Hmm, many similar blister packs of unknown contents hang from similar racks across the way from you, but lower shelves hold bowls, and wooden spoons and whisks are on display as well. Is this a cooking aisle? Or are you displayed as a toy opposite the cooking aisle? Some stores do sprinkle little areas of toys near the more 'adult' sections do distract kids into impulse buying, so maybe that's the case with you.
Several giants are not drawn in by you, men, women and children, alone and in groups, with trolleys and with baskets, stomp past you in all their majesty. Trapped as you are, every moment in the presence of these gods is nerve-wracking, the slightest pause in their pace to examine or pick up an item leaving you wondering if you'll be next!
The tense minutes pass until one titan stomps to a stop right in front of you, filling your view as she stoops to bring her face opposite you. Maybe a year or two either side of forty, the woman's tan face is framed by shoulder-length curly hair. As her eyes lock onto you, a charming smile lights up her radiant face.
"That's perfect!" she says, voice booming around you. Her hand reaches forward, and her features are blocked out by the pad of her thumb. Bigger than your entire body, it slams into the plastic front of your cell, shaking you about. You look at the intricate, whorled surface of her skin as it presses down, paling at the pressure it is exerting.
A second later, you are thrown backward as the hand effortlessly pulls the blister pack from its hook. The woman flips it around to read the back, tumbling you carelessly about. The grunt that she emits is one of positivity - and intensely scary for someone only three-quarters of an inch tall! - and it's no surprise therefore when she chooses to purchase you.
Seeing you simply as a toy, she shows no care when she tosses you into her trolley, soaring through the air weightless before crashing down amongst heaps of bags and boxes. Flour, sugar and eggs are a few of the items you can make out, but with dizziness and bruises competing for your attention, you sink down and do your best to rest.
It's difficult, what with the woman pushing the vehicle along with her great strength, the creaking of its wheels and thuds of her heavy steps echoing hollowly. More shopping items are droped in with you, each piece shuddering the metal frame and threatening to topple mountains onto you.
Eventually everything is processed through the till, although you don't if the giant fingers that pass you across the barcode scanner belong to the man that imprisoned you or someone else; it's done quickly before you are slid down to the packing area, where the woman - now officially your owner - lifts you into a carrier bag.
She cares enough to leave you on the top, where no weights can press down on you, but all you can see is the sky above, and there has been no letting up in the walls around you. No give, no way to escape. Thank God for the air hole; you just need to cling on here until freed, and you may be able to attempt to continue your tiny survival expedition.
An interminable car journey later, your bag is hefted free and carried inside a building. It smashes down onto a table, and you can hear the giantess going about her business, unpacking her grocery shopping. You are lifted free and placed onto a counter, where you can see the woman display her full form, powerful and fearsome. She lift bags the size of buildings, opening cupboards and refigerators to place things away and then pads out of sight.
Time passes, and again you risk a chance at breaking free only to confirm that impossibility. Bummer.
The woman eventually returns, and if you thought that she had made her dominance obvious already, you are impressed further by the actions she proceeds to take.
Bowls, spoons and trays, bags and jars and boxes, all are assembled with contemptuous ease. Then, her gargantuan strength becomes devoted to baking.
She pours and stirs, cracking eggs and whipping bowl contents. Eventually, she slams a doughy mass onto a board right before you, rolling up her sleeves before kneading it. Her massive hands exert all their power into pressing and crushing lifting and dropping, pressing the dough into submission.
Slapping her hands together to scatter flour, she pads from the room again, leaving you sweating and wondering what your place in all this is meant to be. She returns to add more to the mix, before squeezing and folding to form a doughnut-like ring shape from the mass, mainly out of your line of sight. But you can see all too clearly how she lifts the whole lot upwards to be slid into an oven to cook.
Then she turns her attention to you.
Slowly, she reaches out, her fingers gripping at the edges either side of you. "While that bakes, let's take a look at you," she whispers.
The merest expression of her strength bends and tears away the cardboard at your back, and you are tipped into her warm, expansive palm. Fingers dive in again, pinching around your legs. You are lifted upside down, but quickly flipped rightway up before her gaze. "Hmm," she ponders, "you're a lot more fragile than you look."
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