Aunt Annie squinted down at the polished hardwood floor, her brow furrowing as she watched the tiny speck—no bigger than a pesky ant—dart in frantic circles between her sheer, coffee-colored nyloned feet.
“Ugh, little bug,” she muttered under her breath, lips pursing in mild disgust. The family reunion chatter faded into the background as she shifted her weight, the soft rasp of nylon against nylon whispering through the room while her toes flexed inside the open-air heels she’d worn to look “put-together” for the photos.
She leaned forward slightly, the hem of her floral church dress brushing her calves, and scanned the floor around her chair.
“Now where did I kick those things off…?”
Her eyes lit up when she spotted them half-hidden beneath the edge of the couch: her favorite Time and Tru slippers from Walmart—faded pink faux-fur lining, scuffed black rubber soles, the kind of cheap, flattened house shoes she’d owned for three summers straight because they were soft and, more importantly, perfect for smashing anything that crawled.
Annie slid one foot back, the slick nylon sole gliding across the floor like a silent predator as she reached with her toes. The slipper’s opening gaped like a fuzzy pink cave. She hooked the worn heel with her big toe, dragging it toward her with a lazy scrape-scrape-scrape that boomed like thunder to the minuscule figure trapped in the open.
“There you are, my little bug-stompers,” she cooed affectionately to the slippers, completely unaware that the “bug” was now screaming her name in a voice far too tiny to carry. She slipped her right foot inside first—nylon whooshing against the matted fur lining—then the left, giving both heels a satisfied wiggle until they seated with a soft thwap.
The slippers were enormous from the floor’s perspective: two pink, threadbare monoliths now framing the terrified boy like furry walls, the black rubber soles creased and darkened from years of casual pest execution.
Annie lifted one slipper just an inch off the ground, hovering it directly above the speck she still believed was an insect. The tread pattern underneath—little waffle grids crusted with faint specks of old dirt—cast a shadowed grid over her nephew’s entire world. She tilted her head, watching with mild curiosity as the “bug” froze, then bolted in blind panic.
“Aww, look at you run,” she chuckled, voice syrupy with amusement. “Don’t worry, sweetie, Aunt Annie’s gonna make it quick…”
And with a playful little stomp of anticipation, she lowered the slipper again—slowly, deliberately—ready to bring the flattened sole down in one merciless, oblivious squish.
un: 
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Community Feed
Puzzle Hub
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author
