my mind sink its teeth into the notion. How would I do it? I’d wait for a full moon, of course. I’d light the right candles in my living room (back yard would be better, but not if I plan to be naked during the “ritual”) after taking a bath with a sliced potato I then bury. Or eat. Though I definitely will eat the potato before taking a bath with it.

As to the ingredients? All equal parts:

  • Sugar
  • The best tequila I can afford
  • My sweat (or better)
  • My breath
  • Vitamin C
  • Distilled water
  • Chocolate
  • Rain from a great day

It’s all for fun, obviously. But what if it worked? The tricky part is the delivery, of course. Will it work topically, or do I have to figure out a way for my target to ingest it? What fabulous problems I invent for myself.

I win

the_apocalypse__pt_2_by_gtsx3d
“The Apocalypse” by GTSX3D

The house where you live
The size of a die to me
Snake eyes for windows
My feet cracking the asphalt on your street

I win

Did you think I would not find you?
That I would not cross the distance?
I’ll play the game
I’ll lift your house and I’ll roll your house

I’ll win

Window pips flashing in the sun
Because bad things happen in the light
And the day is bright
And my eyes are brighter through the breaking glass

I win

I win because I’m taller
When your house stops rolling
It’s only because my foot stops it
Everything in it blended like a painting gone awry

I won

Now be born from your furniture
Emerge from the rubble
Your house is no longer a home
Your body is all that remains from the quake

I won

Come out, come out, wherever you are
Nothing left but kindling and you
A phoenix before the fire
My hands reaching for you like flames

I won

And I peel off the roof that hides you
And I find your trembling body
And I lift you to my skin
And now you burn, and now I burn

Ashes will cover the world