The Littlest Dad

I swear, I dont understand why I put up with her.

Every single time, it's something different -- and like the prize idiot I am, I always relent, tell her it's okay, and be a loving and supportive husband.

But I swear, my patience is quickly coming to an end.

First, they made sense... well, as much sense as anything, I suppose. She'd be out all night and come home with stories about... well, the usual thing women say when they're having an affair. He's so much more powerful than you! Yeah, as if omnipotent power is everything.

Then it was the bull. I raised an eyebrow at that one, I tell ya. And when she got pregnant to boot... well, let me tell you: there were some highly nervous people in that delivery room, because no one had any idea what was coming out. Turns out we all had good reason to be scared, but that's another story, I suppose. Bottom line: yeah, it looked like she did indeed take a roll in the hay with a bull, and that's an image I really did not need.

Then, maybe because the bull story playd so well, it got seriously delusional. A swan. A cloud. A shower of gold coins. I was really starting to question my own sanity for staying in this marriage, but I told myself we made our vows and at least one of us was gonna stick by them.

And every time, just like clockwork, she got pregnant. You might ask what sort of offspring comes from a woman and a shower of coins. Dont.

So she'd pop them out, and I'd be expected to take care of them. And yes, you could say I was a little resentful about that. Not my kids, after all. I dont care if they did emerge fully grown and ready to leave the hospital and go into the work force. They werent my kids. Oh sure, she loved them all. Every single one.

Yeah, as if...

So I dont even bother coming home anymore. No point. I dont need to hear her latest escapade with her "diety" friends. The last one is truly, truly the best: not only is he supposedly invisible and she, as usual, pregnant, but he (whoever he is) made sure when he was finished, she was a virgin. Whispered some sweet nothing in her ear about how important it was.

Sure it is, Bucky.

Damn pervs.

The Littlest Fashion Model

(Okay, a brief preface here. During the original run of the Littles, I had a sub-series of stories called "The Listener", about a man who has been hired by a mysterious Woman with the Shaved Head. His job is to simply listen to people and tell her what they said. He was to do no more than just listen. It added, I think, a distinct layer to the storytelling, and you can expect to see it revived on occasion here.)

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The Woman with the Shaved Head flipped through the pages of the magazine. "Arent these women fascinating?"

"How so?" the Listener asked quietly.

"They're so... interchangeable. All these women, from all these different backgrounds... and yet they wind up all the same."

The Listener shrugged.

She'd wanted to be a model from day one. All the glamourous clothes, all the fawning admirers, all the travel to exotic places just for the sheer, hedonistic pleasure of taking a photo with her in the middle of it. She knew it would be hard work to get to that level, but she was prepared for hard work. Her mother taught her that well.

Within two years, she was on the cover of virtually every major fashion magazine in North America. Her perfect skin, the result of hours of finding just the right balance of moisterizers and colour enhancers, was suitable for every shoot, and her eyes, pale orbs whose exact colour remained a mystery, took every form of makeup with élan and style. Her cheekbones were just the right height; her hair was the perfect shade of dark blonde. Her breasts were neither too big nor too small. She was indeed perfect.

To maintain that essential perfection was a full time job in and of itself. Her meals were carefully monitored, as was her gym regimen. She knew to the calorie exactly how much had gone in and how much had come out so that perfect balance was sustained. Her social life was equally screened: she would allow no emotional distress nor physical relationship. To keep her skin perfect, she neither laughed nor cried; rather, she remained in a blissful equilibrium of uninvaded calm.

Of course she had friends, mostly in the industry. Initially, they welcomed her, cajoling her to join them at the latest restaurant opening, where they would dine on meals that she now found repulsive; her own, by contrast, was just enough to keep the engine within at optimal performance. They found her emotional distance bewildering, then tiring, and the invitations stopped. She did not miss them.

The contracts continued to roll in, and before long, the little girl from the small town in the midwest now owned a house in Maine and a condo in Los Angeles. Bored with one, she would fly to the other.

In the airport one afternoon, she saw a young couple, obviously and happily en route to some unknown destination. And something inside, long dormant, awakened. Uncertain what it was, she found herself piling her bed with random objects so she could pretend she didnt sleep alone, that weight next to her was... a lover? a husband? Driving home from a shoot, she would impetuously move a ring from her right hand to her left so she could imagine the thrill of having someone waiting for her at the end of the day.

Then one morning, she looked in the mirror and realized she hadnt seen herself without makeup in two years. Scrubbing it off, she found the face of a woman who was neither pretty nor plain, but simply ordinary.

"What was she telling you, I wonder?" the Woman with the Shaved Head asked.

"I'm not sure. Perhaps she found her simple ordinariness cathartic."

"I wonder..."

"What?"

The Woman with the Shaved Head looked at the magazine once more, then tossed it aside. "I wonder if she looked into the mirror and found even her real face a lie."

The Littlest Politician

They were still pounding on the door, even after he screamed at them to go away! But they wouldnt, of course, not now...

Yes, he'd read the speech before giving it. And even then he'd had misgivings. They wanted him to say such... awful things, about people he didnt know. But it's for the good of the party!, they told him. It's for the good of the country!, they insisted. But how could it be for the good of the country when they wanted him to tell such lies?

He knew it was wrong.

He knew it.

And yet they insisted he read the speech as is, no changes. If he made changes, they told him, there would be consequences. Serious consequences.

So he gave the speech, as it was written. But when it came to the end, when he was supposed to give the ringing endorsement for a candidate whose handlers he no longer trusted, he had to stop. With hundreds of TV cameras broadcasting to millions of people watching, he had to just... stop.

And tell the truth.

About everything.

Where he stood, where the candidate stood, where the party stood -- on all of the issues, who his friends were, more importantly who his friends werent. He could see the campaign officials, frozen in impotent rage, unable to tell the networks to turn off the cameras. He could see the candidate, a smile plastered in place. He could see his wife, curiously and fearfully dismayed. Despite the glaring lights, he could see the people in the hall, at once both stone silent and roaring its outrage at the seeming betrayal.

He finished and walked off, ignoring the rising tide of mindless fury that swept up and around him as he headed straight for his little dressing room and waited for what he knew was the inevitable.

The pounding started anew. He could hear someone outside calling for something to break this damn door down!

And he knew it was only a matter of time.

The Littlest Supervillain

So the wife shuts off the TV and says "Look, ya lazy bum, ya been on unemployment for three months! I'm tired of ya sittin' around lazin' on the couch and doin' nothin'. Go get a job!"

Now, I'm a reasonable kind a guy. I worked on the line for thirteen years 'fore they shut the factory down. Three months is long enough, I guess, 'fore I need to go find somethin' else. Problem is, I ain't trained for nothin' but puttin' doors on cars as they come down the line. My specialty, as it were, y'know. I could slap a pair a doors on a car faster than you could say Put them doors on that car! But at the same time, it kinda limits yer options, y'know?

So I check the newspaper, 'n' here's this ad: Man wanted. Will train. 'n' a phone number. Seemed simple and sweet, so I called it. I figured it was some kind a day labour thing, y'know? Haulin' trash or demolition work or stuff like that.

'Stead, they ask me all sorts a weird questions. Like, had I ever killed anything with my bare hands. Had I ever twisted a steel bar. Had I ever had a place in the mountains where I could be alone. What was my knowledge a chemistry and engineering dynamics. Stuff like that. I figured, tell 'em what they wanted to hear, so I says I'd killed thirty-seven people in thirty-two different ways -- they liked that. Told 'em I could not only twist a steel bar, I could break that sucker in half. They really liked that, y'know? Told 'em I had a degree in chemistry from UCLA and a degree in engineering from MIT. They couldn't invite me in for an interview fast enough.

That night, I crammed like I aint never crammed for an exam before: read four books cover to cover on chemistry 'n' how it was yer friend. Got up to an 12-gauge steel rod in the bendin' department. Figured I'd bluff my way through the rest of it, snagged a few hours' sleep, and then went in bright 'n' early at 10AM.

Well, they knew within just a few minutes that I was so full a horse crap it wasn't funny, but they figured maybe they could do somethin' with me anyway since I was the only one who'd responded to the ad in the first place. They fit me for this costume 'n' tell me that my new name is Malevoevilo er something' like that, 'n' now I'm a member a "an elite squad of super villains". I wasn't so sure I liked the villain part, but the money -- man, you can't imagine the money involved here. So they trained me in some simple chemistry stuff 'n' a little engineering dynamics 'n' gave me this swell place out in the mountains where I can be alone while waitin' for them to send me on some super villain mission. Turns out they make a pretty good amount a coin every time I blow somethin' up or wreak worldwide chaos or cause massive destruction, 'n' I get not only my base salary but a pretty good commission as well if I'm quick 'n' thorough enough.

'N' I made a bunch of new friends too, which keeps the wife happy, since, like, we never went out er nothin' with the guys on the line. They kid her about what a badass I am, 'n' she just tells them I'm a pussycat at heart, 'n' we all laugh about the time we blew up this train trestle, 'n' it's swell, y'know? Just damn swell. They're even talkin' about promotin' me to Chief Manager Super Villain for the whole Cleveland area. I'd get a new car (one with a laser cannon, so I ain't never gonna hafta worry about parking at the mall again!) 'n' a new uniform 'n' everything.

Man.

Only in America, huh?

The Littlest Job Interview

They called me about three, maybe four, weeks ago, to come in for an interview. Job offers in my line dont come along very often, and I was getting more than a little short on funds, so I figured I'd go for it. Competition is tough, so when someone calls, you answer, y'know?

When I arrived, the receptionist asked me to sit down and wait, that the interviewer would be along shortly. There were two other candidates, and we did the social chit-chat thing - you know, complaining about the job market and how tough it was to find something in our field. I asked if they'd been waiting long, and they just looked at each other for a second, then laughed.

After a couple of hours, I asked the receptionist what the problem might be. She told me they were running a little behind and if I wouldnt mind waiting? I sat down, picked up the issue of Newsweek I'd been staring at for the last hour.

Around four, I was the only one left -- the other two had gone. But I needed this job, so I figured I'd stick it out as long as need be. After all, the guy had to come out of that office sometime, right?

By six thirty, the receptionist was closing up shop, but she asked if I wouldnt mind waiting a bit longer. The inter viewer had been very impressed with my resume; he was quite anxious to see me. "It's just he's a busy man, but if you really don't mind waiting..." I allowed as I wasn't. She seemed very happy at this. If the interviewer saw me, all I had to do was pull the door behind me when I left. I nodded, and she was gone.

About nine, someone knocked on the main door -- a delivery guy, with a sandwich and a can of soda for me. The interviewer had sent it. I gave the guy a tip, then went back to my chair to eat. I was tempted to leave as well, but there was a light under the interviewer's door, so I figured he had to be in there. I wanted to knock a couple of times, but you know, you dont want to seem pushy, right? First impressions and all that.

I dont know what time I fell asleep -- around midnight, maybe. These chairs... well, they're not the most comfortable, so sometime, in the middle of the night, I gave up and slept on the floor.

The receptionist was in around seven. She brought me coffee and a cheese danish and assured me I'd be seen promptly. She apologized for the delay -- "we're restructuring, so things are a bit... you know" -- and gave me the key to the men's room so I could wash up a bit.

It's been three weeks now... I think. The receptionist is very kind, bringing me coffee in the morning and arranging for a lunch delivery. I get to use the men's room to wash my clothes at night, and I've found a comfortable sleeping position on the floor. I've memorized the copy of Newsweek, sort of a project I put on myself to pass the time. I hope my neighbour is taking care of my cat -- I'd call, but the receptionist wont let me use the phone.

She told me that she's certain he'll see me today. She seems very assuring.

The Littlest Decision Maker

I'm the Woman Who Makes All the Wrong Choices.

It's not like I tried to make them, you understand. It just sorted out that way.

Every time.

If I look outside and figure it was going to be a sunny day, you'd do best to grab an umbrella.

If I look at two candidates and decide one was a better choice, you could lay excellent odds the other would win... by a landslide.

If I see a new product at the store and really like it, you know it'll disappear after six weeks and the FDA will sue the company for two dozen wrongful deaths caused by it.

If I'm dating two people and finally decide to commit to one of them, you know he's the one who turns into a controlling bastard while the other gets a dream job in Paris.

It's always been like this. All my life, I turn "A", and "B" would have been the better direction. I turn back towards "B", and "A" is the golden road to opportunity and success. Or I'd do "C" when "D" makes more sense -- and of course when I do "D", its time has passed and "C" is all the rage.

For a while, I tried to second-guess myself, thinking if I decided to do one thing and then consciously did the other, this jinx might go away. It didn't work. I still did the wrong thing.

So now I market myself as the Woman Who Makes All the Wrong Choices. Companies hire me to choose between two products. The one I don't like is the one they go with, and invariably it's the successful one. Just last week, a recording company approached me with two different debut albums for the same musician. They liked one, but they weren't sure. I listened to them both, told them the one they liked was actually the better album.

The one they hated debuted on Billboard at number one... with a bullet.

See what I mean?

So it turns out that making all these wrong decisions was the only right decision I ever made.

For now, anyway.

After all, it's only a matter of time.

More coffee?

The Littlest Showgirl

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a topless dancer. Oh, not any topless dancer, of course; I wanted to be a real showgirl, like in Vegas. I'd wear all these fabulous costumes, with these enormous headdresses, and I'd walk so elegantly, I'd just about float... and my breasts would be stunning, the talk of the Strip.

It's all I ever wanted in life.

So the first opportunity I got, I hopped a Greyhound with a single suitcase and three hundred dollars in my pocket. I rented a small room and got a job as a waitress, just to tide me over until that day came when I would make my debut as a topless showgirl in a big time revue.

I hit the audition rounds relentlessly. Finally, the day came when the Flamingo Casino was putting together a major spectacular that had my name written all over it. I spent weeks preparing for that audition: practicing my walk to get my arm extension just so and exercising my upper body so my breasts would stand out there proud and full.

The audition was onstage, and I could only barely see the director, the producer, and their staffs, clipboards in hand, out there in the dark. "Hello," they said. "Please walk for us." So I did. It was the most elegant walk in the history of Las Vegas, and I was sure I'd nailed it. When I finished, I could hear them whispering. Finally, the director spoke. "That was very nice, but I wonder if we might ask you to do something else. Could you sing something?"

I hadn't really planned on singing anything. Still, if it was gonna help me get my slot as a topless showgirl, I'd sing for them. So I wracked my brain for anything I could remember and sang the opening verse of Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered, only because I'd heard it on the radio on the way over.

"Please, continue," they said.

"Look, is singing really necessary for the role? I'm a topless showgirl, not some singer."

They whispered some more. Finally: "You have an amazing voice and a wonderful stage presence. We'd like to hire you as the headliner."

Needless to say, I was a little surprised. "Uhm, look, I don't want to seem ungrateful, but I don't know about that. I really have my heart set on being a topless showgirl."

"We understand, but unfortunately, all of those positions have been filled. The only thing left, frankly, is headliner."

Well, after a few phone calls with my agent (who understood but told me to see it as a side track in my career path, not a step down), I took the job. Eight performances a week, I'm a star, standing out there at centre stage, belting out song after song with a fifty-piece orchestra, listening to the waves of applause, and hating every minute of it because there's a whole line of girls behind me who are doing what I should be doing.

Sometimes, on my nights off, I'll head for one of the smaller casinos on the other side of town, where no one knows I'm a headliner, and I'll sit there and watch the chorus and dream of the day when I too can be one of them.....

The Littlest Nihilist

The thing is, see, I dont believe in anything. Now, there's a showstopper right there, huh. "He doesnt believe in anything; guess it's time to move on to the next blog." "Sounds good to me, Fred." But it's true. I dont. If I did, I wouldnt be sitting here in this chair (which doesnt really exist, by the way) telling you I dont. Heck, for all I know, *you* dont exist. I could be talking to no one -- and I probably am, right?

Why am I expecting you to answer if you dont really exist? Well, see, I'm not. Really. You could be saying something right now, but it doesnt really mean anything because no matter what it is, it doesnt exist. Because you dont. And because you dont, I'm basically talking to myself, which means I probably dont either. Tree falls in the forest, y'know?

Like my t-shirt? It doesnt exist either. Honest. In this case, of course, it doesnt. Really. Not at all. So if you were to say, "Hey, dude, cool t-shirt!", you'd be talking about nothing at all. I mean, man, is that existential or what?

I am *so* having a Camus moment right now.

Oh sure, like most, once upon a time, I believed in lots of things. God. My career. My boyfriend's undying love. Then I smartened up. Supreme being? Get real. Career? As if. Love? Sex with bigger credit card bills. So I just... *stopped*. I swear, wisest thing I ever did, y'know? Because now, accepting that my life has no purpose has *given* it purpose. Knowing that nothing makes sense *makes* perfect sense. By not believing in anything, now I can believe in *everything*, as long as it involves nothing.

And, y'know, that's really something.

The Littlest Hiker

He pulled his truck into the lot and got out, bathing himself in the warm sunshine: it was a perfect day for a hike. Choosing a trail at random, he started off into the woods.

The trees were still thin enough that he could see other hikers on other trails; from time to time, he'd smile and wave. Sometimes they'd wave back. Sometimes they'd just nod. He considered shifting over to one of the other trails, but that meant going through the woods, and he just didnt want to bother. He could always back up, he told himself.

A few clouds rolled in, but, he decided, nothing too serious. They didnt look like rain, just enough to occasionally block the still-warm sunshine. He shifted his backpack and hiked on.

The trail now moved upwards -- not too steep, nothing he couldnt handle. But the woods were thickening: he could no longer see the other trails, and his own now seemed more and more rocky. Overhead, the clouds had thickened, and a grey fog obscured his view ahead. He could still see the path, sure, but he couldnt see as far. He turned around -- the path behind was also lost in grey mist. Not to worry, he told himself, I can always go back if I need to.

But he also realized he was starting to get slightly winded. How strange, he thought: I should be able to handle this without even breaking a sweat. No sooner had he told himself that, that there was a sudden lurch, a sudden shift. He was thrown to the ground, and when he turned around to look back...

-- the trail was gone. Instead of a woods, there was a gigantic black hole. He didnt dare go out to the edge. It was like an entire quarter-mile section simply... *disappeared* and fell into the earth. Distantly, through the ever-thickening mist, he could vaguely see the path back, on the far side of the hole. But now he knew he had no choice. He had to continue on.

The trail now seemed to be winding its way up into a mountain pass: the walls along side werent that high -- he could always climb them if he wanted. Still, now the sun was gone, and there was a slight chill in the air. He stopped and took a book of matches from his backpack. He might need to make a fire for the night.

He hadnt gone another fifty yards when, again with a mighty roar, the earth behind him simply vanished, and he realized too late that it'd taken his backpack with it. There has to be a way out, he thought with only a slight tinge of anxiety. The trail has to go *somewhere*.

But somehow, with his knowing it, the walls alongside now were too high for him to climb, even as they closed in narrower and narrower. Now they were so close that his shoulders occasionally brushed the sides. Now the trail itself was littered with trecherous rocks that seemed to spring up from nowhere. And now his own body seemed to be failing him even more, as though it took so much more energy just to put one foot in front of the other.

Then... the trail ended. He looked up at the high walls encircling him. The sun was gone: it was well past sunset, almost night. The chill in the air was almost unbearable. He felt in his pockets and found his small book of matches. Three were left. He lit one and tried to use the glow to find something, anything, that could burn. But there were only rocks and dirt.

He lit the second, but before it could burst into flame, the ground shook again and another huge section of the trail behind simply winked out of existence, leaving nothing but a void.

He sat on the ground and looked up: the starless sky and the black walls of rock were indistinguishable. He was sitting in the middle of nothing. He lit the final match and watched its brief flame sputter and flare, then disappear in a few whisps of thin, airy smoke.

The Littlest Evil Prince

I got into this game because of my father, who was an Evil King. We come from a long line of Evil nobility: dukes, archdukes, you name it -- al of us born and raised to do naught but inflict as much Evil as possible on the world.

When I was a mere lad, for example, I could do Evil with the best of them. Droughts, plagues, really bad marriages -- I did 'em all. With style. With grace. With almost minimal planning and great follow-through... because I know Evil.

But times change, I guess. The ungrateful peasants decided they didnt *want* an Evil king anymore, so we were thrown out and forced to leave the country. So what does an Evil Prince do when his career is cut mercilessly short? I did what any sane man would do --

I went into Art.

Oh, not making pretty pictures with bunny rabbits and happy singing flowers. Not me. People may like that, but they dont buy it. What they buy is the constant reminder that Life is Evil. Period. End of story. Give 'em bad colour combinations, impossible compositions, repetitive subject matter... and they cant buy it fast enough, because they *want* Evil in their home. And if they cant have me, they'll take whatever Evil Art I can throw at 'em.

Have I been successful, you ask. Is that kind of question to ask a Master Evil Prince? Of *course* I've been successful! The four-panel behind me -- "Screaming Woman with Bird" -- sold last night for more money then you'll make in a decade and a half! And it took me fifteen minutes to create! If that's not Evil, what is???

Next week, I'm starting on architecture, with plans to build structures that aren't just eyesores but headaches as well! I want you to look at my creations and get the Mother of All Migraines! Why, you ask? Because I'm Evil! And not just some glass-and-steel monstrosity that pretends to be an overpriced hotel with uncomfortable mattresses and non-existent customer service! No sir, we're going retail! Shopping malls the size of six football stadiums, that will take you weeks to get through! Fashions that look more like week-old Glad bags than the two-hundred-bucks-a-meter imported raw silk used to make them! And you'll buy! Know why?

BECAUSE I'M EVIL!

From there, it's only baby steps to move into advertising and movies and television, and no matter how Evil I make it, the more you'll send gold, heaps and heaps of gold, my way. It'll be mine! ALL MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!

:: sigh ::

Daddy told me if I worked hard, I'd succeed. Thanks, Pop.

Introducing the Littlest Blog

A couple of years ago, I was working on a series called "The Littles": things like "The Littlest Cabbie", "The Littlest Showgirl", "The Littlest Rck Star". Very short stories about little people who found themselves in otherwise extraordinary situations. Some of these are on my website, bur I wanted to find a place where I could show off the entire run, a little bit at a time.

Why not, I say to myself, a blogsite? Well, why not?

So here they are. Most of the illustrations have changed from the original run, and the texts have been brushed up a bit. Some are fun, some are... well, not so fun. But at the very least, I hope all of them are a bit thought-provoking, each in its own way. At the very least, enjoy them. I had a great deal of fun putting them together, and I hope you'll have as much reading them.

/Sean