This is my first macro/micro story. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!
Characters and places © Girvan Stench
Story © Girvan Stench


The twenty-two-year-old skunk named Girvan Stench wasn’t used to hazard coming to him. He always had to be the one to go to it, and he did it with broad smiles. He was a daredevil, after all, an adrenaline junkie, but advancing danger—the acquainted danger—was certainly a first. Girvan Stench had no worries admitting his trespasses on macro property back in Boneset, his hometown. His illegal acts, misdemeanors, were not in micro jurisdiction. The law there knew what he did, but his crimes were not serious enough for the micro authorities to deliver him to the nearby macros for punishment, the macros in actuality normal-sized people and giants to only the small, with their own gargantuan city called Rafflesia.

No micro wanted Girvan Stench arrested. The inhabitants of Boneset understood; micros lived in a world where they were not the highest authority and in no position to ever be such, a world where danger and adventure went hand-in-hand. How could it be a surprise to anyone when Girvan set out into land owned by macros for enjoyment? He knew he was small. He knew that he and every other six-inch, full-grown micro was naturally considered the planet’s ultimate submissive creature immutably, whether they liked it or not, their votes unanimous on the latter. If the skunk encroached, wasn’t he just having a bit of fun in his less-than-normal life? Girvan sure was, just like the male macro named Jerry Pratt, a dangerous young coyote who came to Boneset for a bit of fun of his own. He had no intention of hurting any micros. He wanted to only destroy buildings as the little people fled, and maybe catch one or two civilians and then at once release them. Maybe even have one in his mouth, give them a good scare. Just one. That was his pleasure, and in doing so, encountering Girvan, the coyote had the good-natured thrill-seeker accidentally lose his tail in the process.

On that dull evening, the eerie, disharmonic sirens pierced Boneset. The terrified screams came from the city streets, elevating from the panic-stricken civilians as they frantically headed for underground shelters, eager for the Boneset’s defense force, Girvan Stench himself high above the pandemonium, exhausted and pursued, grappling from rooftop to rooftop nonstop, breath heavy, his heart pounding, almost as if it was threatening to explode. He could’ve threatened the coyote with his natural defense, so that he could get him off his back with this game of catch-and-release, but following up with action wouldn’t have worked at all. Girvan couldn’t spray. His scent glands were removed from him surgically when he was five, because his parents did not want him having accidents when he was to attend school. He considered himself defenseless, only possessing a grappling gun, his lightning bug—an electroshock gun invented by the Boneset micros, shooting two high-voltage probes onto macros as far as seventy feet, also the standard height of the adult giants, give or take, holding 50,000 volts—was busted back at his ruined apartment.

He grappled and took the leap from a roof, after the giant coyote’s overexcited jaws were upon him, and then came the accidental bite, and then the pain. There was the ambulance, the hospital stay, the stitches, the pain pills, spending a few nights at one of the city’s macro-attack shelters full of those who lost their homes. Throughout all of this there were no available apartments. Girvan could’ve gotten an accommodation somewhere, but he did not have the money to stay at one long, and he did not wish to be in the shelter anymore, no longer standing the crowdedness, so he had tepidly decided to take the offer of his best friend Russell Sligh, a seventy-foot-tall red fox the same age as Girvan, and move in with him in the suburbs of Rafflesia temporarily, or for really how long the skunk wished to stay since Russell did not mind at all having him as a roommate in his apartment. Girvan was doing his best to ignore his anxiety around giants brought on from the criminal coyote, staying in a roofless, ceilingless, portable apartment replica with its own electrical system and running water. There were many nights in the model bed when Girvan sat up suddenly after having recurring nightmares involving huge pointed teeth. His heart palpitated, himself on the out perspiring, the sweat dripping from his black and white fur as he trembled convulsively.

He had to do something about this.

Getting his tail back wasn’t the cure, nor was the justice. Jerry Pratt was captured by the law enforcers of Rafflesia several days after the attack, receiving his well-founded punishment straightaway, transported from Rafflesia to Lupinus, a wolf pack hamlet and correctional facility for macros who attacked Boneset micros and their city. The coyote was given to the correctional wolves as a ten-year prisoner, put into a machine that shrunk him down to six inches tall, and kept as a pet for the wolf pack for ten whole years. He was to be taught to never attack micros and their property, to respect the micros by being one himself, in the process submissive towards his main owner and every other wolf in Lupinus, wearing a rugged robe and electric collar. The wolves knew of the coyote’s only victim, Girvan Stench, and found his striped tail on the coyote as a necklace, as if an amulet, dried out and preserved, so the wolves shrunk down the tail necklace for the skunk to wear, returning to him what was his. Girvan was whole again physically, but as for mentally, he needed aid.

He made an appointment with an experienced therapist in Boneset named Dr. Carson Lomax, an old black-footed ferret. He entered the building late in the afternoon, hesitant, sitting upright in the acoustically-tuned waiting room for what seemed like crawling, discouraged hours, muttering aloud in the lonesome that this was going to be a waste of time. When he entered the ferret’s office Dr. Lomax diagnosed his problem, after he voiced to him willingly what had been going on after the abominable incident that was the macro attack. When the exposure therapy for his post-traumatic stress disorder was initiated Girvan had a sizable amount of uncertainty of any success. This negative, uncontrollable feeling internally frothed and threatened to jet, yet he did well and kept silent about it all to his therapist until it eventually passed and had not returned. During the first session, Dr. Lomax brought up the techniques for the behavior treatment; the best chance of aid out in the world for those agonized with PTSD, he alleged. Girvan comprehended well what was going on in his tormented head, with its petrifying images, some realer than others, but in his case all based on factual terror. His neurons ran amok with fear. This fear held great energy, and was a forceful nuisance. The skunk had a hankering to cripple this depressing might, a powerful emotion that those he saw on a daily basis could be reliable testifiers of.

It was stated from the get-go by Dr. Lomax, “Exposure therapy is not at all perfect, and does not have the means to heal all patients. Those who accept this innocuous treatment gladly will more than likely actually have success of some kind, some more than others, but all in all little chance of absolute, perpetual abolishment of their haunting, troublesome emotion of intense fear.”

Girvan nodded to him stiffly with a forced smile. He said he understood and would continue seeing him, to do what is necessary in the prospect of his rectification. Still, the documented facts Dr. Lomax presented of failures were very irksome to him internally, he had to admit. Also, at the time he spoke of them, they did diminish some of the skunk’s positive expectations, as well as his desire to heal, but facts are facts, he had to face it. And so, without any plans for an exhibit of doubts for the sessions, Girvan pressed on with the therapy meetings while hiding hesitation and false certainty of full dedication and without a single clue of any objections.

Dr. Lomax penned essential notes, his buff fur glossy, brows furrowed. He asked the skunk what he thought of the word “fear.” Girvan replied quickly that he didn’t need to think it. He felt it chronically, and said it was horrible, both the word and its power. Dr. Lomax, with his manner mild, and slim posture relaxed, replied that all fear is, and that micros keep it locked away when there’s no need for it, and yet, they should grab hold of it when it strikes, when it is necessary, and accept it when it springs from them and reveals itself nakedly out into the open. They should all face their deepest fears, he continued. That fear is what reminded Girvan that he was alive, and when it passed, when he would overcome it, the fear would get-gone by the skunk’s will, and that he would live on, push on, and remained sane.

With each session Girvan listened to the kind therapist intently when he asked the patient to imagine just how small he really was compared to outer space. The skunk lay on the leather couch with his ankles crossed and his eyes closed, breathing in and out slowly as Dr. Lomax spoke of the size of the sun, the distance between the world and the moon, and how tiny both micros and macros are compared to the galaxy as a whole. In one of these visualizations, Dr. Lomax spoke of what astronomers know of black holes, gargantuan devourers of the infinite Universe, hundreds of millions upon hundreds of millions in grand, suctorial existence. They can feast on planets, he said, size not a problem.

“As for those supermassive ones with larger appetites, even galaxies are doomed,” he finished.

“Really?” Girvan said, with a shiver up his spine.

“Yes,” Dr. Lomax replied, voice genial. “Something will always eat or destroy what is smaller than itself. Black holes are certainly out of our control. It only takes one of them, in that one moment, to end it all. In life, an unexpected experience with an individual macro is the same way as well. And more than likely it wouldn’t end well for you. It can happen as an accident. It can happen with a malicious intention. What they do in your presence is really out of your hands, if you are not prepared for what takes place. Let’s imagine that you are not. It is unfortunately the way of nature. You’re either ready for what it throws at you, or you’re off guard. If you’re off guard, do not blame yourself. You can’t read their mind. You don’t know what’s in their head if they don’t want you to know, and when the truth is revealed, nothing can be done. It’s too late. It is what it is. If you can receive the reality of black holes consentingly, as something that is just there, scary and unstoppable, then, taking in unpredictability, taking in the possibility of being unprepared when it comes to an encounter we did not ask for or want on the sly, you can receive the general existence of macros, and when you do, the unnecessary fear vanishes.”

Girvan took his honest words to heart, especially the last sentence. He immediately accepted black holes. If one swallowed the planet nothing could be done. Fine. Whatever happens will happen. He ultimately accepted macros again; all macros. That one took a little longer. It was only a success because he was received aid, and he was very grateful for it. Russell Sligh and his other giant buddies were the help he needed with the final part of his recovery, when it came to the therapeutic company of Rafflesia giants, and to once again realize that it’s customary to be around them—the two amiable cities neighbored each other, after all—and when doing so, there was nothing for Girvan to be afraid of, especially when among macro friends.

Russell had planned to assist him in the healing process for some time anyway. He took care of Girvan greatly on the short-term move-in, purchasing male doll clothes and the transportable apartment, treating him with only compassion and adoration. Though the skunk profoundly appreciated all the affectionate fox did for him, he did not like to be touched much. He wanted the portable replica home on the living room floor of the macro’s apartment so that he could amble around on his own on the carpeting, not interested in going outside, no enjoyment in communicating with his macro friends. The times Russell could pick him up were restricted, mostly when Girvan wished to sit on the sofa to watch television, or to be placed on the ligneous kitchen table to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

He knew Girvan began seeing a therapist. He carried him to the Boneset border to go to each of his weekly scheduled meetings every time. The sessions appeared to be working some, since Girvan was talking with Russell increasingly as the weeks went on and had allowed the macro to carry him around more often, but the fox worried that his best friend would never be the same again. The micro still had unease around him. Russell’s belief was that Girvan’s anxiousness around normal-sized people would become fearfulness, and that it could remain permanent. It was his greatest fear, that Girvan could in due course only look at his huge size and no longer see who he was within, and by that alone he could look at him as if he was a monster, terror-stricken, ending the intimate friendship, losing the warmhearted micro forever. Russell sniveled over this many times away from Girvan, until one day the fox couldn’t help himself, and the tears came during a silent dinner, in front of the bewildered skunk. Girvan concernedly asked him to explain what was wrong, and after Russell did so emotionally the micro sauntered to the only lax hand on the table, kneeled, and hugged and caressed the large, harmless, black-furred fingers with a reassuring grin, slowly rubbing his cheek against the back of Russell’s forefinger, gazing up into his wet, surprised amber eyes with dying nervousness, with dying distress.

The fox discerned the improving change in him, and regarded him with empathy and a hopeful smirk. “The therapy’s getting you better than I thought.”

“Yes, it is. It really is. I’m going to get even better, Russell. I mean it, I am,” Girvan promised, nodding, and then lowering his head, as if bowing, pensive. “I was going to tell you when I was more ready to about this, but now seems like the right time; in order to get there, more better, I’m going to need your help.”

Sniffling, the macro wiped his eyes with the other hand, triangular ears perked, and fluffy tail flickering mere inches above the linoleum. “Anything, I’ll do it. I’m here for you. What is it? What do you need from me?”

Girvan had to let it happen, to lose control of his small existence. Dr. Lomax cordially proposed that the skunk have his body placed into a familiar macro’s hands, Russell’s hands, and permit him to do with it however he pleased with affection. This was an effective documented trust exercise, and in the process of it, if the activity was going to be successful between Girvan and Russell, the micro would come to have absence of inessential unpleasantness to the hilt, imperturbable while with safe, benign, well-known giants. Numerous times Russell held Girvan in a comfortable yet firm fist as he lounged on his sofa with a caring beam and petted him for as long as the macro liked, his index finger casually stroking the top of the skunk’s head, the back of his neck, his chest, and his still arms. The skunk taught himself meditatively to not be afraid of his friend’s benevolent power, and did not complain at all about his soft loving fingers, courteous with the big fox and his habitual caresses.

Girvan was comfortable around Russell wholly in no time. Now his other Rafflesia buddies were to get involved. They were all in their early twenties; a cute, cuddly vixen couple and three innocuous male cats. They were more than happy to oblige the skunk’s healing. Their group visits to Russell Sligh’s welcoming apartment to therapeutically play with Girvan became accustomed. The micro was willingly compliant to their lighthearted dominance and accepted their petting and the considerate controlling of his limbs as if he was a living, delicate action figure. His body and mind were losing tenseness. His pulse was normal. Girvan’s restore to health was almost at its radiant conclusion.

The next exercise was the Stomp Dance. Here, Girvan was to stand motionless on the apartment floor and let the macros rhythmically encircle him, closely, stepping with a great deal of force. Wearing hearing protection headphones he borrowed from the therapist, the skunk was stationary, his arms spread out, eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling deeply as his friends turned on electronic music of slow atmosphere and moved at a leisured pace, zealous and encouraging. The micro could’ve been injured, but he was not alarmed. He was conquering fear excellently. He kept his eyes closed, not needing to keep watch of the paws, not wanting to know where and when the next stomp would come. The world shook roughly for a long time for Girvan as he kept his balance and experienced the mighty giants’ impressive squishing capabilities positively, finding it absolutely wondrous.

Lastly, the skunk laid himself on the cream-colored carpeting, positioned on his back flatly with his relaxed hands behind his head, with his calm brown eyes gazing up at the towering, grinning macros that were eager to begin this adoring activity. One at a time they carefully set a smooth paw on the micro, applying soft pressure, letting Girvan know the individual pinning his body was not going to hurt him. As a reward for this physicality of trust, Girvan massaged their clawed toes while they were on his chest, male and female, no matter how dangerously close the blade-like nails on the huge furry digits were to his throat and face. The entire time he was unworried, and he was smiling.

Russell was the final one to put his paw down. He wanted to do this very much, but before he had, he stared at the skunk on the floor timidly, biting his lower lip in a shy manner, but what gave him the confidence to move forward with this exercise was Girvan’s shake of the head with a friendly snicker, as if he was saying, “I don’t mind, go ahead. You won’t give me pain. I trust you.” Simpering, the fox did so. When he did, between the tenderness of his paw with the soft fur as black as coal and the massaging caresses given to him by the adored little skunk, Girvan Stench was finally healed.