You know how I said that Amazons were equally likely to adopt an eighteen year old or an eighty year old? Admittedly, there’s truth to that. What I failed to mention, however, is they also tend to prefer our women over men. There are studies that suggest that as far as “adoptions” go, women outnumber men two to one, closer to three in some locales. And it’s no big secret that when an Amazon can’t find a Little girl to take…they have a tendency to just “make” their own. As a precaution, I learned to cut my own hair and make up for talent or style with a ton of hair gel.

I leaned forward and mugged a bit in the mirror. Flecks of gray were dotting my hair. Salt and ketchup. I smiled a little. A typical Amazon might adopt an eighty year old or an eighteen year old Little, but their special brand of crazy was more likely to be triggered by a cuter, younger, more babyish looking Little. Those flecks of gray and white were practically battle scars.

“I might just make it to being a silver fox, yet,” I’d think to myself.

Body hair. Goatee. Short and neat hair. A penis. Those were all things that played to my advantage out there in the Big Big Amazonian world. Even my name was supposed to be a shield.

Oh yikes. I almost forgot. Forgive my manners.

Hi.

I’m Clark. My last name? It’s complicated.

My parents gave me the name “Clark” as its own kind of protection. “Clark” is one of those names that’s just awful for a kid. Like “Dane” or “Glenn” or “Harlan.” Hard to imagine a baby with that kind of name. If you’ve read this far, I think you see my point.

I grew up hearing the story about my poor uncle Thomas on my mother’s side, lost to us before I was born. He didn’t die. An Amazon just thought that he looked cute and that “Tommy” was more fitting for him. As far as anyone in the family knows, he’s still being forced to breastfeed and shit his pants.

A name wasn’t going to stop any of the giants from taking me, but just like everything else about me at that point, it was another layer to prevent any unhealthy interests in me ever taking root. Just like the carefully ironed dress shirt that I put on everyday, each little piece of my appearance was another button holding everything together.

It wasn’t fair. I knew this as I pulled up a neatly pressed pair of slacks and went for my belt. It wasn’t fair that every day I went to work, I was in my own weird way putting myself in a surreal kind of danger. It wasn’t fair that my custom loafers had lifts in them, in the hopes that I might be able to pass as a short Tweener instead of an average-to-tall Little. It wasn’t fair that I had to basically prove myself as an adult every single day while other, bigger, taller people got the benefit of the doubt and then some.

It wasn’t fair, but it was fact.

I finished tying my tie- a risky maneuver if it ever went askew, but it always paid off.

“Breakfast time,” Catherine said, bringing me my breakfast shake. It was high in protein and had a tendency to constipate me, but that was a bonus as far as I was concerned. Didn’t hurt that it tasted like chocolate, either.

An artist, Catherine worked from home, never letting anyone know her actual size. Most people wouldn’t believe a Little could do anything artistic beyond scribbling with crayons, but that’s just propaganda there. She had an eye for detail and the manual dexterity to make absolutely beautiful and intricate works of art. She could cook, but neither of us wanted to get up early enough to make or eat breakfast, so we’d developed this little ritual instead.

I took my shake, peeled off the seal on the bottle and chugged it down. “Thanks, hon,” I said. “You’re the best.”

“I know, hon,” she yawned. We never called each other “babe,” always opting for older-sounding terms of endearment. “Love ya.” A quick peck on the cheek, and then I was out the door and on my way to work.

So here’s the thing: looking back on it, I couldn’t tell you the exact date this happened. I’ve long forgotten it. Not because anything made me forget, but that’s because much of my life BEFORE was largely forgettable; blessedly, blessedly forgettable. If anything, the above sequence of events might not ever have happened exactly the way I described them above, but they all happened at some point. This was my morning, most Mondays through Fridays, barring summer vacation or the occasional three-day weekend.

Some, I know might criticize or try to discredit me as I write this- call me an unreliable narrator, only with smaller, more patronizing word choices. Typical Amazons. What I am is flawed, just like anyone without a computer for a brain.