Honestly, I think I only create these because I love handheld images so much. And then I like to overuse filters. In the past I’ve spent time online just looking for Photoshop Elements filters, no matter how useless they end up being. The original image is here. And what’s behind it? A number of things. As usual, I sat here and opened up my Pixton account with nothing in mind; but as soon as I slapped my avatar in the frame, I knew it was a handheld image. Then it came to me it was a conversation between a 203.5′ tall giantess, and the normal-sized man with whom she’s been having carnal knowledge.

As I typed the words, what I wanted to see was revealed. As always, I satisfy the impossibility of a relationship between a giantess and a man through these bursts of creativity. She holds him in her hand, and she’s only known him for a few days, but she’s heartbroken to leave him. Naturally we assume he is also distraught by this separation. At least they were together, while she… and here’s where I become a sitting cliche. Yeah, the giantess is an alien.

She’s an extraterrestrial being who’s there to explore and survey and find food for her people. And the little ones on that planet are the food. I don’t like vore (except the gentle kind), but that’s where the story went. She promises she’ll be back with some hungry friends (naturally), and that’s when, finally, the little man gathers enough courage to tell her that in all the confusion and passion of the last few days, he neglected to tell her that he’d prefer if she didn’t annihilate his race.

At that point she’d do anything for him, including subjecting her entire race to an eternal diet of klumpus (suffice it to say, it tastes like off-brand Cheetos –or worse, crunchy cheese snacks made by a health-food brand– at least until her kind realizes she lied in her report). That’s her sacrifice. And his is to leave everything behind for her, because that’s what you do when your beloved packs up and climbs aboard a spaceship to never come back. You go with her. Any other response would be rude.

And I love that super non sexy idea (well, probably for most) of transforming your entire life for another person, because of what they are. Sure, when the time comes to shrink someone, that man has no choice but to realize he’s now entering a new time in his life, and everything is different now. Nothing he knew before, he’ll be able to bring into his life when he becomes the possession of that woman who now owns him.

But… guess what? She’s also making an enormous sacrifice. That small life depends entirely upon her care. All the worries! She makes one simple mistake, and he dies, and there is no coming back from that, no matter what the stories tell you about going back to the pet store and buying another little man. In my world, the bond between owner and toy is unbreakable, and irreplaceable.

But yeah… her friends can eat his neighbors, I guess. What do I care?



It’s Saturday, so that means…


And do you want to know how I felt when creating the above image earlier today? I felt old-school. I felt antiquated and weird because I’m using real photos of hands, and not using a program with digital images of ready-made hands. Oh, well. Until I figure out how to work my Daz and Poser, this is how it’s going to be. Old-school.

Oh, great. I can already see ten things I need to fix. ARGH.

What did you say?

What did you say?

“Hey, giantess!”

Hey is for horses.”

“Uh, OK. So…”


“I’m here!”

“So I see.”

“So… what are you going to do to me?”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“Dunno. Are you going to pick me up between your fingers? Put me in your mouth? I’d like that very much. And if you’re feeling frisky, you can put me down your pan-”

“Oh, fuck. Not another freak.”

“W- what?”

“Are you insane? Why would I put you in my mouth? Or anywhere else?”

“Because you are a giantess. That’s what you do.”

“You have your head stuck on Incident 109. I suggest you snap out of it. Most of us don’t do that shit.”

“Speaking of shit, I wouldn’t mind it if you take a dump on me.”


“Yeah. Just take me with you to the Great Brown, and-”

“The “great” what? Jesus, is that what you little people are calling it now?”

“Yeah. The pictures of it from space, and just the color, you know?”

“Yeah. I guess. Look, I’m not taking you with me anywhere. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you. You are one of those little weirdos that get off on weird shit.”

“Oh, please. Are you going to tell me you never put any of us… you know… in there?”

“What is wrong with you? You’ve never met me in your entire life, and you just start talking to me in such a manner? How can you be so disrespectful?”


“Good. You appear to be thinking. Have a nice day.”



“My name is… er, G- Gonzo.”

“Really? ‘Gonzo’?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“I can’t tell you my real name. I’m sure you understand.”

“Why is that?”

“I have… I need to be careful about who sees me with you.”

“You do realize there are cameras on me all the time.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t done anything bad yet.”

“Nor will you.”

“Oh, c’mon! Please do something to me. I don’t care what! Just touch me. Put me in your hand. Let me hump your thumb!”

“Listen, you seem like a really stupid guy, so I’m going to tell you how it is: I’m not at all interested in touching you. Ever.”

“But it’s no trouble to you! All I want is-”

“Shut up. I don’t give a fuck what you want. Now, you know we’re not supposed to kill you little worms, but I’ll make an exception for you if you don’t stop talking right now. I want you to listen to me, and then I want you to go away. If I ever see you again, I will hunt down your family, and kill them all, one by one, and I’ll make sure you get to watch me do it. Then I’ll find your friends. I can, you know? I can smell each of them on you. I’ll hunt down every scent on your body, and I’ll kill every person you’ve ever met, and talked to. I’ll crush your pets, your home, your city. I’ll destroy the things you like, the actors you prefer, the books you’ve read. If you’ve ever read a single book. I doubt it. Good. Now I have your attention. Stop crying and listen up.

I’ve lost everything. Do you understand what that feels like? You don’t. Not yet. When I grew, it happened suddenly, the same way it happened to the rest of us. I killed my children and my husband with my giant body. I didn’t mean to, but they were eating next to me at the table. They never saw me coming. I never saw me coming. Then, naked, I crouched in rubble and decay for an entire week, alone and desperate, because I couldn’t move from the pain. Neighbors ran from me, or took shots at me with their guns. I wished that had worked, but as I’m sure even someone like you knows, I can’t ever die. I was so thirsty I thought I’d surely die, but for a week I was there, alone, hearing their screams, and feeling their hate. Then I sat in a giant cage for a year, until everyone figured out we could not be stopped, and I had to help with Incident 109. Yeah, that was me.

I have no friends except those of my kind. I have to shit in a field, and every time I do, pictures of my expanding and contracting asshole hit the Internet. I can’t read my books anymore. I don’t have the job for which I studied for years. I can’t watch TV, because I’m on it all the time. No one your kind talks to me except to say stupid shit as you did, or ask me the dumbest questions. I battle the impulse to destroy you every day. I get up in the morning and I want to create something, but all I see is an occupied canvas I want to wipe clean. You are that canvas. Do you feel me now? I’m not here to entertain or get you off. When I get off, it will be with someone I pick, someone with half a brain. He will get to go in my pocket. He will be picked up and caressed and considered and loved. I will listen to his words, and pay attention to his wishes.

You? You can die now.”

* * *

Collaging Notes

Season 4/5 of Rescue Me came out many years ago, back when I was starting to blog, or already blogging. I can’t remember. I do recall seeing the ad campaign for it, and thought it looked great. I think I also wanted to do something to “fix” one of the images, and that’s what I finally got around to doing. There wasn’t much to do, since the giantess part was already done. I only added a man who had the right pose, and changed her eyes, which should always be looking at the guy, even if he’s a little jerk. Then I altered shadows and highlights so it looks like the light on him is coming from a different direction, and I added his shadow. That was the hardest part, as I had to study other shadows in the image, and make his look halfway real. I could spend more time on it, but I’m not going to. This is not exactly a collage that makes me happy. It came from a different place… not sure which one yet. It’ll come to me, as I work on the blog entry.

Undertoy – 3

Under_Toy_3 by Flagg3D

This is the final image of this series. It’s only a slight change in perspective from the earlier couple of images in the set. I’m having a hard time deciding whether it’s my favorite of the three. Whichever one I’m looking at the moment is my preferred one. I’ve had a couple of ideas for what I want to do with it, for stories, and even a song. In the end, I saw the story below. The series was something I commissioned from Flagg3D, to represent both my little man Hopier, and me. This story is inspired by the way I see him.

* * *

We’d stayed up late the night before, even thought it was a “school night”, as he likes to say. But this was “Logan” we were watching, so how could we not? It had been a long day, as we’d spent it fighting. Don’t tell him I said this, but sometimes I get it that he gets tired of being told what to do, all the time. And yesterday he’d had enough.

It wasn’t even that I ordered him to do anything out of the ordinary… just another little chore on his daily schedule; but my voice had been too stern, or maybe he wasn’t moving as quickly as I’d have liked. The reason doesn’t matter, but he exploded, and dropped what he was doing, and started screaming at me… saying terrible things to me about what I’d done to him, and why couldn’t he just “not have a schedule” sometimes, and the worst thing he’s ever said to me: “One of these days I’ll just disappear. Just watch me. I’ll just grab my things and go, and you’ll never see me again.”

Those words chilled my heart, and I stood there, over him, feeling waves of hurt wash over me, over and over again. And then I turned around, and left the room. The rest of the day we didn’t say a word to each other. Not a single word. I know he keeps a secret stash of food and water in the dollhouse, so he didn’t go hungry. And at night, as I sat in the living room and clicked the remote to get “Logan” going, I watched him appear in the comparatively immense door frame. I clicked the pause button, and waited for him to walk the entire span of floorboards and rug until he reached the couch. Then, he gave me that little nod that’s our Rapunzel code for “Owner, owner, let down your hand!” and I bent to lower my palm to floor level.

He climbed it, and I lifted him to my face, and we both said we were sorry, and we said nothing else as I brought him to my chest, where he pivoted as he slipped between my breasts until we both faced the same direction. I clicked play, and when that thing happened to my second favorite mutant, and I started crying, I felt his little body torque back to face me, and as he caressed that rumbling spot where my heart beats, I let one of my fingers run down the length of his tiny body, from the back of his head to the small of his back. The rest of him was boob-hidden. We were going to be fine. Or so I thought.

The next morning I woke up and did the first thing I always do: I looked at the panty mound next to me where he sometimes sleeps, and I smiled. Somewhere in there, his little body dozed. I was tempted to reach for him; it was on the schedule, after all… but I decided to let him rest, and instead planned to make the day extra fun for him, starting with what I’d wear all day. I picked out my tightest pair of jean shorts; the kind I should have thrown out years ago, because they were far too tight to wear out on the street without getting arrested if I happened to bend over. But he loved me in them. He loved to watch me walk around the house in them, sturdy denim fabric that was no match for what nature had given me. Blue fabric that stretched and bent, each thread choking as it stretched over round cheeks too large, too unrestrained to control.

But he loved riding in my back pocket even more, so I’d give him the entire day off, and place him back there, next to me, on me, feeling every trembling shake of that cheek as it battled with its twin one for dominance. That war will never end, and he gets to live through it, I thought as I smiled, and stepped into my shorts, clean after my shower, and sucked in my gut, knowing I’d probably break a nail as I pulled and danced in place, my shorts finally inching into place. I walked over to my full-length mirror, and turned to see myself. I shook my head. I had no idea how I’d pull away enough pocket opening to push his body in place. The thing would probably rip at the corner, it looked so distended. I pushed my finger into that blue, curved depth, and took a sounding of the give of my swell down there. But my finger was infinitely strong when compared to that infinitesimal lump of flesh that was my little man. I shrugged. He liked what he liked.

I finished getting dressed, and walked over to my bed, to fetch his body from my panties. I lifted one fold carefully, and saw nothing. Puzzled, I picked another fabric corner, and found him not. I finally plucked the entire thing from my bed, and gave it a little shake. I sank my body into the side of my mattress, and held my panties up and against the light, thinking maybe he’d gotten stuck in some remaining moisture, but there was nothing. He was not there. I looked around, and thought maybe he had gotten up in the middle of the night, and had gone to the dollhouse to finish sleeping somewhere his earth wouldn’t constantly quake, which is what happens when I turn in my slumber. I lifted that hinged roof and looked down in his bedroom. Nothing. Nobody.

At that point, I usually call him to my side. Sometimes I go on the hunt, searching for him quietly, like a hungry lioness eager to feed. Then it brings me great pleasure to find him, even though I know it’s impossible for me to stalk him: I’m too tall for the task. He’ll always feel my footsteps at a distance; he’ll always hear my breathing the same way a farmer hears the wind and knows a storm is coming. That’s fine with me. The point is to make my way to him, to learn his every hiding place without his having (or even wanting) to tell me, to feel my lips tug upward when I finally see him, and grab his twitching body. So I decided to hunt.

Still barefoot, I dropped on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. I knew that if he was looking at me from afar, he was getting a good show of my backside as part of it stretched past the hem of my shorts. But there was nothing worth seeing under my bed. I crawled to my dresser slowly and deliberately, and I looked under it. Nothing. I felt the first twinge of impatience. I had to take a deep breath to calm myself down. I had a lot to do today, but I had the good fortune to work from home. This was a luxury I would allow him. So I kept looking.

Fifteen minutes later, I still had not found him. That’s when I felt the first lap of fear stroke my chest. That’s when I finally called out to him. First I used his pet name. Then another. Then every choice term of endearment I’d ever invented for him. I did my rounds again as I uttered each word. I retraced my steps when I started using every sexual word I’d ever called him. I bent low and stretched my neck under places I should have vacuumed more often, and I whispered  every teasing, demeaning, belittling name I’d ever bestowed upon him. Nothing. I finally sat on the floor, and as I felt cool floorboards lower the temperature of my ass cheeks before that tide turned instantaneously, I burst into tears. He had left me! The little shit had done as he said he would do, and had packed up his flea-sized things, and had abandoned me. Just because I gave his life purpose?

I’d find him. Oh, I would not stop until I scoured the entire neighborhood. I’d get bloodhounds if I had to, to track his unfeeling little shape and bring it to me, but he was coming back. I sat there, thinking about the steps I’d have to take today to get the local K-9 unit involved. I’d definitely have to wear my shorts to the station. I wasn’t going to stop at anything. The waistband of my shorts was beginning to dig into me as I sat there, plotting my little love’s search and discovery, thinking of a fitting punishment that would go on for days, when I felt the slightest of struggles in my jean pocket. Not the one I had tested with my finger. The other one.

I gasped, and foolishly turned in place like a dog chasing its tail. My heart jumping in place like one of those energetic little girls rope skipping until the end of time, I slowed myself down, and calmly turned from the waist up, and looked over my shoulder. There, in my pocket, was a lump; a tiny length of moving flesh that struggled uselessly. I bit my lip hard, because I started crying harder than ever. He had not left me! I quickly dried my tears with one hand, and reached into my pocket very gently, to make space for the little worm. I slipped one finger down his back as I’d done last night, but this time I went deeper, until I hooked my finger pad to his butt, spreading his legs wide. I reeled him in slowly, as his front rubbed that rough jean fabric. I heard him cry out in protest.

I didn’t care. I was beginning to sink into fury when I pinched his newly freed abdomen with my thumb, and brought him faceside. Quickly. Fast. So fast he was turning white when I brought him to a full stop next to my face, and started whisper-screaming at him. I called every mean name I’d ever invented for him, and asked him if he knew what he had done to me. Me! His owner! How I had looked for him, and anguished over him! And that’s when I saw him smile. His mouth stretched so wide it could have spanned the country from coast to coast. I was flabbergasted. I stared at him, my anger lost in confusion. I asked him the reason for his smile. Was it my suffering?

He said it wasn’t. Of course it hadn’t been my suffering! He was smiling because after he hid in my pocket while I took my shower, I looked for him. He was happy because I cared. He was delighted because I’d cried for him, and though he’d not read my mind about the search dogs, he’d felt my intent as I sat there in the quiet, and he’d known again what I’ve always told him; what I’ve been repeating to him every day since the moment I shrank and kidnapped him: I loved him.

And it was true. I did. So I returned his smile, and brought them both together in a kiss that was long enough to moisten his entire length. It was just as well, because then I separated him from my lips, and sent him riding my pinched digits until he reached his destination. There, I fitted half his body down my back pocket, and walked off to start my day. I didn’t have to push him all the way in. Every time my denim-clad cheeks bounced and bounded, he sank.

Size Tunes 2017

Lah lah lah

I’ve had this idea for years. I contemplated it, and never did anything about it, until now. Back then, because I used to go to boards and talk to a lot of people, I got to know a few of them a bit, and as it turns out, nearly every one of them had some musical ability. When I published the collage above, I received a file composed by a blog reader, inspired by it… so the idea of songs inspired by size differences is not at all outlandish, and it’s certainly something a few of us have thought about, and done more than just think about.

So… it’s high time we have us a music contest:

I’m just going to sit here quietly, and while I wait for songs you write about giantesses, or tiny men, or gigantic/tiny feet, or micro-robots, or foxes the size of the solar system, to come my way, I’ll mess around with Garage Band, and see what I can come up with. I can sing my own songs, but when the time comes, I might get someone at fiverr® to do my singing for me. Everyone in my family knows my voice. Or I could just use Audacity to alter my pitch… oh this cracks me up!

Your Shrunken Life With Me

Is it so bad? No, it’s wonderful.

This comic strip idea started as a wish to see how many frames I could put together that followed the same idea. I could have kept going after the seventh one, but thought that was a good place to stop. There can always be future strips that depict various activities between a tiny man and his partner. There is no end to what those can be. I’ve always liked thinking about the life of a tiny man when he finds someone that loves and wants him, even at his tiny size, and against every describable odd, because who in the world would want such a small man, not only as a lover, much less a life companion?

A large number of people, as it turns out. I just happen to be one of them, and as Gentle April reader- and writership proved, there are many of us that envision the shrinking of someone, the enduring of that process, the becoming someone for whom then keeping and preserving that small life is a zero-sum game for both parties. I could argue that I’ve always imagined receiving much more than I get. Maybe that’s the way my psyche explains the psychopathy… the pathology… the abnormality of wanting to remove someone from their life, shrink them against their will, and hold them deep in your power for the remainder of their existence, and know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you’re doing the right thing for yourself, and for them.

It welcomes analyses. And then it pulverizes them. I certainly have never read a proper explanation of why I am how I am, and why I love what I love. Even if I did, I’m sure there would be elements found lacking in a thorough mental examination. I said I’d welcome it, but I won’t be volunteering for one, any time soon. It’s much more fun to sit in front of my computer for a spell, and create an image that depicts a woman dancing, while there’s a tiny cage dangling from her neck that contains a shrunken man. He may be unable to stand on the dance floor and match her move for move, but they are dancing together, and she would not have it any other way.

In the next frame, she is doing one of my favorite activities, which is reading. Of course I don’t read trashy novels [anymore], but I certainly write smutty stories; so I’m not going to be too hard on her. They are both reading, even though he has to walk the lines, and she has to turn his pages sometimes; off him if they get out of control, or a breeze swirls into the room from the open window, and they flip and slap onto his tiny frame. She finds that living bookmark, and she sets him to rights again. It interrupts her reading constantly, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

And they share meals together, and he feeds from her fingertip. They shower together, and he stands in her palm to do it. They watch a sunset together, and he tells her about that time he found his dad’s porn stash, and how excited he was, without knowing why… and she tells him about the time she found her dad’s porn stash, and how she only wondered how in the world her body was going to turn from a flat canvas, to the painted curves she saw depicted in nearly every page. He tells her she’s perfect as she is, and she doesn’t need anything changed about her body. She tells him he’s perfect as he is, and he doesn’t need to be any different.

And they kiss, they kiss all the time. And the other one. That one happens all the time as well. Probably after each one of the frames take place. I don’t know. I’m not going to ask them. That would be rude.

Stick Figure Crush


A collaboration. Or is it a commission for a collaboration? I’m too confused to tell. In any case, I get the better end of the deal.

As to why a gentle giantess would create such an image?

“Best leave it unsolved.” /Nigel

The Good Part


Isn’t it fun?

When someone borrows something you put together?

When you collage an image of something you love, and someone sees fit to use it for expressing their ideas about a world tiny in their eyes?

It’s pretty awesome.

The above image is mine. I created it from images I found on Google.

Of some books, and of Andrew Cooper, a model.

And the someone used it as a header for their Tumblr, which I found just now, when I searched for “shrunken man”.

But now, for the meat of this blog entry.

The Good Part

Tell me the good part again.
Is it when I found you, and shrank you?
Because I saw you, and thought, “Yeah.”
“That’s the guy.”
“He’s the one.”
“The only one that has to be small.”
Other ones may or may not be small, but he has to be.

Or was it after, when I told you I’d done it, and you screamed?
You screamed and yelled at me.
For a long time.
For months, or days, or hours.
Or one that felt like the other.
But I took it, and I grabbed you, and I showed you.
That it had to be you, that it could be no one else.

Is that the good part?
Or was it when I wrapped my hand around you?
And made you travel my world in eighty minutes?
Did you like that?
I didn’t even know your name, but I knew you.
Did you know me? Did you want to know me?
Was I the good part?

Or was it when you slept and dreamed?
And healed.
All the bruises and the scrapes.
You know I didn’t mean to, and you didn’t mean to.
A world of hurt in unmeant meanings.
A world of pain that was the good part.
A world of me written with the ink of you.

Or was the good part when you woke up?
When I woke up and saw the words.
The truth in everything you said.
Is the truth the good part?
Is the heart the good part?
My heart was in my hand.
Did you feel it pound around you when I squeezed?

Or is now the good part?
I think that’s what you’d say.
Now when there is an open space.
And your ground trembles no more.
And your mind is full of your own voice.
And you belong to yourself again.
Is now your good part?



The day looked too good to be true, so Ingrid should have known something would go wrong; as it invariably did. She should have felt it in the air, the fatalistic sheen of a bright morning sun winking at her from the dew that clung to the grass as she walked out the door, down the steps to her car. She should have seen it in the bright optimism that gave her steps some bounce, following the beat of industrious birds as they swept down from her maple tree.

But she didn’t. She went to work, ignoring the invisible but very dark cloud over her head that was raining only on her; ignoring the invisible lightning bolts that shot from it and down to her body. She only ignored them because she imagined them later, omens that didn’t exist, of a terrible day that did. She went to work, and during her lunch hour she went to her meeting with the social worker, who had obligingly offered to meet her at a nearby cafe. It was another sign of a good day she should have suspected. She should have been on high alert. As it was, she foolishly ordered a beer with her burger as she waited for her appointment, who was running late and told her to go ahead and order her lunch.

She was swallowing her third swig when the woman arrived, looking very professional in her work shirt and suit. She fixed her gaze on her beer, and Ingrid felt suddenly self-conscious. Was 1:24 PM too early to be drinking? She began to think so. She got up to shake the woman’s hand, and was shocked when the social worker -let’s call her “Miss Clark” to protect her privacy-  ignored it, and sat down. Her smile was tight when she almost met her gaze.

“Miss Clark, hello…”

“Good afternoon, Ing- er, Mrs. F. [Let’s protect her name as well… no need to shame anyone now.] Let’s get this going, shall we? I have another meeting in half an hour.”

“Sure. Don’t you want to eat someth-”

“I’m afraid there is no time, and this meeting will be very short.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m afraid so.” Ms. Clark set down her suitcase on the table, and opened it up like a protective shield between herself and Ingrid. She suddenly felt it all go south, and immediately lost her appetite. The cold bottle of beer she’d been holding suddenly felt hot to the touch, and wrong in her hand. She set it down on the table, and waited for a second before she asked the next question.

“When am I getting my new foster-care ward?”

“That’s what I need to discuss with you. I don’t believe that will happen any time soon.”

Ingrid could not believe was she was hearing. The only purpose of this meeting was so that all could be arranged for her receiving another shrunken man, one or more, and tend to him as carefully as was needed. And they needed a lot of care, as they were so small.

“I don’t understand. I’ve been taking care of tiny men for years-”

“The correct term is Size Different, Mrs. F. I wish you would stop using offensive language in my presence.”

Was this the same woman to whom she’d been talking on the phone for days now? After the breakup she was ready to open up her home to another little man, one she would hardly talk to or see, one she would only feed and keep safe in the confines of her own home, until he could be on his own again. It’s what she had always loved to do. Her entire life had been dedicated to the care of defenseless creatures, and when she became an adult, to the foster care of men of all ages that had escaped a nightmarish life as sex-trade toys or slaves, sometimes injured or disfigured beyond recognition. She had always called them “tiny men”, but the recent movement to protect them had become such an offensive, anything could be taken as a slight.

“Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. I’ve been saying ‘tiny men’ to you on the phone for days. What’s the difference now? Why are you telling me I can’t open my home to a tin- to a size-different man, as I’ve done for so long?”

“That’s what I’m here to tell you. I’d not run your record when we talked, but I did so this morning, to get ready for our meeting. Certain things have come to light, and your blacklisting prevents my allowing you to, not only receive anyone size different in your house, but your license has been revoked. Permanently.”

“What?!! My what?!”

Ms. Clark pulled out an envelope from her suitcase, and held it in the air in front of Ingrid. She could only stare at it, while her eyes bounced from it to Ms. Clark, to it.

“I don’t understand! I don’t understand! This doesn’t make any sense!”

Now Ms. Clark began to look angry. “Take the envelope. It explains everything. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go.”

“Stop. Stop! You have to explain this to me!” Ingrid got up and reached over and across the table, making the mistake of grabbing Ms. Clark’s arm. When that happened, it was like dousing fire with gasoline, because the social worker exploded in unconfined rage as she hissed words that sounded like screams.

Don’t you touch me, you blacklisted, abusive slime. Don’t you ever touch or speak to me again. Let me go or I’ll call the police. That’s where you belong. In prison.

Her outburst was a slap in Ingrid’s face, and her hand went limp. She could only watch Ms. Clark snatch her arm free from her hold, and walk away. She only looked back once, to give her a disgusted look. Ingrid thought the world had gone mad. Then she looked at the envelope Ms. Clark had tried to hand her but had simply dropped on the table, and she grabbed, and ripped it open. She read it, and the burger bites that simmered in her stomach tried to come back up at that moment. She could not believe her eyes. The little asshole had gotten her blacklisted.

She read the words that explained everything. The last tiny man that had been in her care had also been her love. He had made his way to her heart, but it had all ended badly. Now, since tiny men had so much protection from the law, a single word from them could destroy a normal-sized person’s reputation. She saw it in the news all the time, but she couldn’t believe it was happening to her. She read the words; the lies.

“…alcohol dependence… abusive… sexual predator… unable to care for the sick… mood swings… injuries receives while under the care… incapable of caring for anyone but herself…”

It went on and on. The tiny man she had loved with all her heart had created a false report about her, and now her license was gone? She could never take care of any other tiny man, ever again? She collapsed down into her chair, and felt tears leap from her eyes. She closed them and swallowed back what threatened to come back up her throat. Her mind was blank with pain, and shock at his unbearable resentment. And why? Because she had loved him too much? There had been nothing she had done he had not consented to as an adult. Had there been? No, of course not! Every day had been wonderful… well, nearly every day… until the end.

She paid for her unfinished meal, and left the cafe. She had to go back to the office, but the rest of the day she was too upset to accomplish anything meaningful. She could not contact him anymore, as when he left her, he had rerouted into the system, and his location was unknown, for his own protection. Whoever was taking care of him now was also protected by law, and by anonymity. She tried to send him an email, but it bounced back to her, recipient’s address nonexistent.

So you don’t exist anymore, and now you don’t want me to exist either, do you. Why did you do this? She had no answers, and instead of going home after she left work, she walked out of the office building, and wandered around the busy streets, cars beeping and people rushing by. She noticed nothing. All she had wanted to do was good. All she wanted to be was good. And now she was blacklisted, and unable to ever tend for someone that needed help more than anyone else in the world. She felt dejected. Useless. Unwanted. Undeserving.

She stopped at one of the tiny doors neat ground level. She knew it to be the entrance to a bar frequented by little people. In front and over it stood a man that had to be seven feet tall. He looked at her and told her to get lost. Tiny men had so much protection nowadays. It was no surprise, after what happened all those years ago… but there was no reason for anyone to treat her this way. All she wanted to do was talk to them, care for them, love them. And now there was this bouncer standing with his feet framing the four-inch tall entrance to that little bar, and treating her like she was some kind of criminal. It was too much to endure.

She walked back to the office’s parking lot, she got her things, and returned home, where she belonged. Alone.

The Building Thing

She likes buildings. She just doesn’t *like* like them.

Nope, I see very little chance of getting any sleep right now. I did doze off a while back, but woke up 45 minutes later, fully awake, and there’s nothing for it. I’m listening to very good music written by a good friend, who is some kind of genius composer, and can write incredibly brilliant songs in a matter of minutes, without any effort. I wish you could listen to it, because the lyrics are a very simple, direct message that could have been destroyed by the wrong tune, but my friend enveloped it in beautiful notes in… what… less than two hours, and what’s left is something that keeps playing in my head.

The song is about love, of course. What else is worth writing and singing about, except giantesses and tiny men and people that find themselves changing in size? I don’t know that there is anything else, except a good sandwich. And buildings. I love buildings. I love climbing them inside and out. I love heights. I suffer from no vertigo… imagine a giantess afraid of heights? There’s a story there, and I’m sure someone’s written it… I can’t remember who, but it was someone important.

When I was less giant, about 75 feet in height, my dad would put me next to him in his truck, and would take me to work with him. I had to wear a helmet that was far too big for my already gigantic head, and while he carried me, he’d supervise work that had been done and continued to be done on a building or homes or whatever was being constructed. I can’t remember his words, but I do recall the tone of command in his voice. I’d struggle to remove that ridiculously large hat from my head, and he’d tell me to keep it on. I remember the smell of metal and cement and tiles; the scent of steel coming from the building’s skeleton; the crunch of debris under his shoes as he walked. And I loved it. I knew, even at that pre-verbal age, that something important was happening: a building was being born.

So imagine my shock when I entered the giantess community, and witnessed my beloved buildings (any of them, really – even the ugly ones are pretty) being abused and tormented in ways too terrible to relate here. But you know what I’m talking about. Every time I encountered one of those images I’d close my eyes and whisper a promise. If I ever grow hundreds of feet, or thousands of feet or miles or universes, I will make it my mission to “discourage” any giantesses from assaulting buildings in that manner. And by discouraging, I mean the kind that is immediate, and terminal. It’s the only way to get it to stop, since talking and blogging about it does very little to forward my cause.

Everyone seems to disagree, but buildings are not for sexy times. Can you picture it? All the gargoyles and sharp corners, and the radio antenna? And all the cracking glass? No, no, no! Those sorts of materials are things that don’t belong inside very delicate, tender tissue. What belongs in there? I’m sure that depends on the giantess, and I’m certainly not going to discuss such crass topics here, but I’m sure a building does not go there. That’s simply not how I raised myself. Shit. These disagreeable thoughts are killing my buzz. I’ll be right back.

(A minute later…)

There. Much better. All I’m saying is, if you have to watch a sweet, tender-fleshed giantess go at something giant, then peel and polish her a tree, for chrissake! So easy nowadays. Look, sure, I can’t possibly claim I’ve never arranged myself fetchingly against the facade of a building in order to get some flirting done. There have even been some times I might have accidentally shaved a few feet off a building with a wayward elbow or knee because I was distracted, but that’s always some little guy’s fault, and never mine. And there was that one time, a very long time ago, I…


Never mind.

Carry on.

As you were.

P.S. Also, did you realize the… shit. The collage shadows are all wrong. Oh, hell.