Giant woman walking

She leads the way.
She leads the way.

When’s the last time you went for a walk? I don’t meet many people that are fond of a good walk. It seems to me that we often concentrate on leaving the house by the fastest possible method in order to arrive somewhere fun, and the way there is never the purpose of an outing. However, a walk is its own reward.

Because my fantasies are often centered around aspects of my real life, I’ve imagined going for walks with my little guy from the very moment he entered my thoughts. Hardly an earth-shattering notion, some might say. I couldn’t disagree more. There is so much to see, to imagine when I’m a giantess and the earth does shatter when my colossal feet set upon it…

I once wrote a short story, one of my first ones, titled “Blind Date”, about a man and a woman that met for the first time at a little cafe after chatting online for some time. She had sent him her picture and the sort of personal information we share when we really like someone we’ve never set eyes on, a complete stranger, but she had neglected to inform him that her height surpassed his by nearly two hundred feet. He noticed how tall she was when she arrived for their dinner date, though.

I remember the fun I had writing about her arrival. Throughout her life she had grown (hah!) self-conscious about her tremendous height as it constantly got in the way of her romantic interests. She had fabricated a nearly pathological denial of it, so she behaved as though she was normal sized.

She made her way to him spanning entire blocks with a few steps, sending shock waves like endless rings expanding from her pummeling feet, treading through suddenly panicked traffic as carefully as she could, yet helplessly hitting buses with her toes, pulling street lights like weeds off the cement ground with her passing shins, trying to calm her pounding heart because as some women just before a first date, she was nervous to the point of clumsiness.

She walked on, and entered his sphere before he saw her. When he realized she was the cause of every roaring sound, of the tide that pushed the nightly crowd off in one direction at a full run, he was speechless, but never thought to make up an excuse and leave. At this point in the story I didn’t write “because he had always had a secret thing for giantesses”, because I have some development-related self-respect. 😛

He was terribly shocked after dinner when the bill arrived. She had ordered everything on the menu, and more than once. She blushed explaining she had skipped lunch (I always skip lunch when I go out at night—something about the excitement kills my appetite, especially when it’s a night at the opera), and then they left, walking the same way people falling in love stride off, hand in hand, glancing at each other while they talk, feeling the moon and trees more beautiful than usual, even when they are their grimy old selves.

Well, not exactly the same way. The difference was mountainous for them. Every step of hers equaled many of his, and he was forced to run to try to catch up to her, tripping on pavement cracks and jumping in the air when her soles would come down, all the while keeping a casual conversation going. You try it some time. And let me watch when you do. I’ll bring the pop corn and the laughter.

I love to imagine long walks as a giantess. Gentle walks with feet like feathers on the ground, feminine rounded toes that never dent metal or flesh when I tiptoe through crowded areas, saying hello to the little citizens below, who respond in kind or gesture angrily that I’m disturbing their routine and vehicular flow. Can’t make everyone happy all the time, I say. During these walks my beloved man is with me, either riding like a king in my pocket, or following me in his own little car, which I sometimes ride (on the roof) if I’m feeling small. A small giantess measures about twenty feet in height or so.

Other times I’m chasing him, who has left for work without my permission. I jump over highways, leap over buildings, this time my footprints leaving pool-sized holes on the ground, shapes haloed by cracks like drunken sun rays, my high-arched bounds peeling roofs here, store signs there, until I catch up with him, and capture his car in my hand. “Where do you think you are going, Little Pet?”

And less likely are those occasions that call for an angry rampage, or a well humored trampling. Then, walking takes on a different pattern, and becomes a weapon of revenge, or a source of… gee, I don’t know what to call it. A way to find reasons to giggle out of the clownish, maladroit destruction I cause.

It sounds crazy, but it isn’t. There’s comedy in horror, just as the source of humor is not happiness, but sorrow (Mark Twain said that, I think). I think of all the Harold Lloyd caricaturesque films I used to watch when I was a kid, terrifying when pictured as real events, but funny in a similar way squished bodies, crumbled cities, people running around screaming, are funny to me every once in a while.

And if now it looks like I’m rambling, it’s because I have no idea how to explain why it’s funny. So, forget it and let’s get back to the pet thing.

Tomorrow.

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10 thoughts on “Giant woman walking

  1. I love a good walk. I used to map out my neighborhood based on how many thousands of steps I needed to hit my daily total. I used to exhaust every possible route within quite a long radius, just to be sure I explored every street everywhere in the area. When traveling, I used to mark photographs off on a map for geotagging later, for posterity’s sake.

    To show a giantess around my city would be something delightful. For one thing, she could lift me up to all the balconies I’ve always wanted to explore. I could show her which restaurants are okay to shatter beneath her big toe, if she wants to watch the attractive plumes of dust that kick up. And she’d be incredibly handy for dodging rush-hour traffic, when we just want to zip over to the next city for something in particular. It would be impressive to see how high the river comes up on her, if she wanted to go wading. I could rent a kayak and go paddling around her knees. Or thighs.

    Here’s the second mention of that story I’m not going to beg you for. A giantess must have her secrets, after all.

    I like the idea of that giantess’s eagerness and lack of maliciousness. I can totally see the infrastructure giving way to her, the power lines snapping and sparking, the concrete buckling, the vehicles getting shoved aside… but she’s just looking for her date.

    Liked by 1 person

    • That’s a great idea! I used to make my own maps all the time when I was a child. I’ll never forget my geography teacher’s face when she would look at them, and give them the highest praise. And I devoured every book on old explorers, and the paths they took. Not that there’s nothing visible left to map, I imagine invisible places, hidden from view, where giantesses live, or where tiny men hide. Someone has to map those.

      I love your ideas for an outing with a giantess. Ignoring all the whispers, or downright loud cackling at the sight of you two together. Just good, clean fun. Well, nearly clean.

      I have a million secrets. My stories are not part of them. I haven’t looked for that story yet. Right now it’s almost a secret for me as well.

      Exactly. And I think I remember she was running a bit late.

      Liked by 1 person

      • I wrote so much in a comment to one point, I decided I should just write a blog post about the topic rather than belabor the point here.

        I would be far too elated to be out with a giantess to be concerned with any derisive or unflattering reactions from anyone around us. If someone tried to pick a fight with me, I’d be more than willing to step back and let her intervene, for one thing. Otherwise, it doesn’t matter what anyone has to say: I’m going home with her.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. What topic? Maps? Walks? Giantesses? Secrets? Stories? Does this blog post exist yet? Where is it? When can we read it? Soon? No?

    That’s my thinking. When out on a date with a little guy, he’d be the only one that matters. Only a fool would laugh at him in my presence.

    Liked by 1 person

    • It was to come out soon when I replied; as of this writing, it is freshly online. Time is so tricky. Not a lot of giantesses in it, though: just some landmarks in my early storytelling processes. A self-indulgent musing kind of piece. I’ve given myself permission to explore these, because you write those pieces between your stories and they’re fascinating. They’re always fascinating and informative, and some part of me wonders if someone out there would be interested in hearing that kind of stuff from me. Or maybe it just contributes to a well-rounded blog. Or no one’s paying attention, so why should I hold back?

      Liked by 1 person

      • Yes, to all of the above. Well, almost all.

        1. I enjoyed it quite a bit. I really, truly enjoy your writing voice. There’s something… I don’t know what the right word is. Sweet. Maybe it’s some chemical reaction in my brain that makes me see it that way, but that history, that background, makes that tiny man I imagine in you, more complete.

        2. Of course your readers will enjoy that kind of entry. I’m one of them, and I certainly did.

        Hmm.. I should just write all this at your blog.

        And HEY! I’m paying attention! I know I’m not the only one. But agreed, why should you hold back?

        Liked by 1 person

        • That’s good to hear. A consistent, cogent writing voice is one of my greatest insecurities. I never knew how to develop one, and all the advice I got was all the usual evasion: just keep writing, write a metric shit-ton, and your voice will emerge. Has it? Is it like trying to describe water to a fish: apparent to everyone else but me? When I at last gave up the quest for a writing voice, then and only then did it finally turn up? So hearing you say that makes me feel less tense.

          Liked by 1 person

  3. Don’t all good writers have a voice? My favorite ones can be easily recognized by the little things that decorate the way they write. So I’ll go with yes. Yes, you do have a voice. I have no idea that there’s any way to develop it. Am I wrong? If I decided I wanted my stories to read just like Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s (without all the pedophilia), I would probably turn into a hack. I suppose one can cultivate a style, but style and voice are not the same thing. Hey, if you ever want to write about your quest for a writing voice, I think I’d like to read that. It sounds interesting. How does anyone even begin to do that…

    Liked by 1 person

    • Maybe my original misconception was that a “voice” was something special, other than what one already enters the game with. It could even be something we’re trapped with: reading Richard Bachman and becoming suspicious, or whatever verbal cues gave Robert Galbraith away.

      I thought it would be fun to immerse in a writer’s oeuvre until their style slowly coats my hands, briefly, long enough to write a giantess story in Dostoevsky’s style, or Poe’s, or Hemingway’s. It would never be a strictly faithful work, but it could be fun.

      Liked by 1 person

      • I think one would have to be an exceptional genius, or have a split personality that can also write, in order to withstand scrutiny when publishing names under a new penname. Authors leave a trail all the time. Any layman can track it.

        A Poe giantess would be fantastic. Last night I fell asleep to the tune of a shrunken man screaming in Bukowskian in my ear, so I get that hand coating.

        Liked by 1 person

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