writing in a tiny book
My 2cm-tall book, with my 1mm handwriting. Dime for scale.

Second day of my giantess having left. I’m better today. I’ll be better going forward, I’m sure. I had a bit of an emotional outburst last night, you know, once the reality hit.

Nothing like a huge piece of your life disappearing, to show you all the other gaps and lacks in your life. When you’re only four inches tall, the basket into which you pile all your eggs is itself not very large. Hah. One egg will fill it.

I can start with getting back into hobbies. My giantess left me with plenty of food, lots of threads taped to any tables or counters I’ll need to access. Really, I should look at this as retirement rather than empty-nest syndrome.

So much time on my hands…

Calligraphy’s in order. I requested a stack of miniature blank books (thank Goddess for hobby boutiques), and I can just manage the ink cartridge of a 0.25mm Slicci, with the last two-thirds of it snipped off. The extremely fine pens have more things that can go wrong with them: in this picture you can see the ink going away as I wrote with the black ink pen. Actually the ball in the tip became jammed and won’t spin to take up more ink. I broke a fingernail trying to loosen it, before resigning myself to a more colorful hue of ink. Whatever. One does what one can with what one has.

grappling hook and line
Light enough to haul around, strong enough to haul me up.

It sounds strange, I know, for a tiny person to have become entirely reliant upon a giantess. For one, what are the odds I could find someone so gentle and understanding? I lucked out there. After that, what could I possibly have to offer her? All normal guys are over 100′ tall to me. They can drive, they can reach things on tall shelves (or any shelf), they can give substantial hugs. What do I have to offer?

She said she liked my conversation. She said we talked about things normal-sized guys never asked about, never thought about. I find it hard to believe that alone offset my endless needs, like chopping food up finely or orchestrating clever bathroom facilities, but who can know the mind of a giantess? Certainly not me.

The house is awfully quiet now. The power’s been cut, because why pay for electricity for an entire house if no one’s there? Not “no one”, but at my height and with my needs, I hardly count as a person. The only concern was the fridge, but I can’t open the door so it will retain cold long enough. My grappling hook will carry me up to a small opening we drilled at the top of the fridge, insulated plastic flaps to keep out the warm air, and then I can rappel down to the food in storage. Cold sinks, you see, so we didn’t want my portal at the bottom or all the cold air would flow out like invisible water and the perishables would perish. This way, I can eat whatever’s in there for a couple weeks, and then I switch to dry rations. There really was no elegant solution for opening cans, so… jerky and cereal it is.

No stereo, like she used to leave on when she went to work. I can hear traffic outside, just the intermittent car in this sleepy neighborhood. I can hear a single branch brushing against the siding on windy days. There’s a dog a house or two over: the story I tell myself is that he’s an intelligent mutt who only barks when there’s real need. Not one of those horrible collector’s dogs, a teacup chihuahua or whatever, just yipping endlessly due to a chromosome failure.

Once in a while I can hear the neighbors to the north of us… of me. They were yelling the other night, the girl was really screaming, but then I remembered they’re sports fans. They were having a good time, getting emotional and whooping it up. Probably hugging each other at each score. Something I could never do with my giantess. We tried to watch an exciting show together once, she nearly crushed me under her hip. Sitting in her lap, I still bounced around and got thrown a couple times. So we decided we couldn’t watch certain shows, she just got too excitable. We watched dramas and documentaries together. I felt bad because we both love comedies, but she gets uproarious…

oversized washcloth
Not me in the picture, but that’s what I look like in my washcloth.

Well. I’m not watching anything now.

We’re still in the warm season, so the nights won’t be too bad. She was knitting washcloths for a while, I use them as quilts. There’s one in every room where we hang out. Used to. I still do, just…

Her scent is everywhere. I couldn’t sleep in our bed last night because the pillow was full of her shampoo and whatever product she uses, and the mattress was just full of her. The bodily oils that wick away into the sheets, the sweat on hot nights, the dead skin cells. I laid on her side of the bed, where her heavy and huge body has been wearing a divot into the mattress. If it had been a little warmer, I could’ve believed I was curling up in the small of her back, so redolent was my landscape with her aroma.

I cried for about half an hour, until my muscles couldn’t take it anymore. Slowly, slowly pulled my shit together, dragged myself off the mattress, and trudged out of the bedroom for good. I can’t be in there. I can’t do it.

She’s still everywhere. I went to the bathroom, and I could almost see her huge bare feet padding across the white tile and grout around me, see the way the nail on her big toe rolls when she reaches over me for the floss. Down the hallway, I can almost feel the air move when her calves used to pass over me and her hips would go rolling away like a fleeting dream. One quick flash of a grin at me, yards and yards overhead, before she turned the corner.

The kitchen, at least, smells like everything else. Spices, compost, dish soap, charred whatever in the base of the oven. She dominated the kitchen, that was her domain exclusively, but I was rarely in there when she was (one incident with a gas blockage in a burner was enough for both of us) so… I can do what I have to in there without too much heartbreak.

It would’ve been easier if she could have explained the fact of me to one of her friends, but you’ve got to have really understanding friends for that. In her group, she was the empathetic, understanding one. The others… one was a man-hater, so she’s out; one was artistic and flighty, we couldn’t trust her to be responsible for me; another just loved to drink too much and cause trouble. Untenable. One of them might’ve worked, she was curious and understanding, but she insisted on bringing her goddamned barky dogs with her everywhere she went. Wasn’t worth the gamble. Instead, we rigged up this system of ropes and food storage, which should get me through the first month.

She’ll be back. I just have to survive long enough to wait for her.

I just have to recall how I lived without her.

Photo by Gerritt Tisdale from Pexels

Speculative fiction author within size fantasy, artist, musician.

6 Comment on “Living Without a Giantess

  1. Pingback: Living Without a Giantess, 2 « Aborigen GTS

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