You’re not exactly sure when the doubt started creeping in. Maybe it was the moment the lid clicked shut above you. Or when you caught your distorted reflection in the curved wall of the jar. What you do know is that—even though you chose to be shrunk—you didn’t expect it to feel… like this.
You’re barely ten centimeters tall now. Ten centimeters of flesh, bone, and uncertainty, placed inside a transparent jar like a strange trinket on a too-high shelf. You look up: all around you are other jars, other versions of “you.” Shrunk-down men, sitting, lying down—some calm, some anxious. And towering above, the giant women.
They wander the aisles at a relaxed pace, stopping to peer at the shelves, chatting among themselves. Some glance at you with curiosity; others don’t notice you at all. Their voices reach you like muffled echoes through water. You catch fragments:
— “This one’s cute.”
— “Look, he’s waving at me!”
— “Too passive. I like them more expressive.”
— “Oh, this one looks scared. Too fragile.”
You turn your head. In another jar, a tiny man is jumping and waving as a giantess walks by. He’s smiling, miming gestures, doing everything he can to get noticed. And it works: a young woman with sparkling eyes notices him, kneels down to get a better look, then carefully opens his jar. She lifts him between her fingers, delicate as if holding a precious figurine.
With a slow motion, she places him on her open palm, bringing him close to her face.
— “A clever little guy, aren’t you…” she whispers. She giggles softly when he bows with exaggerated flair.
Then she places him in a small display case, comparing him to another, like someone torn between two necklaces.
Farther down, a woman in a black suit handles another man roughly. She holds him by the legs, spinning him in the air to inspect him from all angles, indifferent to his tiny screams. She sets him down, then picks up a sturdier, more muscular one, whom she studies for a while before placing him into a small transport box.
You remain still. Frozen. You don’t dare move, but your heart is pounding. Every motion from the giant women stirs the air, a breeze that feels like a threat. A single finger pressed against the glass could knock you over. You don’t want to act like the others, don’t want to beg. But you also don’t want to stay here forever, forgotten on a shelf, watching the others get picked one by one.
Suddenly, a shadow passes over you. A massive hand approaches. Fingers graze the outside of your jar. Then, a warm voice:
— “And you… you’re not moving? Are you shy… or just cautious?”
You look up. Her eyes meet yours through the glass—curious, almost gentle. But you know what this means: the inspection is about to begin.
And maybe… the selection.
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