A collaboration. Or is it a commission for a collaboration? I’m too confused to tell. In any case, I get the better end of the deal.
As to why a gentle giantess would create such an image?
“Best leave it unsolved.” /Nigel
Isn’t it fun?
When someone borrows something you put together?
When you collage an image of something you love, and someone sees fit to use it for expressing their ideas about a world tiny in their eyes?
It’s pretty awesome.
The above image is mine. I created it from images I found on Google.
Of some books, and of Andrew Cooper, a model.
And the someone used it as a header for their Tumblr, which I found just now, when I searched for “shrunken man”.
But now, for the meat of this blog entry.
Tell me the good part again.
Is it when I found you, and shrank you?
Because I saw you, and thought, “Yeah.”
“That’s the guy.”
“He’s the one.”
“The only one that has to be small.”
Other ones may or may not be small, but he has to be.
Or was it after, when I told you I’d done it, and you screamed?
You screamed and yelled at me.
For a long time.
For months, or days, or hours.
Or one that felt like the other.
But I took it, and I grabbed you, and I showed you.
That it had to be you, that it could be no one else.
Is that the good part?
Or was it when I wrapped my hand around you?
And made you travel my world in eighty minutes?
Did you like that?
I didn’t even know your name, but I knew you.
Did you know me? Did you want to know me?
Was I the good part?
Or was it when you slept and dreamed?
All the bruises and the scrapes.
You know I didn’t mean to, and you didn’t mean to.
A world of hurt in unmeant meanings.
A world of pain that was the good part.
A world of me written with the ink of you.
Or was the good part when you woke up?
When I woke up and saw the words.
The truth in everything you said.
Is the truth the good part?
Is the heart the good part?
My heart was in my hand.
Did you feel it pound around you when I squeezed?
Or is now the good part?
I think that’s what you’d say.
Now when there is an open space.
And your ground trembles no more.
And your mind is full of your own voice.
And you belong to yourself again.
Is now your good part?
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.
Nope, I see very little chance of getting any sleep right now. I did doze off a while back, but woke up 45 minutes later, fully awake, and there’s nothing for it. I’m listening to very good music written by a good friend, who is some kind of genius composer, and can write incredibly brilliant songs in a matter of minutes, without any effort. I wish you could listen to it, because the lyrics are a very simple, direct message that could have been destroyed by the wrong tune, but my friend enveloped it in beautiful notes in… what… less than two hours, and what’s left is something that keeps playing in my head.
The song is about love, of course. What else is worth writing and singing about, except giantesses and tiny men and people that find themselves changing in size? I don’t know that there is anything else, except a good sandwich. And buildings. I love buildings. I love climbing them inside and out. I love heights. I suffer from no vertigo… imagine a giantess afraid of heights? There’s a story there, and I’m sure someone’s written it… I can’t remember who, but it was someone important.
When I was less giant, about 75 feet in height, my dad would put me next to him in his truck, and would take me to work with him. I had to wear a helmet that was far too big for my already gigantic head, and while he carried me, he’d supervise work that had been done and continued to be done on a building or homes or whatever was being constructed. I can’t remember his words, but I do recall the tone of command in his voice. I’d struggle to remove that ridiculously large hat from my head, and he’d tell me to keep it on. I remember the smell of metal and cement and tiles; the scent of steel coming from the building’s skeleton; the crunch of debris under his shoes as he walked. And I loved it. I knew, even at that pre-verbal age, that something important was happening: a building was being born.
So imagine my shock when I entered the giantess community, and witnessed my beloved buildings (any of them, really – even the ugly ones are pretty) being abused and tormented in ways too terrible to relate here. But you know what I’m talking about. Every time I encountered one of those images I’d close my eyes and whisper a promise. If I ever grow hundreds of feet, or thousands of feet or miles or universes, I will make it my mission to “discourage” any giantesses from assaulting buildings in that manner. And by discouraging, I mean the kind that is immediate, and terminal. It’s the only way to get it to stop, since talking and blogging about it does very little to forward my cause.
Everyone seems to disagree, but buildings are not for sexy times. Can you picture it? All the gargoyles and sharp corners, and the radio antenna? And all the cracking glass? No, no, no! Those sorts of materials are things that don’t belong inside very delicate, tender tissue. What belongs in there? I’m sure that depends on the giantess, and I’m certainly not going to discuss such crass topics here, but I’m sure a building does not go there. That’s simply not how I raised myself. Shit. These disagreeable thoughts are killing my buzz. I’ll be right back.
(A minute later…)
There. Much better. All I’m saying is, if you have to watch a sweet, tender-fleshed giantess go at something giant, then peel and polish her a tree, for chrissake! So easy nowadays. Look, sure, I can’t possibly claim I’ve never arranged myself fetchingly against the facade of a building in order to get some flirting done. There have even been some times I might have accidentally shaved a few feet off a building with a wayward elbow or knee because I was distracted, but that’s always some little guy’s fault, and never mine. And there was that one time, a very long time ago, I…
As you were.
P.S. Also, did you realize the… shit. The collage shadows are all wrong. Oh, hell.
What do you do when you’re having a bad day? What do I do? Sometimes I drink if I can, and lately even when I shouldn’t. I’ve decided to stop that, so wish me luck. Just don’t be so optimistic about it. There is one thing that annoys me to no end when I’m feeling down, and that’s unbridled optimism. You know what I mean. Someone sees you’re feeling a bit out of sorts, and they start telling you about all the wonderful things in your life, and how you are so lucky, and don’t you feel your luck, and life is wonderful, and you suck for being sad about what couldn’t possibly amount to anything, when compared to what they‘ve been through.
Please be optimistic at me. See what happens.
Anyway, I’m having a bad day, so instead of drinking or doing things I can’t do, I’ll do what I can, which is… to try and write about something. In this case, that something is dreams and stuff. About a week ago I had a dream that can only be described as… you know when you go to DA to look for fun mouth-play images, and you stumble upon something… not… right. Something that looks like…
…and I understand people are into body inflation, but every time it stumbles into my path, I want to punch a wall. Anyway, in my dream, someone, a friend or a family member, I really can’t remember, all I remember is that it was a woman… she was asking everyone around her to help her, because she knew that at a certain point in the night, a witch was going to show up at her house, and kill her. So I said, sure. Defend the helpless. How I roll. So I was standing in her living room late at night, and at the stroke of midnight a form began to appear near a wall. Dark wisps of smoke whirled together and formed a human shape that looked like the evil witch in “Snow White”, except this witch was “real” and not a cartoon.
She cackled and her nose began to grow longer, Pinocchio style, as it reached for me. Supposedly, as soon as the tip of her nose reached me, I’d drop dead. Is that what happened? Nope. As soon as her nose tip was within my grasp, I opened up my mouth, and began to eat her. Nose first. Of course when she realized what was happening, she began to scream. She screamed until I swallowed her face, and head, and neck, and… well, you get it. I ate the entire witch, and then looked at my stomach. It looked full, but not inflation full.
I don’t really remember the other dream, except to say there was a glass container of shrinking formula in it, but it looked like yellow, lumpy vomit. And Arnold Schwarzenegger was driving me and a few other people (and the container) somewhere, down a dark road, in the middle of a moonlit night. It was creepy, but I was OK, because I can eat witches.
Well, that’s it. I really want a drink right now, but it’s fucking Monday night, asshole. So I’m going to go take a walk and see if I can get into a fight with anyone. But I can’t do that either, because I’m a mom, and I can’t be in jail. I’ll go see if I can watch a movie where enough people explode, or become zombies, or both. Wish me luck.
Just don’t be… enthusiastic about it. Do this when you wish me well:
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.”
“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?”
“C’mon. I’ll show you. Let’s ride my hands to the kitchen. I’m going to cook for you.”
Because it does happen. It might have happened to me, if I’d awakened to life in a world where shrunken men existed, and the one I kept angered me one day. Maybe I’d shake him once too hard, or kick him in the gut with my big toe, and off he’d go, flying across the room, and landing in a frightening heap. In such a situation, am I the type of person that wants to lose him in the system to the type of foster care that will be more likely to kill him that his own careless owner?
What if I promise I’ll never ever do it again? It’s just that… he made me so angry….
Original post, until it gets deleted, or I, blacklisted:
It’s time for the next contest, and this time it isn’t about writing a cruel story, or a gentle one. It can be either, or both, or neither, as long as the main character is a being’s behind. And by a “being” I mean a giantess, giant, woman, man, furry (does anyone even use that word anymore?), robot, object of any size and gender, in possession of an ass, and all its peripherals. Now, if you’d like to blame anyone for this quarter’s contest, blame me, because it was my idea. I wanted to make sure it had been my idea, so I had to look back, way back in time, to find the pertinent words. Here’s what I said on Monday, December 26 of 2016, during a Twitter conversation with my friend Aborigen, the mastermind behind all these contests:
“I think we should do a butt month”*
He laughed, and agreed, and then I wondered,
And it was settled. Soon after I started calling it “Butty July”, and the name stuck. It’s the perfect name for a contest that refuses to take itself too seriously. It’s a playful name, because these writing contests exist to be fun, and to unite us as writers. I’ve always claimed that the size community is more than just a masturbation machine. I’ve been wrong before, and many times, but I don’t think I’m wrong about that. Some of us are here to make something else happen. That something else can be many different things, and it can change from day to day, but my own Something Else hardly ever does: I tell stories. It’s one of the ways in which I bring to life who I really am. I’ve already asked Aborigen to add me to the list of writers who will create a bottom-related entry (or two). If you’d like to do the same, contact him:
Or send him a direct message through Twitter.
Here’s the link to the contest’s page: bit.ly/ButtyJuly17
*Notice how I cleverly insert the word “we”, as though I have any ownership whatsoever over these contests.
I was at a bus stop
The kind that crumbles in the sun, even though it has a cover for shade
When she sat next to me
And started talking
At first I didn’t respond
Because sometimes, if you don’t respond, they go away
But then she said,
“They don’t have hearts.”
I asked, “Who doesn’t?”
And she said, “In the factory, they are leaving out the hearts.”
I didn’t know what that meant
I should have left then
But our bus was here
And she got up and I gave her a helping hand. I didn’t mean to. I just did
She liked that I did that
And told me the rest
“Those tiny men they sell now,” she said
“They don’t come with hearts anymore.
They figured out how to keep them going without hearts.”
“But that’s not possible,” I said
“Everyone needs a heart that beats,” I said
“They don’t,” she continued, even though my mind was already looking away
“Because they are so small,” she said, as though she was saying “I have cancer.”
“How do you know?” I asked
She looked at me as though I had not been listening
“I work there. I worked there when they still had hearts, but now they don’t.”
“Have you seen this yourself?” I asked, still hoping she was drunk or blind or dead
“Yes. I had to assemble some myself. It’s not that hard. The juice and the egg and the glass…”
I didn’t understand, but I did
“So they are coded to grow and develop and emerge as tiny adults, but without a heart.”
“Now you are getting it. They act a little different too. It chills my heart.”
I didn’t want to understand, but I did
I went home, and I looked at him
I picked him up, and I pressed my ear to his tiny toy-sized chest. Nothing
“Do you have a heart?” I asked him. It
“I love you,” it said
“Do you have a heart?” I repeated
A little louder this time. Words with a beat, trying to jumpstart his, just in case
“I love you,” it repeated. I tried to feel its pulse
Nothing. I got nothing
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.