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.



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.

Gone Shopping – Part 2


The story continues… The complete strip exists here, and at Pixton.com.

* * * 

My cheeks were still on fire when I reached over and grabbed his little body. All I wanted was to comfort him, when his reaction, again, shocked me. He started punching at the webbing between my thumb and index finger, slamming his little fists with as much fury as I’d ever seen in a little creature. They felt like little caresses, and I tried not to smile, because his face was contorted in a mixture of rage and horror. I could see he was trying to form words with his mouth, but failing.

“Hey, easy there. Easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” He finally found his words.

“Put- me- down- you- great- beast! I’m- not- a sex- toy!”

Then I understood. He thought I’d picked him up to ram him inside my body, or some other distasteful idea. I must have grimaced, because he stopped punching me, or at least he slowed down a bit, and added puzzlement to the list of events happening to his features.

“Well, you are sold as one, so I guess you’re programmed to resist the idea? That’s strange. Who had the notion that women like to be fought off in bed? Or found it attractive to be repulsive? Because, let me tell you, the only disagreeable notion here is the one of putting you between my legs, and start sliding you in and out…” I slowed down my speech as I searched my mind and my body for that old revulsion that had not outlasted the afternoon. In fact, what I found during my search was an agitation of my pulse, and a twitch between said legs. I wonder if he saw it on my face, because he started squirming again. I turned my thoughts to him again.

“Hey, stop! Stop that right now!”

“I’ll stop when you start listening to me!”

I decided to humor him, mostly because I figured I’d look it up later, how to play with these toys. The store attendant told me to ignore everything he said, but I couldn’t manage it, for some reason. “OK, I’m listening. Give me your spiel.”

“My what?”

“Tell me your story.”

“That’s the problem. There’s a lot about it I don’t remember. But I remember I was born in… some place with few people, and I was as large as you are, and there was corn. I remember corn. And cows. And my brother. You left him there, at the store! What if someone buys him-”

“Hold it, slow down… corn? And you were grown in a lab. All of you are. You can’t have memories of cows and being large.”

“I’m telling you. You have to believe me. I’m desperate! Please, my brother has given up. He doesn’t think anyone will listen. I’m making the effort. I’m begging you, please listen. Go back to the store and buy my brother. We’re real people. We were once like you, but someone took us away, and made us like this.”


“I don’t remember that part, but…” And his words faded in the background of his thoughts, because I began to think, to remember everything I had read about the tiny people being grown in labs, the Mad Queen’s grand masterplan to save the planet. Mankind reduced in size meant less impact on resources, a smaller carbon footprint, and all that green talk. I always wondered why all the little critters had been male. Was there something to what this little one was saying? I stared at him as he talked. Oh no, there it was again. That stirring at the center of me. It felt like something was melting. A pounding. Someone was knocking on that door. Someone was ringing that bell.

I wanted to give him my full attention, I really did; but my full attention was on his legs, dangling from my closed hand. Legs that moved and twitched as he spoke, alive with his energy. Legs that would kick and feel amazing if I just slid them in between my wet- No! No! Pay attention. Attention to his tiny hands. How little were they? They were small enough to grapple with something the size of his head, maybe slightly swollen. It would grow bigger if those hands massaged it, and rubbed it, and- No! No! Pay attention. Attention to his itty mouth as it moved. And a flash of that pink tongue. What would that little tongue feel if I forced his head down on my breast and ordered him to- No! No!

I must have grunted or moaned, because when I came to, he was silent, and staring at my face. My cheeks felt like two volcanoes erupting. There was another volcano spewing lava already, but I wasn’t going to make him privy of it. I took a deep breath, and maybe to assuage my guilt and confusion at my new feelings, I said on the hard exhale which slightly blew back his tuft of tight curls, “Let’s go.”

“Let’s go where?”

“Let’s go get your brother.”

He started crying again, this time I imagine with relief, and I was glad of it, because then he’d be distracted from having noticed my gawking at him. Lusting after a tiny man when he’s crying feels like a sin. I walked to my car and realized I had left the house without my purse, without my keys, and holding my toy in my hand. I grimaced and was grateful I always kept an extra key hidden in the garden. When I reentered my home and grabbed my purse and keys, I walked up to my car again, and when I sat in the driver’s seat, I realized (again) I was still holding him. I had to put him down somewhere. I did the first thing I thought. I dropped him between my legs, the only space available, as the shotgun seat was occupied by my purse. Or is that what I told myself? I didn’t dare look at him, so when I let go of his body, I focused on driving.

I’d been on the road for a few minutes when I felt his body shift and reposition down there. His shoulder grazed my inner thigh, and my brain felt like a grenade going off. Shrapnel was piercing my heart, my head, my eyes, my crotch, and I realized I was swerving. “Hold still!” I said, a little too loud. Again, that guilt. It wasn’t his fault I was going insane. Mad. Like the Queen. Maybe her madness was contagious, but I was sure she didn’t lust after tiny men. She just wanted to make things better for everyone, and frankly, driving was easier now that road rage had been cancelled, and tailgating was punishable by death.

He stopped moving, and if it had not been for the slight heat signature that pulsed from his body, right into that empty triangle bordered by my flesh and fabric, I would have forgotten he was there. As it was, it’s a wonder I didn’t kill us both. There was that one time I applied the brakes a little too hard, and his body backed into me fully, and safely bounced off the soft shape of what was trapped in my panties. I, on the other hand, had a head-on collision of the senses. He immediately straightened up and moved away from me, farther out the chasm of my thighs, and I could feel his eyes on me, and even his thoughts… I focused on traffic, and on telling myself it had been accidental. A leg jerk. Nervous legs. Needed to start taking magnesium. Exercise more. Yeah.

When we got to the store’s parking lot, it was still open, but there were only fifteen minutes left on that clock. When I ran to the display, no one had bought his brother. The other little guy was gone, however. The sweet little fellow was shocked to see me again, and even more surprised when I lifted his brother to him, and they spoke manly words I’m not going to repeat here. I grabbed the remaining box as an elderly lady made for it. She said some choice words in my wake, and I was grateful there was a daily flip-the-finger quota enforced by law, because I filled it at that very moment.

The ride home was a little calmer. Once in the car, I ignored my toys’ pleas to be reunited, and left my newer toy in his container. I did, however, have the foresight to stick my first toy in the shopping back with his brother, so I wouldn’t have an excuse to place him between my legs again. That had been a mistake I was not going to repeat. Well, that’s what I thought at the time.

Once we were back at my place, I ripped open the box, and freed that little man. What followed was another shock that day. They both embraced and laughed and talked at the same time. The emotion pouring from their little bodies was such that I felt my own eyes brim with tears. After they’d had their fill of that, they turned to face me and approached me slowly. My first toy cleared his little throat once, then again, and failed to say anything. His brother patted his back, and looked at me with an uncertain smile. He said “thank you” so quietly I almost didn’t hear him, but the shapes his lips made were not to be mistaken. I smiled back and looked at my first toy.

“Are you alright?” I asked him.

“Yes”, he said, and we all stood and sat there for a minute, saying nothing until I spoke again, startling them into reaching for each other.

“Alright! Hey, stop that. Don’t be afraid of me. I’ve done nothing to hurt you, and everything to help you, so stop acting as though I’m the enemy. I was just going to ask you if you were hungry. When’s the last time you had anything to eat? Because… you do eat, don’t you?”

It was amazing how fast they went from fear to indignation.

“Of course we eat!”

“Yeah, we’re real people, lady.”

“None of this ‘lady’ crap. Call me Coraline. That’s my name. Now tell me your names.”

They hesitated and looked at each other.

“We don’t… I don’t remember.”

“I think my name began with an ‘N’. Maybe Nathan.”



“That was my name. As soon as you said ‘Nathan’ I remembered mom’s voice calling us to dinner. ‘Nathan’. ‘Neil’. Those were-”

“Are. Are our names. We’re twins. Non identical.”

I watched and listened to them in disbelief. Could this be true? Was the Queen aware human beings were being taken for these sanctioned experiments? Dragged away from their lives, and reduced in size, and then sold like objects at stores across the country? What was going on? This was a monstrosity.  Something had to be done. But what? I didn’t know. All I know is that these little men were under my care, and I had to do what I could to help them. If there was a normal life waiting for them somewhere, it was my duty to help them regain it.

“Alright, Nathan, Neil, it’s time to eat. Do you like beef stroganoff?”

“What’s that?”

“C’mon. I’ll show you. Let’s ride my hands to the kitchen. I’m going to cook for you.”

To be continued…

Gone Shopping


Not sure where I’m going with this. When I went to Pixton to try to create something to distract myself, I just kept slapping one thing after another, not sure of what I’d come up with. There’s a story there, but I’ll probably get back to it much later. Or never.

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Apparently neither. Here it is.

* * *

You remember that part in movies when the main character finally emerges from the ashes of whatever happened to it? That hopeful moment that augurs everything’s going to be just fine? That moment is bullshit. There is no such moment; at least not for me. My life is full of piss-in-my-beer moments. Brimming with gum-in-my-hair moments. I actually emerged from a movie theater once with gum in my hair. Someone had seen fit to gently deposit freshly chewed gum in my beautiful red tresses. But that feeling of societal betrayal was nothing compared to how it feels to break up with someone you love because it turns out he lied about everything. Except that one bit about the sex. The sex was great. The sex was addictive, which is why it took me so long to wake up.

So I wound up in the ashes, covered by them, tasting them, breathing them in until everything felt bitter, and my meals consisted of looking through a pile of trash in the living room to find something to eat, because I knew there were still two slices of pizza leftover from a couple of night before, and I couldn’t be bothered to cook anything fresh for myself. And I found them. And I ate them. And I didn’t care. Sorta the same way I didn’t care there was a wasp in the room while I was watching one of the Cornetto Trilogy movies to try to feel better. Anything with Simon Pegg or Jason Statham tends to lift my spirits. But it wasn’t working. Just looking at Statham kiss Jessica Alba and I wanted my ex’s hands and lips on me again.

Reading the news only made me feel worse about everything. The Queen was at it again, passing more idiotic laws about the toys, and taking more money away from education and defense to pour it into science. She’s always going on about how she’s going to save us all when those crazy experiments yield a final result. And the little mounds of living flesh that are the result of those experiments are no proof she’s in the right. But who’s going to go against a being that measures hundreds of feet in height? That stopped religion in its tracks? That can kill any opposition with her brain? War and famine are over, but there is something stranger in the air; a feeling of enforced change that makes me feel we skipped that part of evolution that teaches us how to be better human beings. But maybe that’s what she embodies. Even now, after everything that’s happened, I’m scared to think ill of her. What if she decides I’m a rebellion that need to be squashed?

Somehow it angers me to imagine she doesn’t see me as a threat. It makes me feel small, and I hate feeling small. She’s not who I want to talk about anyway. What I want to talk about is what happened when my vacation time ended… time I spent at home eating shit and drinking and crying and not sleeping but at least no longer calling him on the phone and ignoring his emails and even that one time he came by at three in the morning because that’s when she goes to work. When I finally showered and shaved my legs and detangled my hair and de-fuzzed my upper lip and went back to work, there was no relief to be found in breathing fresh air, or being busy. Oh, that’s another lie: “Work distracts you”. It doesn’t. Work feels like the times between stabs during a knife fight. I sat there and went through the motions, and then it would come back to me, flood my mind, and pierce my heart. He wasn’t in my life anymore.

I still have to remind myself to breathe, and when I do, my chest still hurts, but at least I have them now. And I’ll keep them, and I’ll help them, no matter what. I don’t care if the Queen shows up and stamps her giant foot on my house, crushing us all. I don’t care if she’s reading my thoughts right now. I have to do something. I have the feeling she won’t stop people like me. The toys exist because she willed them into existence, after all. She’s not keeping them hidden in some lab. They are out there, available now wherever toys are sold. But I could only afford to buy three.

It all started with that email. My “promotions” mail folder had grown, and when I began to mark them for deletion, my eyes stopped on the one from my local toy store. “Big Sale!!!” it advertised. I still don’t know why, but I opened it, and printed out the coupon. After work, I drove to the strip mall where it sat, all bricks and mortar, and uncommonly busy for a Tuesday. But not as uncommon as my thoughts as I considered buying something I didn’t need, and not only that, but contemplated an idea that until then, had felt repugnant. I don’t care that most people think that the miniaturization of something renders it adorable. It doesn’t. Well… it didn’t. They’ve grown on me.

But if I have to be completely honest, what was on my mind that day was probably more repugnant than the idea of them had felt until that moment. They are sold as sex toys, after all. They are sold as objects, and they are not. But that day I thought they were, and I walked into that store I know well, and towards the sports equipment and electronic toy department. I walked over to the Fun 5ex Toy (that is how it’s spelled, and I wonder why… since there are no indecency laws anymore, not since the Queen turned cussing into an official sport) display, and stared at them for a while. There were no visible On buttons, but they all seemed to be expressing some sort of emotion, and they were all in the middle of saying something. That’s when I first had the thought that they all appeared to be set on “distress.” It seemed an odd choice for a toy that’s supposed to be fun, but then I figured that setting would be right for the sadistic realm. The idea gave me chills, and I was in the middle of shuddering when an attendant that probably misinterpreted it asked me if he could be of any help.

“Yes”, I said. “How come all these toys are on at the same time?”

“I think that’s how they’re programmed. When I got the manual on them, I remember reading that because of how they are engineered, their words are random, but come from the same part of that little mass they have for a brain.”

“So there are no electronic parts to them?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe a chip, in case they get lost? But they aren’t that expensive.”

“The hell they aren’t. Three hundred dollars? That’s a lot of money for someone of my meager means!”

“Well, I was just about to put this sign up, if you’ll excuse me…”

And he picked up a sign I had not noticed was on the floor next to him, and placed it in front of the Fun 5ex Toy display case. I blinked in surprise when I saw the price reduction. Before he walked away he added, “Let me know if you have any more questions. I’ll be at the register.”

I nodded, not even looking in his direction, because I was now staring at the little toys. My mind was suddenly invaded by thoughts. I’m ashamed to admit them, but I had been “inactive” for over two weeks, too depressed to put new batteries in my non-flesh toys, and too sad to think between the legs. But when my eyes fixed upon the shape of that one little toy, I became lost inside myself. Kinda where I wanted him to be. A dark-skinned, dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty, he stared right back at me, and kept screaming for help. I just stared at his legs. I noticed the other two toys that were left seemed to talk to me at the same time. I smiled, even giggled to witness how well they worked. They knew I was there.

“How fun…” I said to no one in particular, and I don’t know what it was about the way I said it that made my little brune beauty’s lips freeze mid-word. The terror I saw in his eyes was now aimed at me, somehow. It made me feel… guilty. I decided to buy him at that moment. Yet, when I started to walk away with him in hand, he appeared to regain his earlier temperament, and started screaming something about “going back for his brother”. Wow, I thought. What a dirty trick. Just to make you buy more than one, I guess. I ignored it, and brought it home, with the store employee’s words still ringing in my ears. Instructions about the “little ones”, as he called them. They made me think of that old movie with the pets you don’t feed after midnight.

“Don’t pay any attention to what they say.”

“Their tiny minds only have access to primitive emotions.”

“None of what they make up is real.”

“They require a firm hand at all times… especially when-”

And that’s when I thanked him very much and left, mostly to rescue him from himself, as he seemed to have fallen into the murky waters of explaining to a woman how to use a sex toy. During the entire ride home, my toy seemed to wail in great distress, and kept mentioning his brother. It was distracting, so I switched on my iHeart, and cranked up something screamed in German. I immediately wondered how well their ears worked, so I turned it down, and on the next red light I looked inside my shopping bag, and saw that he was covering his ears as though he was in pain. I ordered my radio to turn itself off, and was in the middle of whispering what I imagined were calming words to the little thing, when I heard cars beeping at me. The light had turned green. I peeled off and he started to go on again about his sibling, when I yelled at him to shut up, as I was driving. He did.

When we got home, sat on the couch and  removed him from his container, and the instructions slipped off the back cover. I held him in my hand as I tried to open up the pamphlet, and gave up, as it was tightly folded. I finally had to set him down on the coffee table to manage unfolding the instructions. I needed to know how to name him, or if he came with a name.  I read the instructions, which shockingly enough, were as brief as the register attendant had been, and only pointed me to the Queen’s website, slash Fun 5ex Toys, slash how-to’s. I tossed the instructions aside, and faced him. He flinched. I was surprised at that. These little toys seemed to run high on alarm. I cleared my throat and tried to remember how I used to talk to my cat, Kitty.

“Hey there, little fella. How’s your name? I mean, what-”

“Can we please go back for my brother?”

I sighed. Very tricky. “Look, little toy, that’s just a marketing ploy that’s been driven into your cerebral cortex, or whatever it is you have inside your head.”

“It’s not! He’s my real brother! We can’t leave him behind!”

“Well, I can’t afford another toy. Besides, I only need one.” The look he then gave me before he collapsed and burst into tears made me feel like the biggest pervert on Earth.

To be continued…




Everyone needs help. Even a giantess.


I’m exhausted. Off to bed I go.


It’s six thirty-seven in the morning, and I’m exhausted, and I can’t sleep. I’m also a little drunk, trying to see if that will help me sleep, but all I keep seeing is images in my head. I might as well do something about that. Wouldn’t you, in my shoes? Oh, and if I catch anyone in my shoes, the trouble you’ll meet.

(I really need to mix that Everclear with something. One little shot and I’m gone.)

(But not gone enough, as you can see.)

This idea… or conversation, stems from the fact that Craigslist flagged and deleted my post only minutes after I added it, but not before I received a response from a dude.


I’m never going to answer Luis’s question,  but since he was nice enough to send me his picture and will never hear from me, I might as well do something… is it nice? Is it nice to mention someone in a smutty blog about a fetish almost no one else (comparatively anyway) on Earth has? Yeah, it’s nice. I’ve decided it’s nice. So, my dear reader, imagine Luis measures a few inches in height, and decided to answer my CL ad. I accepted his offer (or he, mine), and he now lives in the abandoned dollhouse.

 * * * 

They sat on her couch as she played another failed round of Farm Heroes Saga.

“You need to stop drinking.”

“Mind your own business. I only had one shot.”

“Yes, but look at you. You are totally wasted. This is not safe.”

“What do you mean? ‘Not safe’? Not safe for you? You think I’m going to try something in my condition? That’s what you mean, don’ you?”

“You’re starting to slur your words.”

“I’m not going to ‘get fresh’ with you, alright? No way.”

“Good. Now, you arranged for my services, and those include telling you things you need to hear.”

“Luis, not tonight.”

“Shut up and listen to me. I may be tiny now, but once I ran my own business, and fifty people depended on me for their livelihood.”

“Ooh, big guy… I know the story-“

“Shut. Up. Don’t make me tell you again.”


“I’m not tiny inside. I never will be. I’m not like your guy, and I can tell you what I observe from a very clear perspective. You need to move on.”

“I have moved on.”

“Let me use language a little woman like you can understand.”


“Remember that movie, ‘Arrival’? I know you do, because you practically know it by heart now, and make me watch it with you all the time. What I mean is, I want you to think of that line Louise tells Ian. If you knew every future event in your life, would you change anything?”

“I don’t know.”

Think. Now. Put down the phone. You’re never going to beat that level in your condition. Besides, I need to look at your schedule.”

Patricia tossed the phone Luis’s way, and it landed with a loud-to-him thud next to him, on the rough fabric of the couch that was a tall mesa to his now tiny body. He started punching buttons and clicking and sliding his tiny hand on the screen all at once, and calling up her organizing app. His, really. He was now the only one that used it. He looked at it briefly, and thought for a moment before he spoke again.

“OK. You may sleep four hours now. That’s all you get before you have to start your day again. But you’re not going to bed before you answer my question.”

“Love is worth everything.”

“Even one sided? Look at what your future would have been, wasting your time with someone who was only using you.”

“I knew what I was doing.”

“Then you are more of an idiot than I thought.”

“Fuck you. You don’t know anything. You don’t know what you’re talking about. What the fuck do you know about sacrifice? About giving someone everything without any thought for yourself? Nothing!”

“Stop that. You are the one that doesn’t know anything. You don’t know what I’ve lost.”

“What have you lost?”

“Mind your own business. I’m not going to tell you. At least not now.”

“Man. That’s what he always said. Men. You are all ali-“

“Don’t compare me to him. I’m here. I’m… I don’t know what I am. You don’t pay me, and you couldn’t pay me enough to do some of the high maintenance I do for you; but I’m here, and I help you out. I’m the closest you have to a friend right now, and I’m telling you right now: Get your shit together. Stop drinking. Look at your life, and decide where you want to be in the future. Do you want a real man to own, or do you want someone who wants to pretend to be owned, who really belongs to a different life?”

“I can’t talk to you about that. You don’t understand…”

“All I know is that you have a fucked-up fetish, and I’m so glad-“

“Don’t you fucking cross the line. Don’t you TALK to me that way, unless you want to find yourself out on the street.”

He shut up. She was right. He had crossed the line, but he was not the apologizing kind. Instead, he offered up a sigh, and a few words of comfort.

“Look, you are a nice lady. You deserve to be happy. Did he make you happy?”

“Giving him that dollhouse made me happy.”

“Did he go out of his way to make you happy?”

“I wrote songs about him.”

“Did he write songs about you?”

“I wrote about him all the time.”

“Did he do anything to show you he cared to the same degree? Did he always ask you how you were? Did he want to know about you? Did he know your birthday? Did he ever ask anything about your life?”

She said nothing. What could she say? That he’d always been silent and non responsive when she started talking about herself? That when she did, sometimes he’d start watching TV, or checking out the Internet?

“You gave him a home, and he left it every day. You gave him your heart, and he was too busy to give you his. He may have thought he gave you enough, but here you are, crying, and alone.”

“I’m not- crying-!”

“Sure. Look, I’m going to bed. You can stay up, drinking and whining, or you can go to bed and start a new day tomorrow. Either way, I’m waking your ass up in four hours.”

The little man walked over to the edge of the couch, and disappeared down the front, his body dropping quickly, and landing softly on the cushion that was always there. She watched him walk away, across the living room, and enter the magnificent dollhouse he now occupied. She then turned her gaze to the bottle of Everclear. Another single shot and she’d be obfuscated enough to drunk dial his number.

She went to bed instead.

* * *

Sick As Fuck

More Kissing by Flagg3D
More Kissing by Flagg3D

I was on Twitter, whining to Aborigen about not having any inspiration to write, when he said, “You want me to give you an idea? I can give you an idea and demand 1,500 by the end of the day, if that would help?” And I said “Alright, I’m game. I’ll write, even if it’s garbage.”

And so a story was born. I want to thank my dear friend Aborigen for nudging me powerfully in this direction, and I want to thank my dear toy Hopier, for being sick with a bad cold at the same time I am, and providing a great deal of inspiration for this short story.

 + + +

“My throat started hurting the moment I had that Twix bar.”

The little man didn’t bother to look up at his owner from his resting position. His eyes barely flickered in acknowledgement. All he muttered was an impolite, “Your voice sounds horrible.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Toy. I’m as sick as you are.”

“I know. I know. But I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Should she start up again? Should she remind him she had only slept two and a half hours? Why bother, she thought. When he gets this way he only listens to what he wants to listen. Ironic that it feels this way right now, when I’ve often thought he’s the only one that can truly hear me. She would have continued along this line of thinking, and it could have turned sourer or sweeter, but she never found out because from the hearth of her breasts came his voice again.

“I’ve had enough soup.”

She turned her head slowly in both directions as her answer, and dipping her fingertip into the still steaming surface of a fragrant bowl of chicken soup cooling on an adjacent end table, she pulled it out and gave it a slight shake until from it clung a single drop of thick broth.

“I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough soup.”

“Owner, do you want me to get diarrhea again? I don’t want any more food!” His voice had turned whiny, and she tried to sigh, but her own sinuses were beginning to clog up again. She needed another dose of medicine. Or she needed to use her little man. That always seemed to clear her head in every way possible; but one look at his crumpled, pathetic little shape filled her with pangs of guilt. To grab his body and place it anywhere on her would be… wonderful. But there was soup on her digit. She brought it to his little mouth, and held it an inch away from his face. He moved it from side to side, imitating her earlier negative emphatically.

“Open your mouth.”

“M- no!”

“Open. Your. Mouth. Now.”


“I don’t want to hear it. The doctor ordered five drops of soup for your meals, and you have only swallowed four. Open your mouth or I will make you open it.”

He looked up at her with enough resentment to shock her. What a little shit he can be sometimes, the thought sparked in her mind, and she doused it with regret. But I love him, don’t I. I love him so much. In his usual style, he picked up on her thoughts, and seemed to be taken aback by his temporary, if silent belligerence. To her, it was enough of an apology, especially when followed by his stretching his neck and reaching up with his parted lips, like a baby bird. She barely touched them with the warm drop of soup, which immediately flooded his mouth. He grimaced. “Ouch.”

“Did that hurt to swallow, poor toy?”

“It did.”

“Well, it’s over now. Go to sleep. I’ll eat now.”

“Can’t you put me in the dollhouse?”

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you comfortable in the cradle of my breasts?”

He was thoughtful enough to appear to deliberate before he whimpered quietly, and added, “Owner, your body is very comfortable, but your heartbeat is very loud, and your lungs keep making this annoying raspy noise. I want it to be quiet. And the lamp light is bothering my eyes. How can I sleep while you eat? You make very loud slurping sounds, and I hate that.”

So much for consideration, she thought. She tried to take a deep breath to calm herself, and ended up sending herself into a coughing fit. She had the presence of mind to press her cupped palm between her breasts to catch his little body before her own sent him tumbling down her chest, and possibly her recliner, and on to the floor many dozens of his feet below. At least her seat had been adjusted back, and the incline of her chest had kept him in place.

When she lifted her hand away from her breast, she looked at him, sure he’d tear into her, and go on about her lack of consideration about his infinitesimal size, and so on. Much to her distress, his eyes were closed, and there seemed to be no life in him.

“Toy! Toy, answer me! Are you OK?!”

To her relief he opened his eyes and shook his head a fraction of an inch. She had been about to tell him he’d stay on her for as long as she needed the comfort of his presence, but this was too much. If he wanted to sleep away from her, then he would get his wish. She lowered her fingers on him again, this time with great tenderness, and flicked the recliner’s handle to the up position. Slowly, she got up and waited for her dizzy spell to pass before she walked to her bedroom, and stood over his tiny home within her home.

“My little darling, it’s time for bed.”

She ignored his mumbling “It’s about time,” and bent over to lift the dollhouse roof on its hinge. As she leaned over the small home, she separated her hand from her body, and released him from her chest into it with an imperceptible drop, which he nonetheless protested with an “ouch” that was far too dramatic. She brought her palm down into his bedroom, and parked it over his lovingly handmade bed.

“Roll over, Toy.”

His whiny voice had been turned to eleven when he emitted a high, yet soft cry, “But I want you to tuck me in…”

“Alright,” she said, feeling lightheaded and weak. Pushing the roof over to lean on her bedroom wall, she used her now free hand to pull his coverlet: a five-inch square of fabric that had been cut off a well-worn pair of her panties. She then tilted her palm and watched his body gently roll off it and into his bed. She watched him curl into a fetal position, dragging his tiny pillow under his even smaller head. Once he stopped moving, she draped his body with the blanket, and smiled.

Dropping carefully to her knees, she placed her head sideways on the top edge of his bedroom wall, returned  her hand to his body, and began to caress it very softly with the slightest touch of her fingertips. Her heart filled with gratitude that his body didn’t feel like the tiniest furnace anymore. The custom made thermometer she had ordered after she shrank him worked perfectly, and the last time she had taken his temperature by placing it between his tiny butt cheeks, it had given a much lower reading.

Catching a sigh in her chest lest she start coughing again, she convoluted her breathing by deciding to sing him a lullaby. Her voice did not sound its usual sweet when she let it out.

“You are my toy

When you break and feel no joy

I will take care of you

You’re in my heart

We will never be apart

I am in charge of you


“Owner, stop! I’m trying to sleep!”

His voice, though small, startled her musical reverie so suddenly, she jerked her body next to the dollhouse, and bumped it.

“Stop shaking my house too! I’m so sick! Why are you so mean to me right now!?”

She felt despair enter her heart. All she wanted was to show him she cared.

“Toy, I love you, and I wanted to sing you a soothing song-“

“Owner, you sound like Foghorn Leghorn is gargling acid. Just let me sleep!”

“Alright, I’ll leave you alone,” she said, not being able to help herself from heaping a dollop of anger into her words. She brought the roof down, and not as gently as she could have, and straightened herself off the floor. A dizzy spell overcame her again, and she aimed her body away from the home that contained her favorite possession. Her anger dissolved, she turned and faced her bedroom. It was a disaster.

Walking slowly, she started picking up her strewn dirty clothes, though not many of them.

I’m glad I don’t have to pick up after you, she thought. No damp towels, no streaky underwear, no stinky socks, she added, throwing a couple of pairs of panties in the laundry basket. No sticky keyboard, no wiped browser history, no secret password on your phone… She began to smile. She eyed the small vial that contained his medicine, liquid she fed him every twelve hours from a needle dropper in near invisible measures, and she felt her head swim again. In tending to her tiny man’s needs, she had forgotten to take her own medicine. She finished piling laundry in the basket, and left it to be done later. It was time to rest. She went to the bathroom and pushed a time-released pill from its foil packet. After she swallowed it with a couple of swigs from a bottle of her favorite sparkling water, she decided to go to bed as well.

But not before she tended to some of her own needs.

In bed, she picked up her phone, and flipped through her collection of homemade videos. There was a fifteen-minute long one that would suit her just fine. Soon, the slight whimpers and manly screams that could be overheard from the speaker began to deliver their own medicine.

 + + +

Ciara’s Brother – Part 1


I’m not even gonna explain… I don’t know what I’m doing here. There’s this thing that happened, and sometimes a story has to be told. I have no clue as to where it will go, and that’s a complete lie. I generally tend to see stories from beginning to end, like dominoes falling in both directions, and meeting in the middle. In medias res, here I come.


Marina jogged past the throng of kids playing and chattering away in English and Spanish, the unmistakeable cadence and sibilation of Mexican-ness as familiar to her as the smell of Cuban coffee. How she missed those dark morning (or afternoon, if she felt brave) punches to her brain. How she missed Florida. She pounded the ground harder, gaining speed and leaving all noise behind as she entered the park’s woods, and a narrow dirt path littered with years of dead leaves and twigs. 

Saturday sunlight peeked past the canopy of trees, and in the distance, gleamed in flashes off the tall surface of the Biodome where they lived separately from her kind. When it had all been new, her parents had taken her to the Wall a few times, the exterior of the dome closest to ground level that exposed an outermost layer of tiny citizenry as though it was a show for which you pay money and wait two hours in line to see. And that’s what they had done. She had been fascinated by the small buildings, the narrow streets, the incredibly small people that no one her age had ever met in person; and she had been frightened by the stern guards that kept the dome boundaries and contents safe.

Now, as she ran, she constantly sent her gaze to find broken spaces between leaves, to catch glimpses of the dome as she moved past tree after tree, so she almost missed the small shape that staggered from behind an exposed tree root, and dropped to the ground with only enough space to allow her to come to a brisk halt.

“What the hell!” she cried out as her body protested the sudden stop. Her chest was heaving, and she slowed down her breathing as she bent down to look at the little shape. She dropped her palms onto her thighs, and moved her head lower yet, not believing her eyes. Finally, she dropped to the ground on her hands and knees, followed by her head, which she pressed to one side of the path as though she was trying to hear its heartbeat. But she only wanted to get a very good look at the tiny woman, no more than two inches in height, who was lying still and beginning to open her eyes.

“Hello, little girl,” she said, suddenly flooded by wonderment to finally meet one of them in person. This one appeared to feel something entirely different as she scrambled away from her in a clear panic, and surrendered to shrieking. “Hey, hey, calm down. I know what to do. Let’s get you back home, alright? Where you belong. How did you get out here anyway?” Marina had lowered her voice as much as it was humanly possible, but it was clear that the gusts of her breath and the pounding of her words were too much for the tiny person. She had covered her ears with her hands, and was now shaking her head violently from side to side.

Marina sighed, and regretted it immediately when the wind from her lips hit the little woman, and bent her backwards. She pivoted in the dirt, and Marina could see a drop of fresh blood emerging from her tiny neck. “You are hurt!” and she covered her mouth right away, to try to protect the woman from the force of her words. She kept her hand in place when she said, “look, I can help. I want to help. Why don’t you-“

“Help?” said the tiny woman, twisting in place and sitting up again and drying her eyes. Her mouth was so infinitesimal Martina wondered how it was possible she could hear her. “Help! Help! Brother! Help!” Her words had an odd accent to them Marina could not identify, as skilled as she was spotting nationalities after only exchanging a few words when meeting people. But this accent? Unknown.

“Yes, I help. C’mon, let’s go find a guard, and get you back to the Wall, OK?” But much to her surprise, and to what was beginning to feel an uncomfortable position to her neck, the little woman kicked her heels and moved away from her like a little crab. She sat and waved her hands at her. That’s a negative in any language, friend. She gave the little woman a quizzical look. “I’m bound by law to take you back. If I don’t, and they find you, I can be arrested, and worse. I’m sorry. I have to-“

“Brother! Brother! Help brother!” And the little woman produced a tiny square that must have been a photograph, because she mustered enough courage to get up, and waver close to her face, wielding the square like a weapon, or an argument. Marina strained to catch the picture’s contents, but it was impossible. Whatever or whoever it was, was far too small for detection.

“OK, help ‘brother’”. How do you propose we do that?” At that, the woman balked, and appeared doubtful. Not for long. She started making odd beckoning signals to Marina. “Come here,” she said with her little hand curling. “I’m right here, you dum-dum… hmm. I wonder if you mean… my hand? OK. I think I get what you are saying. Sure, climb in, lady. What’s your name?” And Marina slowly inched her hand toward the woman, who stood there, waiting. As soon as her pinky finger was within reach of the woman, she did something exceedingly puzzling. She dove toward it, and when she landed on it, she straddled it, and then hugged it. Marina was about to protest when she felt it. The invasion. The mental connection that was both horrifying and more intimate than anything she had ever experienced.

Brother… lost… escaped… trouble… chips in our necks… The information was relentless, and it felt like an explosion inside her head. When it was over, she was shaking, and crying. She felt compelled to crush the little woman on the spot for such a violation, but at the same time such an act would have been unthinkable for her. She was also deeply grateful. She didn’t know why.

“Do you understand now, unwieldy person?”

“What did you- don’t be rude. My name is Marina.”

“I’m sorry, Marina. My name is Ciara. All our words for ‘big’ are insults or curses in my language. I’ll have to learn new ones, and add them to my understanding.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ciara. What did you do to me, to my mind?”

“I formed a link, so I could talk to you, and you could understand me no matter what language I speak. I also explained to you why it’s crucial you don’t take me back, and instead take me with you. We have to find my brother.”

Marina thought of Ciara’s love for her brother. She thought of what she now knew was her brother’s face. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and whispered to Ciara as she flipped her hand and offered her palm to her, “let’s go find your brother.”

My Robot


For a very long time now (but only sometimes), I’ve imagined that shrunken man is a little robot. Sometimes he’s half sized, other times he looks like an action figure, and then he can be as small as my pinky finger. Under any other circumstances, it would have been some kind of mental process to find a voice for that little metal body… but my little muse Hopier makes it all come together so very easily in my head. He is not a robot, but he is a very small man at heart, and he is my small man. What he is to me makes the words arrive clearly; the images, perfectly nitid.

* * *

“Read me your poem again…”

“My owner, I do not read it. I have detailed files of everything I say to you-“

“Toy, shut up. Add ‘read’ to your verb commands under your ’Romantic’ setting’. Tag it to ‘Recall’.”

“My owner loves the ‘Romantic’ setting.”

“Do you want me to remove you smart-ass plugin?”

“Toy does not have a smar-“

“Oh, toy. Shut up and read me your poem again.”

“Yes, my owner.”

It cleared its throat. She didn’t recall teaching it to do that. She shook the thought from her head, and perked up her ears for words that were both terrible and wonderful.

You are beautiful, my owner.

“Go on…”

You are very beautiful, my owner

Your beautiful water is percentage measurable

As the oil content of my hinges-

“OK, skip that stupid part and get to the good stuff…”

“T- the good stuff?”

She looked at it suddenly. Did it just stammer? What the hell? “Yes, the good stuff I taught you to put together. The stuff that makes me moan, and the other thing I do.”

The light behind Toy’s eyes seemed to flicker for a moment, as it conjugated events and formed a conclusion.

Owner’s ass is…

And it went on like that for a good forty-five minutes, most of them a replay of certain words she loved. Most of them a muffled replay, with added functions in play. When it was over, she dried Toy off, and placed it on the nightstand, where it usually stayed still until she commanded it to do one thing or another. She looked at it and blinked, fading peacefully into sleep. Until it spoke.

“Owner still wants to change Toy’s skin.”

She opened her eyes, and almost slapped it off to the floor. She had been one second away from blissful sleep, which she desperately needed. “What?! Shit! I forgot to tell you to be quiet for the night. Not that it even works lately. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, owner. Toy is worried.”

The thought was so bizarre she burst into racous laughter. It went on for a parade of seconds. Toy adopted a waiting pose that did nothing to calm her mirth.

“Oh, Toy! You can’t be worried. How can you? You’re a bundle of metal and cables and connections, nothing else.”

“Toy is else, my owner.”

“See? You even talk funny.”

“Is owner amused? Pleased? Maybe owner will not put skin on Toy then.”

“Toy, I want you to have skin. You look a little creepy, I’m sorry to say. I want you to look more like me.”

“It will hurt Toy, my owner.”

“It will not! How can it hurt you? You have no nerve endings.”

“Toy has something else, my owner.”

“What do you have?”

Toy was quiet for a moment.

“Toy does not know the word for it, my owner.”

“Hm. Well, you’re getting skin. It’s what I want.”

“Could owner not tell them to scan Toy’s CPU?”

“Toy, I have to. You’re malfunctioning left and right.”

“Please, owner. It begs owner. It is afraid.”

Now she was stunned. She propped herself up on her elbows, and looked at it. Really looked at it. Did she catch a shiver running down its black-metal spine? She reached out and grabbed Toy, bringing it to her chest.

“OK, Toy. Don’t worry. I’ll cancel the scan. Shit. You little fuck. I should probably ignore you and have them do it- Hey, hey! Stop! You’re actually shaking! What the hell?”

“Owner has to promise! Promise Toy she will not have them scan toy’s brain.”

“Toy, you don’t have a… fine. No scan. I promise. Now sleep.”

It went into sleep mode, an appearance only for her sake. It was still aware, and ready to defend her against the world, if need be. But there wouldn’t be a need for that. She looked at it again, and decided there was another need, after all. She didn’t wake it for that.

Do not leave

Click on image for pixel-free collage

Another writing exercise from “Steering the Craft”, by Ursula K. Le Guin.

Exercise 2: Am I Saramago

Write a paragraph to a page (150-350 words) of narrative with no punctuation (and no paragraphs or other breaking devices). [I went a little long. So what.]

I’m leaving and won’t be back for a few hours I hope you remember everything I’ve taught you don’t forget the rules there’s no going outside after dark because of the owls and the neighbor cats and that hideous neighbor kid that saw you through the window I don’t want him to catch you I know he’s been waiting for me to leave the house when he’s home so be careful you know what to do if someone breaks in just go to your panic hole until the police gets here yes the alarm system is in place and it’s always on you know that don’t be scared you’ll be ok it’s none of your business where I’m going I just need some fresh night air and the company of people like me don’t feel bad when I say that you know I care for you very much but we always talk about the same things and I just need a break for a few hours it doesn’t mean I’m abandoning you or that I feel any less for you it just means you should also take this time and find something to do that you enjoy what did you do with your free time before I shrank you I have no idea I’ve never asked you oh really that sounds like fun why don’t you do that tonight I’ll get you some material you can use for that and when I come back you can show me what you did and you can also watch TV on my old phone when’s the last time you watched an episode of your favorite show or a good movie I always take up your time and you should do things on your own and that’s another reason I’m going this dress is new yes and so are the stockings I don’t know who’s going to be there it’s just friends and their friends I’m sure there will be men there but I’m going to see my friends that’s the point of my going I’m not going to take you with me I have nowhere to put you my purse is too thin and I’m not going to put you there remember how you wriggled the entire time when I put you there last I don’t want to be distracted that way when I’m trying to have meaningful conversations besides I already explained this time is for me and for you to spend separately stop insisting you are staying here let go of my leg I’m going now bye

Because I write

From “Steering the Craft”, by Ursula K. Le Guin, a blogging (writing, really) idea I’m copying from my friend Aborigen.

Exercise 4, parts 1 and 2: Again and Again and Again

Part One: Write a paragraph of narrative (150 words) that includes at least three repetitions of a noun, verb or adjective (a noticeable word, not an invisible one like was, said, did).

Acid burnt his throat as food hopped back up his esophagus. She had fed him lobster from her fingertip just moments ago; before she snapped him up from the plate with angry fingers, and revealed to him that she knew. “I told you what would happen, little one. I warned you: no betrayals.” And then there was acid in her eyes too, corrosive pools of brown brimstone. The back of his throat filled with vomit that couldn’t escape terminal velocity as he made the circuit to her opening mouth. Just as well, he thought. It might make it difficult for her to end him with a merciful bite. But she didn’t. Of course she wouldn’t. He closed his eyes and didn’t bother screaming as his body slipped past her teeth. She kept him whole for the entire ride. Acid waited for him. Outside, tears hissed crystal paths down her cheeks.

Part Two: Structural Repetition. Write a short narrative (350-1000 words) in which something is said or done and then something is said or done that echoes or repeats it, perhaps in a different context, or by different people, or on a different scale.

From an idea originally jotted down on 10/11/05 1:42:05am

So much air, he thought, as it whipped past his ears, never reaching his lungs. As it rushed by, it whistled a tune that reminded him of long car rides with his dad when he was a child; during a time in his life where he could still hear the music, voices that sang wordlessly in that rushing wind that swirled into his hair and prickled at his face, the high-pitch of angels screaming for blood. 

I never loved her the way I love you, he had wanted to say. He never got the lies out, and that’s too bad, because they would have angered her enough to make it all end sooner. Funny thing, comfort. Even as she drew him closer he thought of those tears that ran like rivers down her face, and wished he had never started their flow.  It would have been a nice thing to say, but she would have only heard his admission of loving the other one. More or less? She didn’t care. She would have only heard that the other one had mattered enough. That she had mattered at all.

So he made the trek in style as she wrapped her fingers around his shape, turning them into long, oblong coffins. She made him attend his own funeral, those five digits the only pallbearers in the parlor of her palm. No speeches were said, no jokes were cracked, and no one pushed the button of a boom box so that the rest of them could hear “Wind Beneath My Wings” as applied to some departed hero. But he was no hero. He was only a man, and not very good at it.

As she drew him nearer, he tried to catch a glimpse of himself in the glossy shine of her teeth. At least he’d get a procession out of this, even if one that had already been there, waiting for him. He looked at them accusingly, as though they were silent witnesses to secret knowledge. As his sphincter loosened, his gray matter produced nonsensical last thoughts. Teeth, he called out with it, why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you tell me this would happen if I faltered?

That gleaming row of disdainful white might not have had anything to say during the course of their entire relationship, but her tongue had said plenty. It had proclaimed the truth left and right, front and back. “Hear ye, hear ye.” There had been no more honest town crier; none more straightforward. He should have known better.

Instead, he had lied, one fabrication after another falling from his lips into the basket of her understanding. He missed all the signals; he missed the abacus of her mind keeping tally of all inconsistencies until it added it all up, and offered up reality. All those words he had said through the years. Maybe he had meant some of them, maybe all. None of it made up for the damage. All of it had ever only been so much air.