Title The Story of the Smaller Side

Decided to take a break from my gargantuan projects to rewrite a story idea I had as a little kid. See what you think.

It’s hard being half an inch tall.

I often wonder how it is for the Humans, being tall, strong, invulnerable; a force of nature. They rule the world with their constructions and their machines. And there are millions of them, in their lavish houses, in their sleek monstrous vehicles that make the ground quiver. They rule the world.

I scurry from picture frame to vase, lower rope I scavenged from one of their sewing kits, and rappel down to the floor below. I scavenge what food I can from them. Flour for bread; water from leaky pipes. I eke out my existence in the walls of their refuge; a refuge that is a dangerous wasteland for me.

I do not have it as hard as some; I live in a Human house. So many do not, preferring to take their chances outside. No heat, no protection from predators, and each year the ground is blanketed in hundreds of feet of snow. I try not to think of it, as I sneak around. Life is difficult enough, without thinking of those who have it worse than you.

There are cities, whole cities, built into the nooks and crannies and forgotten places of the Human world. Rocks coated with lichen farms and tiny tents. Deep in the woods, real cities prosper, though they are always hidden. The grassy spaces between the thundering Human highways, are thick with our settlements, since no Human ever goes there. I was born in one of those cities, a long time ago. Twenty-four years ago.

They named me Roy, making my full name Roy Brown. Apparently, he was a Human war hero. My parents were not war heroes. The Regudai drove us apart when I was very young. I took an airship to Pringfield, then struck out on my own. That was ten years ago. I do not even know if they are still alive.

I am not alone, fortunately. There are a few who live with me, in the tiny hole in the wall behind the vast machine the Humans call the microwave. Eric and Abby, Fellet and Mellia. They, too, are refugees, the ones who stuck together when the rest of us were scattered. Sometimes we gather together, watching the human television when they leave it on. In their faces I can see traces of the loss, and it pains me wondering why it had to happen. So much is against us in the world. How can the Regudai find a place in their hearts for selfishness and cruelty?

We survive together, hide together, and live together. We never let ourselves be seen; to be seen would be to die. And it was in obeying that vital commandment, that my most interesting journey began.

I awoke to the sound of the door slamming shut; it rivaled thunder in volume. It meant that the father and two children had gone to work and to school. I lay still for a few moments, basking in warm sleepiness, before getting up to eat.

I had toast for breakfast, warmed over my stove. We had constructed it by siphoning electricity from the wires in the wall. It had been a delicate task, but Eric had been an electrician in the city, and he knew what to do. We all had our own stoves.

I ate in the lean-to I live in, a small but comfortable structure. No door, just a curtain hanging down. There are three lean-tos; one for Eric and Abby, one for Fellet and Mellia, and one for me. I enjoy the solitude, but sometimes when I hear them at night, or in the morning, their closeness makes me lonely. But, far as I know, no other minipeople inhabit this Human house.

After I ate, I gathered my bag of supplies, my hunting bow, and a few arrows. Our group once had a sixth person, a young woman named Harriet. When we first came to the human home, a spider attacked from behind, biting her on the leg. We fought the creature, and killed it, but too late for Harriet. She died gasping in my arms, from whatever venom the monster carried.

Since then, we have always kept our weapons close by.

I left without a word, climbing out of the bent fissure in the plaster wall, onto the countertop. Even with all the Humans gone from the house, I was cautious, always staying within a few paces of cover. It was paranoia, but that paranoia had saved my life in the past.

We had set bait for ants a few days before; a bit of sugar and water in a dish will attract them if they are around. Ants are a delicacy for some; for us, they are just another source of meat. That was my goal that morning; to wait until one came near, and shoot it.

I climbed over a bottle cap, onto a battery, and from there I clambered over a pile of detritus the humans left strewn about on the countertop, a small mountain of miscellaneous items. I knew what some of them were for; others I had no clue. Humans seemed to have so many useless items. To me at least.

It was when I had climbed up about twenty feet, that the door opened. A spike of panic shot from my scalp to the pit of my stomach. I tried to scramble back down and out of sight, but slipped and fell. The slip of paper I stood on began to slide; desperately, I tried to roll free of it, but before I could it had slipped over the edge, and I could do nothing but cling to it, my eyes squeezed shut as I plummeted, waiting for death.