Chalk Line

Untitled, by MrT3T

You, down there, sprawled on the floor, probably know that clearly delineated line that separates pain from pleasure, as advertised by that Friday night feeling of Now You Get To Drink, and you know exactly how much you can drink before you get sick. Is it eight shots? Nine? Fourteen? Once I did four shots of rum and three of Everclear and I resurfaced relatively unscathed. There was that one night I only downed five shots of vodka and hurled everything but my soul down the toilet.

Still… there’s that feeling. That measuring cup in your brain that begins to reach the brim and tells you, “That’s enough drinking. One more shot and all that numb pleasure will become pain, and toilet rim, and empty promises to never drink again.” Did you ever listen? I always did. I’m walking the line right now; that line as clear as the chalk my teachers used as a tool to explain algebra or chemical compounds. I loved Chemistry. I aced every test, the way they failed every test, even though they were a perfect match.

I thought so, anyway. You, down there, also know that giantesses like to play with crowds, but not this one giantess. She only liked to play with a crowd of one. Why didn’t you warn her? You should have. Someone should have told her to play it safe, to scatter her attention unlike so many huge eggs in one tiny basket. I blame you, and you should blame yourself now that the end is here, because she grows taller now; she keeps growing and we’re her punching bag.

Once upon a time she was just like you, a woman of normal size and a normal life of little effect upon the world. Had she died at any point before everything changed, her friends and family would have noticed and grieved, but no one else. That would have been okay, but then she grew. That day her heart was pounding hard, and her joints hurt as though she was riddled with arthritis–which she did not have–and her skin felt as though it was on fire. She took some ibuprofen, but it didn’t help. 

At 12:25 that night she began to grow, the same as the others. She felt it in her bra first. She always had to wear one like armor, because her breasts were quite large… yet she looked away from her computer screen and down at her chest, and watched it swell. She might have thought she was imagining it, and as she did every month, she said, “Fuck these things, and fuck their size! How they hurt! That’s it! I’m having a breast reduction!”

No, I have no idea if she really said that, but that’s what large-breasted people say sometimes. She said something of the kind in one of those early interviews. Breasts of any size can hurt, no matter what all that porn made anyone think. That moment, her back hurt but so did her front, her top, and her bottom. Her eyebrows joined as one and she looked down at her thighs. They were pressing up at the underside of her computer desk (Mac desk, if you believe the press), and that’s when she finally realized something was very wrong. Her heart grew a few inches, lacerating itself against her normal-sized ribs and healing instantly as every bone in her body cracked and healed again and again as they followed the wave of expansion.

Try to imagine every one of your two hundred and six bones in your body shattering simultaneously, slicing your muscles and organs because they are growing a few inches. Imagine the pain doesn’t kill you. Imagine those inches are now feet, and those feet number in the dozens, then hundreds. But that excruciating pain didn’t render her mindless.

She threw herself back and away from her Mac, and found herself boxed in a room that barely contained her. Then, thinking of her family, she hurled herself forward to no avail, because she grew to the front and to the back too, and her expanding body crushed her husband and children just as they woke up to the sound of her screaming, and wood and plaster cracking all around them, and the butchering sounds of her exploding flesh. They didn’t feel a thing. Feeling everything was her job as she looked back and saw red in the night, saw bodies under her, and screamed all the nine-one-ones that were left in the world. Her madness was immediate.

Months later, she had healed… adjusted, remember? She had a job, a new life, and every night she went to sleep in her designated field with thoughts of that family she had killed with her growth. And one day she saw him. One morning she’d been patrolling the city as always, as all normal giantesses did (never mind the building-raping ones… they belong in another story). She’d been talking to the [little] people, listening to their complaints, comforting them when she could with a warm word or embrace. She’d been tippy-toeing her way across streets and highways, picking up stranded drivers, giving them rides to work, nursing and transporting the injured, when she saw him. She decided he was perfect.

But you knew he wasn’t, didn’t you? You knew what he was. Why didn’t you tell her? You should have. And maybe this end would not be your fault. Maybe there would have never been reason for that anger, and she would not have decided to become the biggest, tallest building fucker of them all. Maybe she would have stopped growing. Maybe she would have been happy. Fuck you for not telling her you all knew he was a jerk.

Now look at everything. Look outside. I said look, asshole! Scrape yourself off the floor and pull the curtain to the side and see the world she’s made. Did you see where there used to be those buildings downtown? Did you count the people that were working there that day when she finally had enough? Did you know it was all your fault? Thousands of shattered lives that day. Did you know anyone that worked there? Oh, the flurry of comments online; the chats and tweets. “She’s lost her mind!” you cried out. “Somebody do something!” you clamored. But there was no one left to do anything, because she was pissed beyond belief, and she was growing.

She was a couple of hundred feet tall when she saw him walking down the street. What do they still call that? Something about some little fucker with a bow and arrow. She saw him and he was Nutella and heat and rushing blood and chocolate and tequila and fire and holidays all turned into one. He was in color when the world was black and white. Shit. I crossed the line. I fucking crossed the line with this hard seltzer. That last swig made my  stomach turn into a churning nightmare… but can you blame me? This is the last drop of alcohol left in the world. What a shitty deal. Let me tell you about her a little longer, because I don’t think I have enough time left to throw up.

She loved him, but he didn’t love her back. She took him, but he didn’t really take her back. Oh, he could have. If you don’t have any intelligent questions to ask, then keep quiet. Yes, you can take a giantess if you’ve of a mind to. All you need is little words. Tiny words and a dance she understands. And boy, did he dance for her! He said all the right things, and you heard him. I know you did. You just sat in your miserable, unventilated office and let him hold that megaphone as he gave her crumbs when she wanted a feast.

But when she discovered what he was, what he truly was, she screamed and she grew. How tall? Don’t ask me that. I don’t know. Look out your window. No, look. Stop crying and look. LOOK. Part the fucking curtains and see her come, because we’re the last of them, and she’s coming for us. You should have told her it wasn’t true.

Don’t ask dumb questions. Her feet aren’t parting the clouds. Those aren’t preexisting clouds. That’s the natural heat from her toes evaporating her sweat, and creating a stream of moisture in the atmosphere, which looks to you like swirling clouds as it mixes with the Earth. Yes, she makes our atmosphere even as she destroys it. Hundreds of thousands of feet above, where there’s no oxygen, she pulls every molecule of oxygen from down here into her lungs. I know you can’t see her face, even though you’re looking at it. All you see is the fire on her skin as the sun cooks it with no atmosphere to protect her. It burns everything, yet she keeps breathing ignited air. Do you feel sorry for her? Don’t. She heals instantly, and she’s killing the Earth with all that combustion.

But don’t worry your tiny little head. There’s nothing you can do about it now. Calm down. You should have told her early on he was just humoring her. Now she grows… Yes! She still grows. Can’t you see? LOOK. Do you see the blue in the sky disappearing? Look at all the rainbows by her ankles as every particle that made our air shifts to make prisms. There must be a million rainbows… Yes, like ankle bracelets. I feel the vacuum now. I feel it in my joints. Do you feel it in your lungs? Try to take a deep breath. No, you stupid fuck, do not open the window. There’s very little air outside now. She’s taken it all for herself, and she grows. Soon she’ll be the only one left.

Look at her shins, if you can. It’s like looking into space made of skin. Imagine the Everest is two feet walking toward you, and multiply that by ankles and shins and calves. Yes, that flesh-colored horizon you see is the rooting of her legs into the ground. Do you see the clouds of dust as they spiral up into the moisture her toes create? Look at their shapes. Yes. Tornadoes. Hundreds… no, thousands of tornadoes belching out of her skin as it creates weather. She’s walking each of them over toward us. Have you made your peace?

Then make peace now. Whisper a last goodbye in your head to those you love. They are long gone. No, you’re not going anywhere. Every time she takes a step, the earth claims a million lives. Stay put. We don’t have that many floors above us. Look at the buildings crumbling all around us. Now we can barely see her past the storm of debris. Look. Soon that glass will break and you’ll breathe in nothing but blood and bone. I warned you. You should have told her he was an opportunistic asshole. This is all your fault. My god, why does my body hurt so much?

Keep looking. Strain your eyesight upwards. Do you see her knees? You knew her before she grew this tall, so you can transpose that memory into the world she is now. I know you can’t see her thighs. They are far too distant, far into space, more moonfolk than Earthfolk now. What? No, you can’t stop her. Apologize? You can try, but you know there’s very little oxygen left out there. How is she going to hear your little screams? You should have warned her when you had the chance. When she was only a couple of hundred feet tall, and not thousands upon thousands of feet of flesh bearing down upon us.

Try saying you’re sorry. Why not? You and I know he never did. Maybe if he’d tried she wouldn’t have kept growing. Do you remember when she started fucking buildings? That should have been a clue that something was wrong. You should have said something then, but by all means say something now, when her ears are atmosphereless, when her heart should be the size of a moon but has been shattered into factions and rebellions and muscle that pulses with the strength to demolish worlds.

But wait. Wait until the window shatters from her feet digging into Earth plates that were supposed to shift on their own. Wait until she gets closer and the roof above our heads has fractured into splinters and the cancer of remaining asbestos that is now a loving embrace compared to what awaits us under her sole. Do you doubt it? She won’t miss. She’s coming for us. Her footprints are as large as states, and she aims well, and you will pay as much as I will. We are both destined to be red for an instant and then grey as our liquified remains mingle with dust. We will be absorbed, and deteriorate in the void of a dead Earth. My heart is pounding so hard! And my bra… my clothes! Oh, my god!

Now! The window shatters. Tell her! Beg! Claim you didn’t know, and cry for mercy. Distract her. Her foot comes down. Dark. Darker. Darkest. Look away. Look at me and hold my

22 thoughts on “Chalk Line

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  1. Feeling everything was her job…

    The archetype of the rampaging giantess provoked into growth and destruction by a cataclysmic emotional response has often featured the themes of “revenge” or “possessiveness,” which illustrates the limited range of (most) male authors’ experience with female passions. I’m just as terrified by the explosion of exasperation that follows a lifetime of being expected to care for and clean up after everyone else.

    I don’t know that this particular giga-giantess could ever have been satisfied (in whatever way) by a single mere mortal. I don’t know that anybody else could have mollified her expectations. I don’t know who’s narrating this story, but I do know that this giantess needed a giant friend.

    I’m intrigued by the implied society between “normal” giantesses and…the alternatives. Would love to see a conversation between multiple giantesses with differing philosophies.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Well, yes. Even a giga giantess needs a friend or two. She probably had more, and in the story in my head there was plenty of advice given about becoming so deeply and emotionally involved with one tiny person. She could have gotten over that disappointment so familiar to practically everyone on Earth, and in the same way we all do: with time, distraction, hard work and the occasional swig of spirits… but I’ve always wanted to write about the apocalypse as brought about by a single giantess. I think many of us do.

      There was this fairy tale I read when I was a child, about a princess who never smiled or laughed. I’ve also wanted to write Size fairy tales, and in this case, and contrary to all emotionally-charged growth, my “princess” (but really a doctor or astronaut) only grows when she’s calm. Naturally everyone around her (and from far away) joins forces to keep her in a constant state of upheaval. But then she d/ls the Calm app. Hilarity ensues.

      I’m also working (I’m always toiling at these unfinished stories) on a story that is almost solely a conversation between two giantesses.


      1. There’s a black comedy here, where everyone thinks someone else is going to give the giantess what she needs or otherwise prevent her from rampaging, but no one actually follows through and they all pay for it.

        No, there’s no current-events metaphor at work here, nope.

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Oh, no. I can’t think of a single situation in real life where everyone knows what to do but no one gets around to preventing the imminent rampage.

          That’s a great idea, by the way. I’ll make note of it (and full credit to be given as well) and figure out a way to weave it into my story.


  2. Phenomenal. You have the mastery of dramatic narrative. This is a nightmare unfolding and it slowly spins itself out exactly like the disaster you know it will be but you’re constrained only to witness it play itself out.

    This comes out at the same time as incels swear revenge against all of women because one turned them down for prom. But it’s not the same. So many men find those incels to be unlikable jackoffs, while so many women would look up at this giantess and go, “I get it, sure” or “thanks for doing this for me.” Maybe. Maybe I don’t understand things as well as I think.

    There’s no consolation in insisting I did try to warn the giantess, but she wasn’t in a place where she could listen. All I can do is honor the spectacle and hope, genuinely hope this makes her happy.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, my friend. I wanted to write about something different (though in many ways it’s the same), and it was visually very appealing to me. What’s happening looks great from up here, even though it’s terminally cataclysmic down there.

      True, it’s not the same. My giga giantess doesn’t hate men. She doesn’t even hate the guy that angered her. She’s just royally pissed. She’ll calm down later, when it’s too late for everyone else. Then she’ll spend the next few billion years fixing things up. Swallowing and digesting that plastic reef, sprouting seeds, encouraging single-cell organisms, etc. But then the sun.

      A number of people tried to warn her. The narrator knows that. She’s just angry at herself, and projecting. There was no stopping the unfolding events, even if the narrator had grown large enough to fight the giga giantess and manage to restrain her.

      That’s something else I want to write about: The building fucker and the protective giantess get into it, and as they fight to protect their interests, the city crumbles under them.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I want to see the protective giantess accidentally harm the people she’s trying to protect and wrestle with the grief. The temptation to say “They should have stayed out of my way” will be awfully strong…

        Liked by 1 person

  3. I’m in awe.
    There’s a temptation to see your story as the alpha story of giga giantess, as they say, the one to rule them all, the one that is so utterly /fluid/.
    And significant.
    I cried.
    I guess it was too significant and I did and now, now…
    All I wanna do is hug her heart until it heals and tell her that a whole humankind worth of lives is not that important. It can still be held in that single heart and remembered, loved, rebuilt.
    This was a painful jewel to swallow. Cheers, you wonderful squid. Cheers.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, dear Tina, for this wonderful comment. Your words are meaningful to me.

      You can hug her with your mind and she will feel it.

      Alpha story. I like that. It looks like the end but I also see it as the beginning. Well, because it is. No matter how empty the space, someone like her can always make something exist in it. I’m sure she will.


      1. I’m already hugging her, tightly..

        As long as she breathes, we can afford a few more casualties. She’s the one counting. I’ll be staying until she remembers it.

        We know she will.
        We know the reason why.

        Hums some pixies

        Liked by 1 person

        1. It feels serendipitous that you should hum some pixies, since I’ve had a Pixies song in my head for days. She’s probably humming a version of it too, somewhere that world exists.

          “If my troubles are six
          Then I am seven
          Then I am seven
          Then I am seven”


  4. There’s a wealth of good visual in this one. I like the healing aspect, especially with the bones, that was brilliant. It seems apt that so much raw power should be achieved through so much internal violence. The danger of unleashing emotions…

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you!

      One of the symptoms of Alice in Wonderland Syndrome is an altered perception of one’s own body, which includes a sensation of growth. It feels like a tingling wave coursing through my body. Even before I started writing Size stories, I wondered what it would be like if that delightful sensation of getting taller were instead the most horrific pain imaginable, caused by my own body multiplying itself.


  5. (sorry for my english)
    I’ve followed your works for years, I like very much your style and the complexity that you seek in your stories.
    Personally, I’m a Giga fan, and this piece touches some of those points that rarely in the gts narrative community are considered.
    I really enjoyed the tools you used: The “end of days” narrator – without hope or powers but somehow omniscent, the silent and desperate observer/reader, the transformation of the giantess/goddess body into a crude totem of pain.
    It reminded me of some works of the graphic-novelist Grant Morrison (like Nameless or The Filth).
    I know that giga-destruction giantess are not your favorite theme, and I hoped sooo much for you to try your hand at this theme. And it’s been great.
    Thank you very much.
    Keep on with your writing, you rock!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, Road, for this lovely comment.

      I’m looking at some Grant Morrison art, and I can see how he might illustrate my perspective on this post. I like it.

      Giga-level destruction is something I think about quite often, though not from the standpoint of mindless wreckage, but that one of flirtation towards one little man on Earth. Sorta like… See what I can do as I make my way to you? Isn’t it spectacular? It’s all about showing off.

      I’ll write some more about that someday, but here’s something you might like to do to accelerate that eventuality:


  6. I didn’t want to use my proper username because.. well just because.

    I just wanted to say I keep coming back to this story so often. Whether it was your intention or not, it speaks to me of that impulsive anger borne of pain I know too well in myself. That terrible, destructive pain that burns everything in its path. It’s the me that frightens me. And sometimes I feel that pain so strongly the outburst feels inevitable.. and the voice of reason shrinks away before the monster.

    Maybe it’s silly to say. But I feel this story in my very bones. It’s painful. Frightening. Powerful. And beautiful.

    And your talent for encapsulating such feelings is parallel to none.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I think we understand each other in this way. The anger I felt when I wrote it is real, and I’ve often imagined carving a slice off reality with the fuel and size of it. Sometimes I feel I’m that monster, and sometimes I know I am.

      I don’t often write about the monster, but this story is one of the times I have. Whatever you’re doing with your pain, don’t allow it to turn inwards as harmful. I have, in incorrect ways, much to my detriment. I’ve stopped now, and flipping it outwards with stories and art is a vent that suits me.

      Thank you for letting me know of you. It feels good to be understood.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I think also.. I have so much respect for you being able to express it. I touch the darkness.. even occasionally the sadness. But I still fear delving down into the lair where I have locked myself away.

        It’s almost an ambition now.. to be able to express it even a tithe of what you have done here.

        Yes.. I may be gushing. But I don’t think any tale touched me as deeply as this one.

        And you give me hope too.. not to slay the monster.. but at least to no longer fear it, to walk with it as a part of me. Unleash it where it’s needed. Funnel it into esquisite creation.

        I sound insane. It just means a lot.

        Liked by 2 people

        1. I often think there’s a touch of insanity in knowing I’m much taller than the body I currently occupy. Sometimes I sound like a serial killer. The sociopathy that accompanies these enormous size thoughts can’t be [dis]proved because there’s no such thing as the growth we imagine… but it feels real. That’s what I love to put into words (or sometimes love/hate, because it hurts). I’m very happy I give you hope to walk with your monster in a similar fashion. In turn, I hope one day you will, when and if it feels right.

          Liked by 1 person

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