One of the reasons I love to look at the analytics on my blog, is that I get to see where my readers live. Places I’ve never visited, cities I’d love to see, colorful flags I never saw when I went to school, and we had to learn all the countries. My geography teacher was strict, but excellent. She made us draw the outline of countries from memory, and turn in elaborate maps as homework. I didn’t “have” to do anything, I loved to do it, and I excelled at it.
So, it’s not surprise to me that when I see your data, I study your flags, I learn the names of your cities, and I look at where you are, on a map. That has grown into telling myself stories about you. None of them real, but so what? Then, I thought I should blog about what I imagine. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realize I should blog about you*. What a goofy giantess.
I’m not really sure about the format yet. All I know is that it’s a game to amuse myself, and it will include a little image with your flag, and your country (no repeaters?). If you see an image displayed, and you recognize yourself, and it makes you uncomfortable, please let me know. Try to include pictures, and Skype me a message stating your indignation. Try to use a sexy voice, preferably while shirtless.**
*Unless I know know you. I won’t violate your privacy.
**No, seriously. If it bothers you, I’ll delete it. I’m a gentle giantess, for goodness’s sake.
P.S. North Korea, I’m waiting for you.
* * *
Lucien woke up to the sound of their giggling again. It was a Saturday, he was hungover, and every loud splash and laughter made his head pound more painfully. He looked at the clock, its blue light too bright in his bedroom darkness. The sun wasn’t up yet! What sort of women go swimming in the river when it’s 38° F outside? What sort of women play with heavy currents as though they are in their own bathtub, passing boats and yatchs nothing but toys to allow by, or trap in their massive hands, if they wished? What sort of women were so inconsiderate as to wake up an entire island with their… their… their beauty, Lucien thought. Their gigantic, skinny-dipping, luscious, bountiful bodies, he continued; and hangover or not, his body began to respond.
Those giantesses! He turned on his back, and fixed his pillow under his stiff neck. Not the only stiff thing around here… He looked at himself, and over to his nightstand, where he kept a bottle of hypoallergenic, fragrance-free lotion. He was about to reach for it, when the laughter and thunderous water splashes quieted down.
“Enfin!” he said loudly, and winced at the dryness of his throat. That’s too bad, he admitted to himself, just as the first tremor travelled from the ground, to his bed. Old springs chirred, and he watched the blinds on the window shake. Again. Louder, and harder. Again, and this time Lucien jumped out of bed, not knowing whether to hide under it, or flee to his closet. Again, this time his TV jumped off the wall, and crashed to the floor, mount screw holes spitting plaster. Lucien whimpered. What the hell is going on?
The answer came in the form of a deafening crunch. It was his roof. It opened up like the top of a dollhouse; wood, roofing tiles, insulation flying everywhere like dry toast crumbs. Lucien dropped to the floor, and curled into himself as well as he could, knowing that nothing could protect him, but covering his face anyway. He stayed that way for a few seconds, until he heard the last bit of plaster drop. Then he heard their breathing. Stereo- no, quadraphonic- no, all surround-sound, tornadic, and pulling him off the floor ever so slightly.
He looked up, and saw them all at once. They were smiling, their heads together as they peered into his bedroom. One giggled, and then they all did, causing another wave of debris to fall from every side of the gaping hole that was now his roof. He opened his mouth, not knowing why. What could he say? What would happen now?