I wrote this? Seriously?

hunter_and_the_hunted_27_by_jamesmason0
Nope. Bad giantess. I don’t care what he did.

Well, sometimes I surprise myself. I’ve often said I only think about foot crush within the context of real-life anger. Someone beeps furiously in traffic because it’s a school zone and I’m not going fast enough, and as the jerk finally zooms by he gives me (and consequently my son) the finger? Yeah. I’d shrink and crush him. But doing that to a tiny little man, no matter how annoying he is? Never. So, why did I write this, nearly twelve years ago?

+ + +

I feel terrible, and I can’t talk to him about it. All these days I have been partly miserable… going from feeling well, happy, even giggly, to wishing to step on him and leave him a smear on the floor. Actually, tonight was the only night I have felt like doing such a thing. I even wanted to reach for him and tell him, “Do you want to play? Oh, we will play! Let me tell you what I’ll do to you….”

And then I would have stood by the dollhouse, not so close to it that I’d be standing over it, but maybe a couple of feet… nah. I think I see myself about four feet away from it, a great distance for him, but nothing for me. Just enough to let him know I don’t want him anywhere near me at the moment.

Then I would have told him that I was looking down at him. Really looking down at him, knowing how small, how insignificant, how petty a little man he is. Even now, I don’t even need to close my eyes to see it in my head. I shower him with contempt from my eyes. A grotesque silent treatment, no matter how hard he squeaks.

He can see it in the expression on my face, maybe even watch it like a movie. He can see the thought I’m contemplating at the moment, of squishing him under my foot. Of telling him to come to me, just so that I can lift my foot, and bring it down on him with great force. I do it slowly, calculating the angle of descent that allows me to watch his realization of what I want to do, and his pathetic attempt at escape.

I feel his bug-sized body under my foot if I bring it down slowly, and I can feel him squirming, his head extending beyond my wiggling toes, the rest of his body pinned by the ball of my foot and the weight of my toes. He begs. He tries to pull his little arms from under my foot, to flail them over his head, to extend them toward me, maybe. To ask me to be merciful. But I have had enough.

I let go of my leg, and the length of it drops on him, flattening him with the sound of skeleton and muscle coming together in a red pulp that satisfies my anger. I don’t tell him any of this using words, but he sees it in my eyes. He does not move. In my mind he’s not a coward, even in the face of death. He stands his ground and does not fear what he sees. Oh, I wish he was so. I wish I didn’t feel less for him after tonight. I wish he did not make me so angry with the things he says.

I think part of what makes me sad, or maybe the fundamental reason for all this upset of these past few days, is that

+ + +

And that’s all I wrote. I don’t remember the rest of it, and it doesn’t matter, as any ending is meaningless in context, or without it. I was rummaging through my old files, and this is something I never shared, never finished, never even thought about again, until I unearthed it tonight. It shocked me a little when I read it. 

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6 thoughts on “I wrote this? Seriously?

  1. Fantasizing, but not acting on it is the essence of daydreams. The gentlest soul harbors occasional urges to flatten someone. There’s a short story, the title eludes me. A man’s car breaks down in a remote area, and he spends several hours with a kind person in an idyllic setting. It becomes clear to the reader that the man is with Lucifer (the man is oblivious). They discuss the notion of “purity” and Lucifer explains that nothing is pure, it’s a theory he’s worked out with his brother. Even the most evil souls are compelled to perform some good action, just as good souls feel the lure of darkness. At the end the man expresses his gratitude, stating that he wished more people were like his benefactor, and asking if the brother ever visits this serene valley. The reply is, “No…he has his own place.”

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    • Is it now… is it. I sit here sometimes, “daydreaming” as I write, and I imagine what I would do if I had an ampule of shrinking formula, and not any formula, but the kind that transforms a very real, specific man into a shrunken one that can experience all that I want him to experience. The lack of hesitation in my head fails to frighten me, and I keep telling myself it’s because my mind truly knows it’s not possible, and it will never be possible.

      Even as a child I thought that the god described in the Catholic bible was one of the most hateful, childish, petulant creatures ever described in fiction. But yeah, every once in a while he performs a good action. 🙂

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  2. It’s interesting to me that you have that clear line of demarcation: you can shrink and torture/snuff out a person, but if someone’s naturally, genetically Tiny, they’re immune from such abuses. So interesting!

    The story is remarkable. It’s very thoughtful and emotional, there’s a very strong relationship between these two. I know what it means to her to have a tiny person, so he must have really gone out of his way to push her to her threshold, if she’s contemplating these red, wet fantasies. Yes, this is a very good short story to fix in the context of your other work. If someone new came in and read this as their first exposure to your world, they might only get a whiff of what it really means.

    Even so… this still communicates clearly all the sadness and regret that comes with being wrong about someone we love. She hasn’t yet internalized it, questioning her faculty for assessing others and reading character. That’s what I’d do in this situation: “If I’m wrong about him, am I wrong about others? Is my judgment badly flawed?” But I admire her confidence, even as I sympathize with her heartbreak, her palpable sadness that this little being she loved just doesn’t mean anything to her anymore. As irritating as he is, her sense of loss is overwhelming.

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    • Yeah… shrinking becomes the punishment. But I imagine a tiny man naturally incapable of heinous crimes, or traffic offenses, so he gets off scot free. It would be interesting for me to write about an evil tiny man, born that way, and only interested in mayhem and wrongdoing. And he gets away with it. Shrunken Satan.

      That’s EXACTLY what I do as well. ” I was sooo wrong before, so I’m definitely wrong now!” The difference is knowledge… no, awareness. The character didn’t know she had steered herself down the wrong path as related to that tiny man. In the future, when she makes similar decisions, she might feel the wrongness of it, but weigh it against everything that is right, and choose her own path, finally.

      The way I see it, no matter what she does… if she choses to go out and shrink someone to whom she gives herself so deeply, she’s going to get hurt. If she doesn’t go out and shrink someone… she can choose to pretend she’s protecting herself by not truly living. I’ll always take her where her heart pounds.

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    • It does, doesn’t it? And yes, the thing I picture about the argument is that it could be real. It could be words that we say as human beings to another human being, and sometimes we think we’re saying the right thing, the comforting thing, and in truth we make it all worse. That’s not what happened to him, as his fate was sealed anyway… but his suffering might have ended instantly had he said the wrong thing at the right time.

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