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Shrunken man stories

Shrunken Man Stories
 Last seen 24 minute


There is a body of films that feature miniature people. The concept of a human shrinking in size has existed since the beginning of cinema, with early films using camera techniques to change perceptions of human sizes. Before digital effects became commonplace, composite screens were used to create the illusion of miniature people.

Name: Lynsey

Years: 31
Iris color: Cold hazel eyes
I like to drink: Red wine
What I like to listen: Folk
Stud: None

At first, I thought that his pants—the hems curtained his ankles—were simply sagging low at the waist. I no longer had to alter hems and seams. At your age I meanshe said. Even Shrunken man stories, we still enjoy a morning grope on Sundays with regular, if now routine, care.

Even for the record books. He now notes, for instance, that his size is an unexpected gift: he can see things he never saw before. That he might return to his old self. Much tinier even than he was as a boy. Our hands pancake-stacked. The paths of stars.

She drew a sample of blood, and after a brief consultation with the doctor, Morris was referred to a neurologist. Especially from toddlers on the loose. Each feeble twitch. Two weeks later, the tests with the neurologist came back inconclusive, and Morris and I both noticed that his clothes, once tight around his ripening middle-aged edges, had grown visibly baggy. We cursed.

I laugh at his joke. We held hands until I had no choice but to hold his hand, suddenly child-sized, in my own. More tests than I can remember or name. I tucked my sewing machine back under its cover with a sigh of relief. Sure, his size was unprecedented.

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And, letting my logic play out, if Morris knew he was singing—which is to say, if my once transparent husband was now skilled at pretense—was it also possible that he knew what caused the onset of his condition? He now appreciates his tiny place in the universe: how small it is. As for his kid-sized, baby-sized, then doll-sized clothes? Sometimes, he wonders, if his inexplicable change is the result of an intervention by nature: if everyone were as tiny as he, after all, the human impact on the planet would be diminished at once.

His monologue never wavers. A smaller man. For the time being, Morris was an unusually tiny ant. My husband is squirming again.

Shrunken stories

Of course I feel him down there, all his obstinate wriggling. Instead, he watches from inside the house in the comfort of our window seat as I take my time cutting down the grass—row by row, inch by inch—a pattern that now marks my life. An abrupt, sewery end.

Did his altered size represent a much-needed environmental shift? His favorite food is still soft-boiled eggs. Gestures are amplified—my subtlest movements carry enormous meaning.

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A pop tune, maybe? His every gesture, once familiar, has become strange to me. He never looked like a birthday balloon slowly losing air.

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Get it? Cosmic rays. For all intents and purposes, my husband is now just an unusually tiny man. I stare at him. Try to make the list of symptoms add up. Spiritual and alien visitations. Every leg spasm.

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Poor Morris. Then the creeping loss went exponential. We became blistered and worn from trying to outpace the inevitable. No disease or toxin. He was just a new man each day.

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He has the oversized confidence of a miniature man. He appreciates how long it takes to turn the of a book and so re every word closely; how long to eat a piece of cheese, so he savors every crumb. Knees clenched, my tiny husband rockets off my leg in the miniature swing I deed for him—arcing out, rappelling hip to hind—spelunking my most sensitive hollows. What shocked me every morning?

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Everyone laughs at his jokes: you have to laugh when a tiny man jokes. He considered his mild hangover. We dodged and banked and took curves too tightly. Oddly apart. One day, Morris was awakened in our bed by a tingle in his fingers, a mild electric buzzing in his earlobes and the tips of his toes, which, after soaking in our newly tiled bath, he decided had nothing to do with Date Night the prior evening.

We played it Shrunken man stories. Once Morris stopped shrinking, there was hope, for a time, that the process might reverse itself. A reduced man. Dew point fluctuations. Strange spider bites. But my husband recalls nothing odd worth sharing. Drives and flights to specialists out of state. They review the notes in his file. Minus the buff plasticized muscles or the full head of hair. Pillowing the midlife insulation I still call my hip bone with his doll-sized chicken legs, he soon rolls off, founders, rests. The frame beneath: sinewy, knobby-kneed, tough.

A tiny man? I finally knew how small to trim a short stack of quilted, two-ply TP for him.

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But the smile is new or, more precisely, sits anew on his now-reduced face. Within a week, the loss was five inches.

See a problem?

At the tiny vacant smile on his face. But, for the first time in a year, my learning curve was set to pause. We all shrink eventually. Having fun. Soon, it was ten.

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What size morsels to pile on our newly purchased toy store plates. Morris says all kinds of things while he rides at my hip. A year later, the array of specialists remains stumped. Like an unwanted dog that wanders out an open gate, might the universe propel Morris to his natural conclusion? A gut-wrenching caloric uptick for Morris. Barometric shifts. All of them arranged by size in neat rows. Even his history of radiation is normal for a middle-aged man from Denver with two long-healed childhood fractures and average tooth decay. Or atomic.

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A man who had the same face at two hundred pounds that he did at one hundred twenty. For the first time in a year, I cautiously considered an incautious idea: was it possible that, though Morris said otherwise, he was happy living as an undersized man? And yet, proportionately, still how large. Even time seems to pass more slowly. There were pills and infusions. His preferred sport: baseball.

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