Any questions?

A little story.

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So anyway…


To the left we have reality, and to the right we have my perspective.

I was looking for someone to work on an image for me, for one of my stories, but what do you look for when you want to commission someone to create something you love? You look at their past work. I have yet to find past work by artists that showcases their skill with drawing the male form as the main focus. It’s generally the female character that gets the spotlight, and that leaves the small person in the image a very small percentage of care, detail… jesus, sometimes it’s portrayed as a stick figure, or a faceless, shapeless creature.

I’m finding myself drawing because I don’t see what I want out there so I feel compelled to create it. I mean, I see it every once in a while, but the percentage of images I like versus the images that exist is ridiculously uneven. Meh. I’m off to get drunk and have moderate fun. I can’t think about this shit anymore. Y’all have a happy Friday!

Seven Deadly Sins: Envy

“Envy” by Narkoman22

Once again I start a series for my blog when I have several others I’ve yet to complete. I understand this is not a new idea. Size material based on the seven deadly sins is out there. This is my take on them. I’m not exactly sure when I first had the idea to do this, but it was only last year when I started commissioning images that I finally brought it to fruition. Remember those magical five minutes last year when Narkoman22 took requests? The image above is one of them. I explained my idea to that fine artist, and he executed it beautifully. All that was left was to write my story, and I was only able to get around to it when I executed it as an idea for one of my #CruelJan18 contest stories… and here it is.


“Let it suffice thee if all the rest of thy life, be it more or less,
thou shalt live as thy nature requireth,
or according to the true and natural end of thy making.
Take pains therefore to know what it is that thy nature requireth,
and let nothing else distract thee.”

—Marcus Aurelius Antoninus

I saw him first. I know how that sounds. It sounds childish, but it’s the truth. Olive and I had known each other nearly all our lives and had been friends from the moment we met in first grade. She’d always felt more like a sister to me and I thought she felt the same way, but when it came to boys she always went for the ones I liked; I’m sure not intentionally because I was never open about my crushes. But that night I was drunk, and she was as wasted as I was, and I told her. I saw him and I said to her, “He’s the one. He’s the one I want to shrink” and I left her side. I took two steps in his direction when she moved past me with quick strides and breached the couple of dozen feet across the dance floor to where he stood. She then grabbed handfuls of his shirt to pull his face to hers, and kissed him for what felt like a century.

She brought this upon herself. I saw him first. He was mine. He was supposed to be mine. She left me alone that night, disappearing with him into the light and leaving me in darkness. I didn’t hear from her for days until she called me to tell me she had met someone. It turned out they had been together since that night she stole him from me. She never said she was sorry for doing what she did when she asked me to come over for dinner. He was there, of course. How odd it felt when he introduced himself. I almost told him there was no need because I felt I’d always known him. I’d always known who he was, even before that first night I saw him.

Maybe she saved me the trouble of going back to the club every night to try to find him. I often said that to myself in the beginning, especially when I was angry enough to stab her in the heart a thousand times. I tried to be “rational” about it because they looked happy together. She started smiling all the time, and we were never just the two of us anymore. He was always there, and every time I saw him I felt the same way. He was mine, and I needed to shrink him for myself. That’s why when she told me they were getting married and he was going to go through the shrinking process so he could be tiny for her, I felt I’d lost my mind. That’s the moment I knew that not only I was going to take him, but that she was going to pay for stealing him from me.

I plastered a smile on my face that went on for months and miles. I was the maid of honor, I helped her plan every party, every event. I took time off from work to go to shops and try on bridesmaids dresses and sample cakes. When she called me on Friday nights to tell me they were leaving town for the weekend, I’d go over and water her plants and feed and walk her dog. I also studied her home, which I knew as well as I knew my own, but now I explored every inch from living room to bedroom, counted every step from each window to each room, opening and shutting each as I studied the best angle from the street and from inside for a person to climb in and out unseen. I studied neighbor habits and formulated my plan. I also came in his underwear drawer. He had to get used to me, after all.

The day of the wedding came and went, and when they left for their honeymoon I knew it was time. She had asked me to stay at their place so I could keep an eye on her mutt, who had been acting strangely lately, barking at nothing and pissing on the floor. Maybe it was the chocolate I’d been feeding it, or maybe it just knew I was going to kill it. I wasn’t going to risk it barking when I broke into their house to take what was mine. Alone in the house with it, I put antifreeze in its water bowl, and rat poison in its food. I also procured a rat I’d killed with the same poison. My story was simple: the rat had squeezed into an undiscovered hole to die inside the house, and when her dog found it, it decided to use it as a chew toy, poisoning itself.

I love animals, but it was no longer an animal in my eyes the same way she was no longer a friend to me when she had once been dearer than any of my sisters. They were only obstacles in my way, but I cried like my heart was broken when I took its body to the vet to “see if anything could be done”. I brought the rat with me for good measure. I wanted a record that showed I’d tried to do the right thing. I thought of them in bed together; I thought of how she had rushed past me to get to him; I thought of the love she had stolen from me, and I cried so hard I made the vet tear up.

I no longer had an excuse to go to their home when they were not there, but that didn’t matter. I had made a copy of the house key and I knew how to turn off the house alarm, but I wasn’t going to count on her not changing the security code without telling me. I had plans A, B, and C. I then had alternate versions of each plan. I started going to the gym to gain upper-body strength so as to carry his body to my car, and I stopped going to the gym when she called me one afternoon and told me they had gone through with it. They had gone to one of those labs popping up everywhere now, and he had gotten himself shrunk. They invited everyone over that night, and I had to watch her pick up his already half-sized body as though he was a child. It should have been me. It was going to be me. I swallowed my fury and I smiled and made jokes like the rest of them, making fun of the procedure’s temporary side effects, such as his bald head, his hairless body, his lack of a wardrobe at his current size aside from a pair of Speedos. 

Days later I heard he had reached his final height. They had decided on a few inches, but no one knew how many with certainty as she had told no one the intensity of the treatment they had chosen. I knew. I’d always told her two inches in height seemed perfect, so she had stolen that idea from me too. That night I sat in a rented car with stolen plates half a block away from their home listening in on their conversation which now consisted of her voice, his responses too diminutive to be picked up by the bugs I had installed in every room. I listened and went down my checklist, knowing I’d have to undo everything I had done when the time came. I’d have to reintegrate the alarm circuit that now bypassed an upstairs window, and I’d have to collect all listening devices. I’d leave no trace she could find.

I stopped everything, even breathing when I heard her open a bottle of something she then started drinking. They were celebrating. Tonight was the night. They had been drinking less now that they were married, but I’d been waiting for this. I knew her, and true to form, she stole my sex plans too. I’d told her many times about the night after choosing and shrinking a man: I’d get us very drunk, and I’d do unspeakable things to him. I’d ram him up my ass head first, and send him bouncing back into my panties with a fart like a whale’s blowhole. I told her I’d put him deep inside me and eject him with a gushing orgasm. I told her all my fantasies, and how she’d laughed and hugged me and laughed at me. Bitch. Now she wanted to make my dreams to come true for herself.

I braced myself for a nightmare. I got ready to listen to my fantasies broadcast into my headphones as I waited for their night to end. As it turned out she kept drinking until she passed out in bed. I didn’t know exactly where he was, and while I hoped I wouldn’t have to pull him out of her asshole, I was prepared for anything. I drove to their home and parked under the canopy of a tree that cloaked the car from the closest street light. I unfastened a new ladder from the roof of the car and carried it to the side of the house where the rigged window waited for me. I listened to the soft snoring of the real thief inside and felt calm when I slipped inside. I never felt my heart speed up as I went through the motions, or when I loaded my untraceable gun in case she woke up, or as I stood over her naked body, aiming the beam of my flashlight to the apex of her pussy. I only felt my heart dance when I saw him standing there, fully awake, slapping her inner thigh, trying to wake her up.

He must have been drunk too because he kept losing his footing, and when I reached for him I saw him throw up, draping the heel of my palm with vomit that wet his chest and face when I closed my hand around him and took what was mine. I felt him squirm in my grip as I stood over her slumbering body, tempted to put a bullet in her head. I smiled, truly smiled for the first time in a year, and I removed all traces of having ever been there. I tucked his little body inside my bra when I climbed down the ladder and didn’t look around to make sure neighbors weren’t looking. Even if someone spotted me, no one could see my face, and my shape was disguised by loose clothing. I felt high. I was finally happy. I took him where she could never find him.

The next few days were a nightmare for her. Oh, how the tables had turned. How hard I had to feign shock and grief. How I cried for the detectives looking for him. How I wept with her as I held her in my arms, thinking not of her grief now, but of what mine had been. How I helped them look for him everywhere. How warm I was when she showed up at my apartment and started going through my things. How friendly and understanding I behaved when she did it a second time, tearing through everything while screaming his name, begging him to come out. Of course, she didn’t know about the other place.

That’s where he was when I told him she had gotten a length of rope and had hanged herself in her bedroom. They’d found her swollen, rotting body after the neighbors caught a whiff of it. I wish I’d found a way to take a picture, but I’m not sure he’d have looked at it anyway. He wasn’t looking at anything or talking much. I explained to him he’d always belonged to me, and I told him how she had stolen him from me. I don’t know if he understands. My main concern right now is getting him to eat. I take care of him every day. I love him. He’s mine, and he’s with me, and all is finally right in the world.


For Sale

“littleman3” by Sardax

Alone, you stand

in that glass cage

a price on your head

and on the rest of your body

your gaze lost to the rest of the world

turned inward to some safe place

because outside you’re for sale

clearance-priced flesh

a segregate, a cast-off

unsuccessful, returned for a refund, unwanted

But here I stand

my wallet as open as my heart

I see you standing alone

the last one on display

and you move me

I choose you

above all others

below market price

a store’s trash is a woman’s treasure

I buy what’s already mine

my property

I bought others before

unsuccessful refunded unwanted

but not you

you are perfect

in that glass that makes your walls

I want to give you a different world

my world

I buy you

a shopping bag your womb

to a new world

I’m now your world

your gaze lifts, cast down before

your face, aimed at my height

casting the shadow of a promise

that things will be different now

you are no longer in nesbted [?]

you are no longer for sale

I own you and the threads of that sale

weave your purpose

you’re here for me

you exist for me

every cell of your body belongs to me

fill the corners of your mouth

lips swollen with a smile

they’ll kiss me soon

whether you want to or not

I’m not here to reason your purpose

I’ve given it to you

accept it or fight it

I don’t give a fuck

because now at least

your heart beats in flesh

when it never beat in glass

when you were for sale

* * *

If you’d like to read the original text as written when I was wasted, you may do so here.


Things you only tell your best friend


“Happy birthday, Patty.”

“But you already gave me a gift.”

“That was wine for the party. This is your real present. I wanted to wait until now that we’re sober to give it to you. To hand it over to you last night with all of us here would have been a disaster.”

“You’re being very mysterious. What is it?”

“Open it and see!”

Patty smiled at her friend and sat down on the couch, her living room still littered with beer bottles and party debris from the previous night. Emily sat next to her and took a deep breath. She hoped Patty would be pleased with her gift. She watched her tug at the bow and the taped gift wrap in her typical careful manner, and when she unfolded it from the box inside, she gasped.

“No! You didn’t!”

“I did.”

“But this…how? I mean, why? I…I…I don’t know if I can, Emily!”

“Look at it.”

Patty looked at the now unwrapped gift. It was clearly crafted by hand in the fashion of action-figure cases. Cardboard back and sides, and the front transparent vinyl, perforated to allow oxygen entry to the two-inch tall man trapped inside. He was struggling against the plastic binds that kept him attached to the inner back of the case. His mouth was moving incessantly, and his facial expressions seemed to alternate between anger and terror.

“It’s Tony.”

“No, Patty. It was Tony. Now it’s only a toy you get to rename.”

“I’m not like you, Emily. I don’t know if I can find this as fun as you find Michael-”

“Don’t call it that. Its name is Fucktoy now.”

“You are crazy!” said Patty good-naturedly, and Emily laughed with her.

“Well, that’s what it is. Look, you can treat it… fine, you can treat ‘him’ however you want to treat him, but my advice is that you put him in his place as soon as you can, or he’ll never learn. I don’t need to tell you the kind of asshole he was before. He’ll need your guidance and firm hand to be what he needs to be.”

“How are we supposed to… you know.”

“You’ve asked me that many times before. You know what I do with Fucktoy.”

Patty blushed. Her cheeks turned red every time she heard their old classmate’s new name. When she’d seen him again, many years after they’d graduated, he’d been two inches in height and very quiet, and once Emily had left the kitchen leaving him on the table, he had begged Patty to help him escape. Patty had done nothing of the kind and had told Emily what he said, word for word. The next time they visited he was still healing. She looked away from her friend’s face and down at her gift. Tony stopped screaming and struggling as soon as he felt her eyes on him like a weight on his body. His jaw dropped and his eyes opened wider. Patty felt a bubbling brook of giggles explode from deep within her. Emily smiled softly, her deep connection with her friend allowing her entry to her thoughts. She still asked.

“Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I don’t know! I can’t describe it. I’ve never felt this way before.”

“Try, Patty. Look at it and tell me…”

“Ah… it’s so different. My heart is pounding so hard. When you told me you’d done this to Mich- to—she coughed—Fucktoy, I was initially horrified, but I also remembered what happened that day in school so many years ago… I don’t want to bring it up, but the way those assholes cornered us during recess, and just started… and what you did to them. I thought for years we had hallucinated it; even when the police… anyway, my loyalty has always been with you. I have this odd faith in that power you have, and I know Fucktoy is where he- shit! Where it belongs…”

“Go on, Pattimelt,” said Emily, placing one hand on her friend’s shoulder and pressing it lovingly.

“I feel… happy. Like… I can handle this. Like I have the upper hand. Finally, after enduring years of betrayal, I get a say. I know I chose to stay with him before, and when he’s not a monster he can be wonderful.”

“Right, like Hitler was wonderful to his dogs.”

“Oh, stop! Tony is no Hitler.”

“No, but you had surgery, Patty. I had to go with you to the hospital several times. You were so depressed your health was falling apart. Always running a fever, always looking like you’d been crying.”

Patty said nothing, still staring at the man inside the box. Emily let go of her shoulder and reached for her purse, from which she pulled a thin utility knife. “Here, Pattimelt. Do the honors.” The little man in the case saw the knife transfer from hand to hand and started screaming afresh. Patty’s smile deepened into dimples on her cheeks, and she perforated the vinyl sheet easily with the sharp blade. After she sliced through the plastic ties that kept Tony in place, she watched him flop down to her lap. Tony scrambled to his feet and could not negotiate the tilted, smooth terrain. He lost his footing again and started crawling toward the edge of Patty’s thighs.

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s being a shithead, like always. It’s up to you to train him.”

“I don’t know what to do! You do something.”

“No, Patty. He’s your toy. I’m never ever going to touch him again, not until he’s properly trained anyway. He was unconscious when I wrapped him, so he’s really disoriented right now. Just cover him with your palm.”

Patty did as she was told, cupping her hand and bringing it down on Tony’s squirrely body before he foolishly jumped off her and down to the couch. “Now what?”

“Now you name him. He has to know right away that there’s no turning back.”

“Didn’t you explain anything to him?”

“Not at all. I went to his office, and before he saw me I did my willing thing, and he disappeared behind his desk, but not before he banged his forehead on the edge of it as he shrank. You see he still has a bump there. I think he’s been awake for a couple of hours, but I wrapped you present before that.”

“I don’t know what to say to him!”

“Yes, you do. Just tell him what’s in your heart. Tell him his place now. Tell him his name. Tell him how things are. And don’t worry about squeezing too hard. I make these things sturdy now.”

Patty whimpered softly and took a deep, calming breath. She then lifted the dome of her hand off Tony, and seeing he didn’t waste any time trying to escape again, she curled back three of her digits and grabbed him between thumb and forefinger. Emily leaned back a few inches and watched her friend come to life for the first time in years. Patty turned Tony’s wriggling body slowly and lifted him until he was only inches away from her face.

“Stop!” Her voice was firm, and Tony screamed again, his hands flying to his ears. His eyes were closed and he kept kicking his legs.

“I said stop.” Her tone was still quite stern, but lower in volume. She gave him a little squeeze. Suddenly there was no longer any air in his lungs left for screams.

“There will be no more of this unruly behavior. You are no longer Tony. You are… Nothing. You will continue to be Nothing until you learn how to please me. Then you may become Something. If you fail to do so, you will acquire a final name: Shit Toy. Do you understand?”

Tony gave no sign of understanding. He dangled from Patty’s hand, trembling like a leaf.

“I asked you a question, Nothing.” She gave him the slightest of shakes, and his head flapped back and forth. “That is a yes. Next time you’ll speak up, or find yourself in deep shit.”

“Damn, Patty. You’re a natural.”

“Yeah, well. I do have four younger siblings.”

“I don’t think you ever threatened them with final names of any kind.”

Patty grinned at her friend even though her gaze was still fixed on Nothing.

“How do I teach him tricks?”

“The same way you teach a pet to do anything. Repetition, immediate discipline, and eventually some rewards.”

“Is there any way you can get Fucktoy to talk to him?”

Emily seemed surprised at her friend’s idea. “I guess. Fucktoy is well trained now, but we must supervise all encounters.”


“I’ll be back in a bit.” Emily went to her friend’s bathroom, where she looked down and carefully folded the hem of her skirt up, again and again until it rested on her abdomen. She then hooked her thumb into her panties’ waistband and stretched it away from her body until she saw a tiny shape slip from her crotch down to her panty gusset.


Fucktoy’s eyes were tightly shut as light flooded its confines and blinded it. Emily turned until her body blotted out the bathroom light. Fucktoy opened its eyes, regurgitated thick liquid from its mouth, and coughed some more until it could speak.

“Yes, my owner?”

“I want it to have a toy-to-toy talk with my friend Patty’s new diversion. I want it to explain to it the rules of being a sex toy.”

“What does it say?”

“It repeats what it knows. It explains to it how to survive. I will be there with my friend for support.”

“Yes, my owner.”

“Good toy. Now let’s get it cleaned up a bit.”

And she cleaned it, but not before she dirtied it all over again.


Cruel January 2018: the Stories


I’m no longer going to explain the history behind my friend Aborigen‘s contest because it’s rather easy to learn if you poke around long enough. All tiny people need to know is that the contest series exists, and this is its second year running. Last year I entered the #CruelJan17 contest and had a very difficult time wrapping my head around writing a Cruel story. I was pushing my boundaries as a storyteller, and it transformed me. That came as no surprise, since forcing the brain to do something new generates change (I wish that change involved a literal height increase, but you and I know this Universe is appallingly malevolent when it comes to making my Size wishes come true).

I didn’t experience the same thing this year. I had many ideas for my stories and was only able to work on a few, but it happened effortlessly, and I actually enjoyed the process. That change pleases me, as it’s exactly what I wanted to accomplish last year. I did have a great deal of difficulty with one story I didn’t complete. I’ll explain why when I post it here in a few days. It will be password protected as some of my entries are now, so if you like to read it, contact me and I’ll make sure you get the password. If you want to steer clear of my naughtier content, your wisdom is to be commended and your logic is impeccable. Though I will make note of your location for future destruction, as it appears to be a hotbed of subversion and entropy, a wretched hive of scum and villainy, etc.

Something else I did was offer readers the chance to win some “prizes”. It’s mostly just for fun, and I have yet to get around to delivering rewards to people that guessed correctly the #ButtyJuly17 stories that were mine. I haven’t even posted those! I’m running behind. As always, whoever guesses which story (or stories) is mine wins a drawing of their choice, to be delivered sometime in 2020.

All #CruelJan18 stories can be found here.

Read them, or I will destroy you.

Enjoy them, or I will end everything you love.

Vote for your favorites in various categories, or I will crush all the ice cream.

You’ve been warned.


Protected: Little Hands

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For Hopier. No matter what, he lives in my heart.


The Plantar Hug – Alternate Ending

Because every time I read this I know that something must be done. The original blog entry was written and is owned entirely by my friend Aborigen, to whom I’ve asked no permission to do this, and who has been made no part of this travesty fan fic. Let the healing begin.

“At the Gym GTS 2” by mike973

The Plantar Hug

“You’re bad,” she says to me, frowning.

I look up at her and shrug. “I don’t have much to work with, here. Limited freedom, limited resources.”

She sits cross-legged before me, looming far, far overhead. I’m only as tall as her crossed ankles. We are each of us naked. My erect cock stands—at my size—like an unruly whisker. I can just see the gentle swell of her belly, beyond where her calf flexes prominently. Up above her belly are two shy, round breasts, ripe with late youth and almost done developing. Excellent form. Each is crowned with tan nipples pointing proudly in nearly opposite directions, far to my left and right and very far up above me.

I wish I were clinging to one of them, dangling like a piece of jewelry. Digging my nails into that wrinkly flesh and feeling it grow harder against me, slowly pushing me out into space with only this tan node of flesh to hold onto. She can feel me staring at her breasts, so she stretches her arms back and pushes her chest out—her tits stand triumphantly, deservedly so. Down go her arms, propping up her massive upper body (massive, to me), and her face melts from its “I’m taking a deep stretch” expression to resume frowning at me. Darkening eyes, pouty lower lip, disapproval written all over her brow.

“But I love you,” I offer.

She hmmphs irritably. “Then why do you act like this?” One tremendous, smooth leg stirs and pulls out of the cross-legged position. Her knee rises into the air and her foot plants heavily to my left, thudding into the carpet whose fibers stand around my shins. In my mind, her legs form what I call the Great Gate, slowly opening.

“I get restless and bored.” It’s true: she keeps me in a shoebox all day without even a shiny ball to roll around. My only reprieve is when she cages me and sets me before the TV, but inevitably she turns it to E! and I have to curl up, clasp my ears and sing all day long to keep from going mad.

One leg moves, one large foot sliding on its side to my right. I start to babble an apology. There were times in the past when the Great Gate signaled a wonderful evening together, but this is not one of those nights. Her other knee rises into the air, her toes flex the carpet beside me, and my eyes turn inexorably into the courtyard of her pale, fresh thighs. Momentarily forgetting her glowering visage above me, I study the stubble of tiny hairs hinting at the space below her navel, growing stronger toward her mons, and then the strip of clearly shaven whiskers that split and descend around her labia. Those luscious pink and orange folds of skin, so sweet, a little tangy, and with a warmth that feels like love.

And her feet slide over the carpet, the balls of each foot mowing down wide swaths of dense acrylic fiber, until they flank me. Her knees slowly descend and the pallid, fragile soles of her arches expose themselves to me. I apologize again but there’s no indication she’s heard me. My cock twitches with desire at the sight of her inner thighs tensing, clenching, but my cock is stupid. Her thighs are pushing her shins together, and the walls of her soles rise up on either side.

The balls of her feet catch me right at my rib cage and they begin to press. Her toes, those sweet, pink little pearls, flex and hug behind me. Above, her eyes regard me blankly as though I were an uninteresting experiment on a video recording, even as she manipulates her feet to roll me back and forth until I fit along the knuckles of her toes. I wish this were an act of love. There’s no point or even time to apologize further as her feet press my sides, her toes clench and snap my back, the balls of her feet pop my ribs and my lungs and shatter my pelvis. And her feet grind and roll me around, pull back, then smack together with a clap.

Alternate Ending…

I hear the loud rasping of her feet on the carpet as she drags them away from the lump of my body. “You love me. Prove it.”


“Get up. What are you doing? Stop contorting that way.”

“But- ugh, I’m dead. You killed me. I’m broken, bleeding internally in several places.”

She sighs impatiently. “Stop being so dramatic. That’s part of the problem, always such heart-felt anguish about nothing at all.”

I remain perfectly still, my eyes closed as I turn my attention to my own body. Aside from perhaps a cracked rib, there is no pain beyond the humiliation of having been trapped between her feet and released like a bug caught and thrown outdoors in the middle of a winter storm.

“I said I love you.”

“And I said prove it.”

“How do I prove it? I have no means to do so.”

“What do you need?” she asks, and I remove my limp arm from my face, turning to look up at her. A glimmer of interest has dawned in her eyes.

“I need paper. I need writing materials and a place where I can write. Good lighting, and-“

“Whoa, hold on. I keep you in a box. That’s good enough for you.”

“But it isn’t. Do you love me?”


“I’m speaking very clearly. Do you love me?”

She looks angry now, but interested. She’s definitely interested. “Never mind what I feel.”

“I think you like me, at least. So give me the opportunity to show you how much I care. Give me one week and everything I ask, and if I don’t make things better then flush me down the toilet, because I can’t stand loving you the way I do and having all my love trapped in an old shoe box.”

She blushes, her eyes bright with… tears? Dislike? I can’t tell. She nods, a tiny muscle twitching in the corner of her mouth.

“Very well, you can have paper and ink, and I’ll make you a desk with cardboard and tape. Oh, it will be so cute! I can go to the 3D printer place on 8th St. and have them print out a tiny chair. I can put them both on my desk next to the laptop, and you can write while I watch my shows.”

“How will I write? There are no quills my size.”

She thinks for a moment, her gaze cast far over my head, her features still like the carved side of a mountain. She blinks, and one of her eyelashes jumps to the void below, sacrificing itself for me. I watch it drop and get up with a sharp pain on my side. I don’t care. I dive to catch it, and when she looks down at me, I’m panting and on my back again, but holding the lash up with one hand, like a torch.

“What’s that?”

“One of your eyelashes. You just gave it to me. It’s the perfect implement for writing.”

She swallows hard, and all remnants of anger abandon her face. She smiles and brings up her knees, her soles now on the carpet. I keep very still as I watch her body take over every inch of my sky, my ground shaking again and again. It goes on forever as she rises to her feet, until she peeks down at me, still on my back between them.

“Get up, slowpoke. Let’s find some cardboard for your desk.”


Two Words – the Twitter Edition – Part 2

How it happened…

Over a year ago I tweeted the following:


Days later I posted the first two-word entry. Naturally, I made haste to write the second part as soon as I could. Here it is, over a year later.

The second volunteer, famous Bard to Giantesses and professional raconteur Aborigen, offered the following two words. There are two remaining sets of words that will form a total of four I’ve pompously decided to call Two Words (a game) – The Twitter Edition! fireworks

Alleviate, Sandalwood

Game-Dollhouse.jpgPerdita traveled to Vermont every month to oversee the construction progress of her dollhouse and deliver materials for it she procured on her own. It had been a year since she first started having dreams that soon became nightmares. Only when she heeded them as instructions, the bad dreams stopped and became messages. From whom, she didn’t know; all she knew is that she started receiving them the moment she began searching for a good dollhouse maker, and contracted one in Vermont to build the dollhouse of her dreams.

As she handed the man sandalwood logs she had gotten from an Internet stranger she met for coffee and barter (she gave him one of her chicken in exchange), she knew the craftsman thought she was mad. She could see it in his eyes. She almost suggested he keep his glaring to himself, after the fortune she was paying him. The house had to be right; it had to be perfect.

“Yes, sandalwood shingles; you heard me right.”

“But that’s going to cause another delay! The special hinges you wanted for the windows, and the iron balustrades for the balcony and the stairs-”

“I don’t care. It has to be sandalwood… it has to be on the outside so the fragrance doesn’t overpower him…”

“I beg your pardon?” he spat, and she realized she had been talking to herself.

“Never mind. Do as I ask, please. I’d like to see the house now if you don’t mind.” She saw that he thought about it for a moment, thought about sending her—and her crazy requests—away, but there must have been something in her eyes, something that told him she was capable of anything, because he took her to the back, a long way past the workshop and different varnishing and woodworking rooms, out the back door and past a well-kept backyard where the dollhouse maker’s wife was cutting flowers.

She ignored her surprised nod and meaningful look between the two of them, and followed him to the barn, where all nearly finished products were curing. She also ignored all the beautiful homes that were ready for delivery, a large one being carefully packed in several boxes by shop workers, until they reached the worktable where his home stood. Her toy.

His home, she thought; the home of someone impossible, someone not real. I hope you’re happy, little man, because your home is almost ready. Then it will sit empty in my room, on the floor; a constant reminder of the thousands of dollars I spent because I had a couple of nightmares. She stood still, mesmerized by the beauty of the tiny home, perfect in every way. Twenty-four inches to every side, with an adorable porch where she would place a wooden bench and table, perfect for reading a book while drinking lemonade… if one measured a few inches in height. She bent low, which earned her a warning from the dollhouse maker.

“Please don’t touch anything yet. There are certain applications that are still drying.”

Perdita didn’t want to touch it. She thought reaching for it might break the spell, though as to who might have cast it, there was no answer. Her heart pounded when she saw the glimmer of light reflected in the beautiful mahogany floorboards. She sighed when she peered past the balcony doors and saw the tiny master bedroom, though she was never going to call it that. It would always be the toy room. His room. She almost giggled at her own madness as she continued the tour with her eyes and wondered what they might look like from the other side, the tiny side. Huge brown orbs spanning the entire home, from top to bottom in one glance; moving pupils darkening with interest; eyelids creasing at the corners if her lips smiled somewhere out of sight, beyond that sturdy exterior wall.

I need to be able to sit on it, she had explained. The master craftsman had been so insulted his face had turned red. My creations are not stools, Ms. Cordovan, he had hissed. She almost picked up the dollhouse to bring it down on his head, but she contained her anger and repeated the details of her request, as she politely thought of it. She knew it was a demand. She knew if he didn’t comply and do as she wanted, the spell, the goddamned “magic” would dissipate. There was no way she was ever going to allow that to happen. Not if she had to kidnap his wife, or him, or hold them both at gunpoint. So special reinforcements were made, and the house was sturdy enough to sustain sitting on it.

My life is a euphemism, thought Perdita with a sigh as she straightened up and followed the dollhouse maker back to the front office. A conjunction of actions I’ve decided will somehow alleviate my situation. I’m making toys when I should be making friends. I’m building a toy home when I should be thinking of a real one. I’ve bought furniture that fits in the palm of my hand when I’ve had the same old couch for years. A couch my ex-boyfriend’s father gave me while offering to “break it in” with me. And it’s orange. But no, here I am, spending a hundred and fifty dollars on a small living room set made by self-designated witches in Belarus. How extraordinary. 

But that night, in the cheap hotel room she’d leave in the morning, and after all those months, she had a dream. She was in her own bed, a euphemism for a mattress on a rusty frame, and a deep voice was calling her name with a whisper, and a warm hand was caressing and flicking her earlobe as it told her his name. She woke up with his dirty words still in her mind and looked to the side to see if there was anyone in bed with her. The hand had been the size of a seed.

There were no more dreams of him as she waited the right number of weeks for her toy to be ready for shipment. She took the day off work to wait for its arrival and refused to allow the delivery man to stack the boxes together to bring them to her doorstep. Instead, she helped him carry each, one by one, and deposit them gently on her porch. She thanked him and he ignored her with a furrowed brow as he drove away. Alone, she brought the boxes into the living room and opened them with relish. Each part had been packed carefully and was in perfect condition. The rest of the day was spent assembling together each floor of the toy home until the slanted roof was in place. She was vacuuming each tiny room with miniature cleaner attachments when she realized what she had to do.

Every night after work, Perdita rushed home and unpacked one piece of furniture at a time. Each piece was given a very unique baptism between her legs, the kind that didn’t stop until that piece was fully coated. She didn’t dare skip a single piece because the impulse to do what she was doing had felt like a final message. By the end of the week, she was sore but extremely relaxed. Every room was decorated. The kitchen had a working fridge and a stove, and the bathroom had a tub and sink that worked and running water from a tank in the attic she had filled once everything was in place.

That night she stood over the beautiful toy and grinned from ear to ear. She knelt low and looked through the windows once more. Very carefully, she inserted her hand through the front door and flicked on the porch light, displacing the porch table and chair that sat empty. Once she rearranged them, she opened the hinged roof, checked to make sure the tilted tank was not leaking and turned on the light in his bedroom. She brought her face very close to his bed, as close as she could fit it over the room’s walls, and whispered his name.

In the morning she opened her eyes, flung her legs over the side of the bed, and walked back to the small house. She dropped down to her knees as gently as she could, and peeked through the window. In the tiny bed, there was a male form. His brown-haired head shifted ever so slightly, and his chest rose and dipped with every small breath he took. She had to cover her mouth to muffle her cry of joy, and only spoke when she could whisper his name again. When she did, he woke up.