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I don’t remember much of my previous life—undoubtedly a side-effect of the shrinking process—but I do remember those deepest parts of myself that are the most permanently enduring. I am, and have always been, a loner. Most recently, I was a convicted criminal, and soon afterward, a fugitive. I scarcely remember my motivation, or what nefarious act I had committed (and even if I did, I would not be surprised by my own unwillingness to say), but I do remember making the choice that lead me to my current state of being: just slightly larger than an ant, scraping together a primitive semblance of living in a local park. I fear the imperfect justice of my fellow man more than I fear solitude or death, and so this choice was a simple one to make.

I was given a serum by the sympathetic owner of a local curio shop. I am torn between expressing my appreciation for his kindness, and not wanting to implicate him as an accomplice to my unlawful evasion. Perhaps not being associated with one such as myself is the greatest repayment I can give. Indeed, this feeling was one I held for most people, or else I might not have volunteered for this self-imposed expulsion. But that belief was shaken the first time I saw her.

I was returning to my camp after a morning of scavenging, walking through the forest of grass near the edge of a concrete path. I saw her sitting on a park bench on the opposite side. She was not the first attractive woman I had seen since my exile began, but something about her made me pause. She sat with her feet and legs together and at an angle, a book in her lap, demure and unpretentious. She wore a red dress with white polka dots and matching shoes, open-toed mules. Her blond hair, loose, save for a simple black band that circumscribed the top of her head, framed her lovely face on either side. There she sat, reading in the late afternoon sun, not moving except to occasionally turn the page of her book. Each of her hands was adorned with several rings and bracelets, and they moved with a simple and practiced ease. I watched her deep blue eyes scan left and right across the page, then back again. Left to right, back, and over again. Her red lips would slowly curl into a lopsided smile when she reached certain interesting passages. I stood at the border of the grass, not daring to climb up onto the vast plane of concrete, which served to separate our worlds as if it were an impenetrable barrier. She, a monolith, a monument to unassuming beauty; me, a diminutive man, part insect and part nothing.

She sat there for about an hour, and when the sun began to set she put her book aside to watch. It was then that I remembered we were on the side of a hill, and that from her viewpoint, she would see an excellent view of the city, and, if it were a clear day, all the way to the ocean. When most of the light finally faded, she picked up her book and rose to her tremendous, imposing height. I watched her naked calves flex as she found her balance, her dress rippled in a gentle breeze. She was taller than average, probably around six feet tall. I felt as though I had to turn my eyes upward ninety degrees to look up at her distant face. She turned and began to walk away, and I braced myself against the chest-high concrete slab as each of her prodigious footsteps shook and earth and rumbled to my very core. Her long strides quickly carried her away. I stared into the horizon long after she disappeared, then returned to my camp, which was in a hollow space beneath a tree root.

I assumed that I would never see her again, but I was wrong. She was there the following day, in the same place. She sat on the same bench, book in her lap. It was an unseasonably cool day, and I was hugging my meager leaf-coverings to myself as I walked along. She wore flat-soled brown boots, jeans and a fur-lined corduroy jacket. It was already late in the afternoon when I arrived, and it wasn’t long before she stood and thundered away in the advancing twilight.

The next day I was waiting for her. I sat at the edge of the grass jungle, gnawing on a tough-but-edible piece of root I had found early that morning. She arrived at about four o’clock (I had gotten the hang of estimating time by the direction of shadows). She wore a blue dress that day, and black tights on her long legs, ending in simple black flats. She held her book such that I could see the cover: an anthology of short stories by Adolfo Casares. It was not an especially long tome, but she read slowly. I imagined that she savored every word and poetic turn of phrase, that she gazed at the evocative imagery with her mind’s eye with the same care that I wished she would use to look upon me. The myriad color palette of the coming crepuscule played against the sky and scattered clouds. The sunset must have been magnificent that day, for when she looked up, her asymmetrical smile—already so familiar to me—brightened her crimson lips. We stayed like that for some time, she, watching the light of the eventide, and I, watching the same light fall and caress her face. I imagined myself at her level, perhaps sitting on her shoulder, or standing in the center of her upturned palm, surrounded by her warmth. I would still look upon her rather than the sunset, for I would have the more breathtaking view.

When the moment passed, she collected her things and stood. I wanted to run to her then, but I knew that it would do no good. I would never be able to keep pace with her colossal stride, nor even stand against the tremors of her impacting footsteps. And so, all too quickly, she was gone again. I would have to wait for another chance.

That evening, in my diminutive hovel, I thought of her tirelessly. I knew that my time with her was limited for any number of reasons. Perhaps she would stop coming when she finished her book, or if the weather turned cold. Perhaps I would meet an untimely but not unexpected end to any number of natural dangers. It was then that I realized that she had rekindled in me something I had long since forgotten: desire. Not just for another, but for life itself. I had long since considered myself dead so that I would be able to do what was necessary for survival. But surviving and living are not the same. I would take the next opportunity I had and I would go to her.

I waited for her the following day, but she did not appear. Nor the next, or the day after that. My heart sank. I feared that I had already missed my last opportunity, but I refused to give up the spark of hope that she had rekindled in me. Perhaps by the generosity of some otherworldly virtue, she had graced me with enough time to prepare a plan.

The following week, on an especially beautiful and temperate day, she returned. We arrived at the same time. I from the South, she from the North. She wore the same polka dot dress as when I first saw her. In that moment even her rumbling footsteps were trumped by the pounding of my heart. I waited until she had settled into her favored seat, then sprung into action. As I ran to her, she seemed to grow even more imposing and monolithic. The length of her calves alone were more than I could fit within my field of view. I could smell her, hear the creak of her shoes as her massive toes flexed against the strap of her sandals. I could feel even her slightest movement reverberate through the ground. She was the whole universe to me, for her mere presence dominated my every conscious sensation.

With great effort I managed to tear my attention away from her and set about the plan I had spent the last several days preparing. I gathered my materials from a cache I had stored beneath the bench: hundreds of torn bits of leaf, light brown to stand out against the dark pavement. I took as many as I could carry in my arms and spent the better part of an hour spelling my appeal for salvation at her feet: hello. The height of the H alone was twenty paces tall and required three trips. It was a pathetic and feeble endeavor, but no more futile than hoping my prayers would reach the ears of God.

When at last I had finished my message, I looked back up to her colossal form and began waving, jumping, shouting with a voice I hadn’t used in years to beseech her to turn her eyes in my direction. Instead she continued to trace the lines of her book, left to right, back, and over again. I continued to call out to her, when suddenly I was interrupted by a chilling sound. The thrumping drum-fire that could only be an approaching jogger. I turned to see her advancing down the path in our direction. I could do nothing as the woman’s thunderous footfalls pummeled the earth. She passed wide of where I stood, but the gale-force wind of her passing scattered the leaves from half of my sign and tore the breath away from my screams of protest. The jogger receded as quickly as my hopes.

Falling to my hands and knees in despair, I scrambled to salvage what I could of my message. I was straightening the ruined E when I began to feel a sensation long-absent from my current life, but all too familiar from the past: the feeling of someone watching. With trembling knees I turned to look up at my muse. There, at the apex of the sky was her radiant face and cerulean eyes staring directly at me. I stumbled backward beneath the weight of her gaze. Her red lips moved, curling into the lopsided smile I had dreamt of for so long. My own mouth agape, I waved at her with both arms.

Her smile grew wider. I trembled with the earth as she began to move, watching in stunned awe as she shifted her leg, raising her foot just slightly off the ground. The textured tread of her shoe eclipsed her face, engulfing me in shadow. I turned to run just in time to escape the descending sole. It touched the ground with surprising lightness, but still shook me from my stride. Stumbling, I chanced to look behind and saw nothing but white polka dots on a red field before she lifted her foot once again. She tracked my movement easily, there was no hope of escape. I dove forward as I felt her foot begin to descend, riding the displaced air forward and landing in a sprawl before her toes. They towered over me, so close that I couldn’t even see the red of her nail polish. In the distance high above, she continued to look down at me with the same mildly amused smirk. This was the end.

She inched her foot forward. I flinched as the short heel of her sandal jolted the ground with its impact. Her toes came down slowly, hiding her divine face from my sight once again. The inexorable weight of her toes settled onto my legs, snapping my knees after an instant of pressure. Her foot stopped its descent. I wailed in agony. Was she being so cruel on purpose, or did she simply not realize I wasn’t fully under her sole? I was answered by the twisting of her titanic foot, jolting my mangled body left to right, back, and over again. The tearing of my flesh was accompanied by the ear-splitting discord of her sole grinding against the pavement. Finally, she slid her foot back beneath her, dragging me along with a trail of squashed intestines and viscera.

Through tear-filled and dimming eyes, I looked up at her, but she had already turned her attention back to her book. I laid before her toes, bloody and paralyzed, watching her read and occasionally turn a page. It wasn’t long before the light began to fade, and soon, she closed her book and stood up. Rising high above, and without another glance in my direction, she stepped forward, and released me from my exile.
I wrote a story?? I wrote a story!!

This is a little different from what I'd call my "normal" writing voice, but that was on purpose. Let me know what you think! 
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:iconsamholtz473:
Excellent story, good background and superb detail. You take the time to add the relevant and oh so important attention to detail that separates good stories from great ones. Plus you make the story personal so it is not robotic or abstract.

My only advice for future works would be more crushes, complete with detail, of course, and perhaps an acknowledgement that the women inflicting the damage are aware of what they are doing and enjoy it. That being said, nonchalant or unaware crush like a walkover is appealing too. After all, variety is the spice of life.

I can only hope there is more to follow.
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The Artist thought this was FAIR
9 out of 10 deviants thought this was fair.

:iconasteriskwriter:
I'll say first and foremost I enjoyed reading this. Short but detailed GTS stories have always been a pleasure of mine and in that regard this story is a great example of short but sweet.

In terms of writing and details there isn't much to say; you pretty clearly took a bit of time to make sure this was all set before posting. But in terms of content I do think the story is missing a touch. A lot of times stories like these have sparse gts content and make up for it with a crush at the end. Not that that's a bad thing but I do think a little bit more content could've helped the story. Maybe a brief daydream sequence or something. But taken as it is the story is great. Good work
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6 out of 7 deviants thought this was fair.

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:iconbullet232:
BulleT232 Featured By Owner Feb 10, 2016
Wow! I think that this story reflects in itself the entirety of macrophiliac philosophy and underlying psychology. Great work!
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:iconmichaelagb:
michaelagb Featured By Owner Sep 20, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
What an intense reading. Quite immersive : )
I felt for that tiny person. Would love to read more from you : )
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:icontiny-mk:
Tiny-Mk Featured By Owner Sep 12, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Well.. what can I say?
It's marvellous.. You have always been one of my favourite story writers from years ago, when you published "The Red Reducer" on giantesscity.
This story is outstanding to say the least! It was short but extremely intense, deep and well narrated.. especially the end. :clap:

I hope you will not take what I'm going to say as an offence, because it's actually a praise.
I think that even if your skills as 3D artist are great, you are a far better writer and it's a shame that you don't exploit these amazing skills more often.. I mean, you can find tons of people that makes 3D art here, but there just a few people that can write stories like yours.

So, beside your commissions and pictures, I hope to see you write stories more often from now on.
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:icongabrielmacanudo:
gabrielmacanudo Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2015
That was great, but i like a litle more action. But you did a great story.
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:iconamandatheforsaken:
AmandatheForsaken Featured By Owner Sep 8, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Story Tiiiiiiime!~
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:iconpakhanba:
pakhanba Featured By Owner Sep 8, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Now you're writing stories...what's to become of the world...
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:iconsomeguy1900:
someguy1900 Featured By Owner Sep 7, 2015
I liked this a lot. 
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:iconlittlespike23:
LittleSpike23 Featured By Owner Edited Sep 7, 2015
I liked it quite a bit actually :D. Now did she know you were a tiny person, and not a bug, or was that left ambiguous on purpose?
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