Vek

Too small to even *perceive* any other living entity as anything more than a vague, fleshy landmass. No recognition.

Complete isolation.

They probably forgot about you by the day's end. Yet their single act irreversibly ruined your life…

Even if you survive, somehow, as one of the countless drifting microbiota—no different than a mote of pollen—your life is, effectively, over. Robbed of the ability to cause even the smallest of changes to the outside world.

I love the idea of “being shrunken to near-nothingness” for a somewhat similar reason. A witch, on little more than an idle whim, reduces you so small that your life effectively…ends.

1/3

My enjoyment of fatal content comes less from the act of a tiny being reduced to paste and morso the wider idea of the larger party being so much more powerful that they can bring a definite end to their existence without effort—and often without awareness.

But tinies going splat is also really hot

Half-drowned breaths ragged with exertion, desperate cries lost in the splashing waves.

All only to delay the inevitable. Claimed in a single sip…

The evergreen scenario of a lone speck, desperately swimming against the waterfalling tide of a cup of coffee as it drains between two canyon-esque lips, an ocean of hot liquid disappearing into the abyss within. How their muscles ache and strain as they push against the scalding flood…

Haughty noblemen stretching to pierce the sky like the Tower of Babel, their boisterous “Ohohohoho” laugh nearly deafening their insignificant subjects.

Apathetic CEO “dismissing” her underperforming employees with a zap of a shrink ray and a *flick* into the office trash can.

I really like the opposite of role reversal (role reinforcement?)

Sometimes it really is hotter for a person who absolutely does *not* deserve any more power or status to nonetheless be far, far greater than you in every sense of the word.

Friends who use your resurrection powers as an excuse to be as careless as they want with your fragile little form, any complaints met with all the sympathy of a *shrug*.

“You came back in like…five minutes dude, chill.” Idle words as they scrape the remains of your last body onto the sidewalk.

“To be so soiled in front of the prince…humiliating…”

Quickly and obsessively scrubbed away.

Having the audacity to stain the pristine undergarments of the castle's dutiful maid with your insignificant remains after foolishly lingering just a bit too long upon his chair. The slight smudge of red met with a grimace, and a hint of confusion, once discovered.

Small enough that a single toe of the once feeble fey now seemed fit to pierce the clouds themselves, no less grand than a mountain. Their flawless features blanket the sky, an ever-stretching moon of pale flesh blocking your view of the cheap lid above—one that now traps you both…

Tossed into a fairy's bottle.

So small the seemingly flat glass of their rudimentary prison is marred with vast crevasses and cracks—some of which doubtlessly caused by the fairies' many failed attempts to escape. Thick boulders of loosened scales populate the terrain, each larger than a carriage…

Pest.

An indistinct little dot, scuttling across the table, screams lost in the vacuous, still air. Hours spent trying to garner their attention, to get help, to end the gnawing isolation of being so utterly alone…

Met with a grimace.

One soon eclipsed by a falling palm…

The desire to be so utterly microscopic that even the most innocuous motions can spell your end.

An exhale rending flesh from bone.

A light *poke* painting you across their finger tip.

Scrunching toes liquifying the unnoticed germ caught between…

An Inchling familiar employed to scour the vast expanse of a witch's curves in an attempt to locate their shrunken apprentice.

Twin moons loom over a desert of skin cells, scanning the endless dunes and valleys. Their words echo in a resounding *boom*.

“Nope. Don’t see ‘em, mistress.”

Dangled over an ocean of green liquid by a pair of ash-grey fingers, the murky depths reeking of sulfur and thyme. You struggle against the vice-like grip of the ghastly witch, yet your frantic thrashing is little better than a child’s tantrum.

their potion called for an Inchling’s soul…

Abruptly and unceremoniously smeared by a maid who would *never* hurt a fly, but is far, far too vast to perceive you as anything more than a bit of grime on his master's well-polished table—one taken care of with a quick *wipe* of his delicate fingers.

He hums softly as he continues his work.

A grimy, baggy-eyed witch deciding the rest of your short life would be better spent suffocating in the confines of his worn boot—smothered beneath a frayed sock and darkened insole—instead of chasing some unimportant aspiration or dream.

By evening he's forgotten about you.

Smothered by your partner's morning wood as they sleepily grind into the mattress, your speck-like body unfelt between their warm, rigid shaft and the soft cushion below. You hear a muffled yawn echo from beyond the suffocating fabric, followed by a deeper, more needy *grunt*.

Far…far below, a lone speck cowers within a gnarled jungle of frayed carpet fibers, deafened by the incomprehensible din echoing from his former classmates—the once lanky duo now resembling mountains of pale-pink flesh, draped in the interlocking threads of their cheap robes.

“I don't know why you keep looking, probably already stepped on him by now…”

“So what, you just wanna leave him down there?”

“What's left of him, sure.”

“Asshole.”

“I’M not the one who shrank him. Maybe don't fuck up the spell next time.”

1/2

"O-oh! I...I'm sorry...I didn't..." The apprentice mage stares in horror at the faint smudge adorning his soft fingertip—the last remnants of a shrunken classmate, smeared beyond recognition.

"I...I didn't think she'd...you'd be so..." he trailed off, fidgeting in his loose robes.

"Fragile..."

Adventuring across vast biomes and dangerous obstacles, localized entirely atop the slumbering form of the royal prince. The dense, arid forest of his golden locks. The broad pink hills and deep crevasses of his lips. The grooved canyons of his fingertips.

A fairy streaked across the surface of a windshield as if it were no better than a common bug, a flick of the wipers sending her iridescent, ethereal wings to the faded asphalt below.

Her demise, and the lingering stain, met with nothing more than a faint "ew".

Shrunken to such an infinitesimal size that it’s effectively a death sentence—your body so pathetically small you’d be crushed beneath the weight of a dust mite, or absorbed by bacteria, long before the day was up.

The scientist who shrunk you doesn't even bother to check…

I love it when size artists include microscopic grime and detritus in their stuff.

Crumbs loom like hillsides above an uneven worldscape of cheap tile, while dust paints the terrain with a field of grey boulders. Loose hairs snake across the surrounding land—wiry, yet thicker than tree trunks.

Fished out of the crevasse of your partner's cleavage with all the grace and care of retrieving a loose coin—eyes squinting in the blinding light of your shared apartment, lungs burning as you take in your first breath of clean air.

They flash you a smile. You try to stay angry.

Shrunken so small that, despite being in the same room, you are unable to recognize it. Stumbling across a jagged landscape of white, rocky material, passing loose boulders of grey filth, surrounded by a haze of indistinct shapes that, no matter how far you walked, never seemed to come into focus...

So small that, as your oblivious friend’s rear descends from on high, you can see the individual fibers that make up their sweatpants—an unkempt landmass of jutting hills interwined in incomprehensible patterns, vast gaps giving a faint peek at the weaving within.