This is a LONG story - 26 pages in Word as ten-point Arial - but I think it'll fit in well here...


NOTE:

Original story and characters are Copyright © 2007 by OddOne. All Rights Reserved. No part of this story may be retransmitted in any medium or manner without the author’s express permission.



Disclaimer & Foreword

This story is intended to be pretty dark and gruesome, so if you’re easily offended by ideas like physical and emotional abuse, torture, maiming, death, and worse, you might want to skip this story.

It was inspired by a series of posts and pictures relating to fairies that was posted over at Gurochan, a board devoted to darker things. Not a place for the timid or the easily disturbed.

Although this story is pretty rough, don’t think it’s some telling peek into the author’s psyche. He’s probably more normal and at least slightly saner than you are – he just happens to have a rather active imagination. This isn’t intended to be a morality tale or a cry for help or anything but an interesting piece of fiction, so don’t read any extra meaning into it. It’s a disturbing story to be sure, but nothing more than a story.

Oh, if this offends you, (1) get a grip, and (2) find something else to read.

Phase One
Introductions

She was an adorable little thing, standing maybe three and a half inches tall, with iridescent butterfly-style wings in pastels of pink and purple. Her face was as a child’s but odds are she was probably a hundred plus years old given how fairies are with respect to the passing of time. She sported a mop of wavy shoulder-length brunette hair with a few tiny flowerlike objects woven in for decoration and some curls along her bangs that looked self-applied, proving that girls of all size like to mess with how their hair lays naturally. She had medium-toned skin, slightly tanned, a wonderfully expressive face, and brilliant blue eyes, nearly sky blue in fact. She also sported pointed ears of the sort more commonly associated with elves, and they stuck out a good quarter-inch, which was the borderline between long and comical given the size of her head and their proportion to it. All in all, she was definitely adorable.

She was adorably upset at me, though, for she was standing in the middle of a giant round bowl of the sort usually associated with goldfish. The opening was capped by a saucer upon which I had placed a large soup can – she was a strong little thing when she had the mind for it and had nearly freed herself before I could finish my prep work. So, knowing she couldn’t lift the weight now keeping her trapped, she resorted to alternating her facial expression between anger and sadness, perhaps hoping to scare or cute me into releasing her. Oh, she’d be released, that much was certain, but not on her terms to be sure.

She was clothed, and that I used to think was somewhat strange. Apparently fairies were adept at weaving and primitive textile manufacturing, and could produce amazingly beautiful if fragile clothing out of natural fibers. She was wearing a halter-top and pair of shorts that looked to be made of blue-dyed silk stitched together and tied into place with tiny strands of grass fiber.

I figure she’s actually more than a sprite than a fairy in terms of mythology, but as it turns out in terms of genetics there are actually five species of “fairy” known to exist and she’s a prime example of the smallest of the five. Officially she’s categorized by science as an intelligent, sentient insect with humanoid form, which to me was retarded on the part of the scientists doing the classifying. Personally I think that was science’s attempt at not looking stupid when a mythical creature turned out to have real-life inspirations. The fact that they are all endoskeletal alone means they’re not bugs, but that’s an argument for another day.

Every now and then she’d get tired of standing there looking aggravated or puppy-eyed and would try something. Sometimes it was yelling in whatever language she spoke, other times it’d be some sort of physical effort, and I think she tried magic a time or two since fairies are known for that sort of thing. Still, there she was, standing in the center of the fishbowl, wings slowly opening and closing like an idling butterfly’s while she glared at me with arms crossed.


My preparations were now complete, so I make for the saucer acting as door of the prison, lift it the slightest amount needed for my task, and push in a cotton ball soaked in Lidocaine and Menthol. She watches it plop next to her feet, and as it dawns on her what it is – and more importantly what it contains – she freaks out, first running and jumping and then flying randomly in any direction that carries her away from that little ball of nastiness I’d introduced. She’s literally going insane trying to get away, shrieking, screaming, crying, hitting the bowl hard enough to make the odd tinkling sound from the impacts. Once I think she flew into it with mouth open in mid-scream and hit a tooth on the glass, leaving the bowl’s interior scratched in one spot and her lip puffed and bloodied.

After about thirty seconds of this the Lidocaine vapors carried by the Menthol work their own special magic and her freakout begins to take on the speed and tone of a drunken stupor. Another forty-five seconds and the flights are reduced to uncoordinated staggers, driven more by desperation than acuity. And at the two-minute mark she collapses, sliding down the bowl’s sloped side and coming to an unconscious rest in a heap next to the cotton ball.

Time to go to work.

I quickly remove the injured, limp little cutie-pie and placed her spread-eagled onto my work surface. With some tweezers I wrap each limb with a thin piece of silicone rubber strip, at each wrist and ankle. Over that I center a small loop made from twisting a short length of Teflon-insulated #18 solid wire. This was high-dollar stuff – interconnect wire for aerospace applications – nothing but the best for my little cutie-pie. Each pigtail hanging from the twist before the loop went around a limb at least one complete turn, and where they met in the middle after a total of three passes I carefully bend the leads toward each other. Some quick wrist turning with two pairs of needle nose pliers twisted the wire shut around the limb in question. I snip off some of the excess wire, flatten the twisted portion against its limb, and apply a drop of cyanoacrylate glue to fuse the wire and silicone, which acts as padding, into one mass.

Earlier, I had threaded a small swivel of the sort used in fishing onto the two wires used on her legs. Each of these is installed and then receives an ‘S’ hook and a two-ounce lead sinker. My hook pliers made sure the hooks were closed properly, and this time a couple drops of quickset epoxy made sure she couldn’t force a hook should she gain some literal form of leverage.

Her arm loops receive short lengths of steel leader, also twisted and epoxied, and to them one-ounce sinkers are mounted. The leaders give her enough slack to raise her arms to roughly her shoulders’ height before encountering the weights on their ends.

She starts to come around as I attach the last sinker. My timing is ideal. I finish that up and remove the decorative crap from her hair. I even pull the artificial curls straight, just to be thorough.

I now have a perfectly healthy and alive, if not at all happy, cute little fairy that has about five times her body weight in lead weights attached. She isn’t going anywhere under her own power unless she can somehow bite through what to her scale would be three-quarter-inch rebar attached to truck tires attached to her extremities.

I sit back as she rolls her head, moaning softly. The wearing Lidocaine will leave her the gift of a monster headache for a few minutes.


She next rolls over to her side and curls up into a fetal position, still so unaware of her surroundings that she hadn’t noticed that she pulled her body to her legs thanks to the lead attached to her ankles. Normally when one curls into such a ball they bring legs to body, knees up to chest. She did it quite the other way this time as the act of drawing knees to chest slid her body instead of her legs. I smile – the longer it takes her to notice her predicament the more amusing her response will be when she does.

She rolls back over onto her back now, and covers her face with her forearm, still moaning softly and occasionally muttering something in her form of fairyspeak. I can only imagine it to be something along the lines of “Oh my God my head hurts.” Mental note: one of these days I ought to learn fairyspeak so that I can add taunts to my repertoire.

She goes stiff and still as she draws her forearm across her face and feels the weird thing on her wrist. She extends her hand and stares at her arm’s new jewelry. Up comes the other hand. She’s now staring wide-eyed at her fetters, trying to figure out just what the hell they are.

Still grasped firmly by the pain of coming round from an anesthetic, she puts her hands down and sits up. She’s still quite a bit out of sorts and looks around in confusion at the stuff on my desk left from the construction of her fetters. She rather quickly seems to realize she’s not in a container any more.


Then she sees me, leaned back in my chair so that I’m more of a background fixture than a massive looming giant in the immediate foreground. Her mouth opens and her eyes grow huge as her brain connects my face with her plight.

She shrieks in abject horror and literally springs to her feet. A quick jump up but slightly away from me, some furious wing flaps, and she’s off!

Or not.

She gets about half an inch of air before the gravity of those lead sinkers makes an impression. Or maybe it was falling flat on her face that made the impression. Either way there’s an impression on her forehead from my desk in the form of a flat red splotch. That tabletop material’s pretty resilient, after all, and fairy forehead skin’s not exactly thick and springy.

She picks herself up onto all fours, shakes off the stars and sparkles, and looks back at me, still horrified. Another launch attempt follows but this time she’s aware of the weights and heads off at a sharper angle. She struggles mightily and flaps her shiny, beautifully colored and patterned wings for all they‘re worth, and succeeds in standing one sinker up on its end. Her face is turning red by now and her wing-beats’ staccato is losing its pitch.

When she drops back to earth she’d succeeded in moving one sinker about a quarter of an inch.

She’s on all fours again, this time heaving and panting, wings lying limp and prone with their tips touching the ground by her sides. She looks back at me and whimpers, puppy-eyed. I laugh in response. That makes her pretty upset if her expression is any indication.

She now moves into a seated position, between the sinkers affixed to her legs, and starts studying the fetters that bind them to her. I can see a little redness around her ankles but no bleeding – that silicone padding did its job. If not for the padding I’m sure she’d need a little medical attention for the damage that surely would have resulted from the Teflon wire insulation against her bare skin during that last flight attempt. Oh well, guess the rubbing alcohol will have to wait until later.

She tugs at the fetters on her ankles. Given her size and what I put on her, it’s akin to trying to unbend a handcuff made of rebar and welded into a solid piece. All she does is break a nail, which prompts what I suspect is a round of cursing and swearing in her form of fairyspeak.

She works her way from ankles to sinkers and back, trying to find some weakness in the connections that she can exploit to get the weights off her. She does this for a solid ten minutes before sitting back in a huff and whining quietly in annoyance mixed with concern. She looks back at me again, and does the most pitiful doe-eyed sad baby face she can muster given the swollen lip and red forehead. Again I laugh in response, and that sets her to crying in earnest, sitting Indian style and head in hands. I see tears starting to streak down her arms as she gets into the deep meaty full-breath sob part of her melancholy.

It’s heart melting, or at least it would be if I cared. She stops briefly and looks at me, her eyes meeting mine and saying without words “please, please let me go.” My smile and eyes tell her “you’re not going anywhere.” Back to crying she goes.

I think it’s dawned on her that I could release her but have no intentions of doing so, and all she can think to do at this point is vent some frustrations.


She cries for about three minutes, and gets her arms and tops of legs good and wet with tears. She reaches the post-cry sniffles stage of her bawl and resumes probing her restraints, now uncomfortably wet in addition to being unyielding and impossibly heavy, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, some tears in the right places would let her slip free. Not a chance, though, as the soft, low-density silicone I used grips skin just as well wet as it does dry.


She glances at me again, this time looking pissed-off instead of sad. She stands up, makes some strange motions I’m not familiar with, and points at me while shouting what sounds like Latin. I watch as she gets wide-eyed – apparently that was some sort of fairy magic and it didn’t do a damn thing. So she tries it again, with the movements more expressive and the shouting more forceful. Still, nothing happens. I’d tell her she’s in the middle of a negate field powerful enough to deny all of the magic she has at her disposal and then some – a precaution I always take before beginning my work – but I don’t think she understands English and it doesn’t really matter if she does. Another mental note: assemble a list of gestures and incantations used by fairies so I can know what they’re trying to cast, and if I know the right fairyspeak, to make fun of them when their casts fail.

She tries several movement-and-point-and-utter-sacred-words combinations, and tries each several times along with various permutations and mashups, and after several minutes of this she finally stops, standing there looking around with a dejected expression. The next thing to dawn on her is that there’s obviously nothing she can do about her situation.

I place a thimble in front of her, and with an eyedropper I fill it with filtered water. She eyes it suspiciously, and eyes me considerably more suspiciously. So I use the same eyedropper to squirt some of the water onto my tongue right in front of her. She’s still suspicious of me (sarcasm on) for some strange reason I cannot fathom (sarcasm off), but tries a handful of water. It’s cool, cleaner than anything she’s used to out in the wild, and when you’ve had a terribly long cry and are all dry-mouthed and scratchy it’s the best drink in the universe. She drops to her knees in front of the thimble, grabs its rim, and buries her head into it in an effort to gulp down the precious fluid. For a brief instant I wonder if she’ll drown trying to drink, so I watch, ready to save her – no shortcuts will be allowed on my watch. I didn’t know something as small as she is could hold that large a volume of liquid!


She flips her hair back, flinging a little spray of water, still grasping the rim of the thimble with both hands like a hangover sufferer riding the porcelain bus, and lets out a deep, satisfied sigh. Aaaaaahhhhhhhhh. Apparently that hit the spot. With her hair wet she’s almost impossibly adorable to an extent that would make little girls squeal with delight, but that doesn’t matter in the greater scheme of things. She still hates what I’m doing to her but manages to flash a weak smile as if to thank me. Don’t thank me yet, little one, for this is just prep work – the real game is yet to be played.

I turn aside to fetch some ice water for myself. While I’m gone to the kitchen she dunks both arms into the thimble and wages a valiant but futile effort to slip her hands out. When I return she tries to hide her red hands and forearms behind her back, but gets only my laugh in response. I bet she already hates that laugh. She’d hate it even more if she knew I watched the whole event on the TV in the kitchen, which was getting a live feed from the camera atop my monitor – I pointed that at my desk before she was even brought into the room.

To her I am the all-knowing, all-seeing, evil god of death and destruction, although she’s not aware of the death and destruction part yet.

Phase Two
Mild Discomfort

I leave her alone for a good half-hour while I have lunch. Since there’s no clear-cut info out there on what fairies eat I bring her a single sample of each of the fruits I had on hand. She stares at the bounty before her with obvious hunger in her eyes, looked at me, and then takes out a blackberry like it was nothing. Of course, to scale it’s like watching an anorexic model eat a ten-pound bunch of grapes in mere seconds, and she ends up with purple hands and mouth as a result.

I reach in with my napkin, and with the gentlest movements I can manage given the size disparity, wipe some of the bits of fruit from her face. She smiles as a seeming thank-you, and again she‘s clearly trying to be as adorable and endearing as she can. I snip out a small square of paper towel with the scissors on my desk and hold it to her on my fingertip. She takes it, and with a sudden evil look on her face she bites me right on the tip of the finger.

That was a mistake on her part, obviously. However, how that move manifest itself to her as a mistake was priceless.

I had eaten some fajita tacos for lunch, and I like my Tex-Mex to pack a wallop. To that end I’d applied a little hot sauce to them. When she bit my finger, she got a mouthful of capsaicin crystals courtesy of a microscopic droplet of hot sauce in some of the folds of my fingerprint. Again to use scale as a basis for an analogy, what she did was essentially chug a bottle of pepper spray, as biting the crystals of raw capsaicin suspended in the droplet gave her instant appreciation for what sixteen million Scoville Heat Units tastes like. One hint: it tastes like pain. Pure, unadulterated, “my face is melting off” pain. Her entire universe exploded into perceptible colors of pain. She let out a bloodcurdling scream that sounded a lot larger than its origin would suggest.

It was the funniest thing I’d seen in a very long time, but then again I am a heartless bastard if the opinions of others have any degree of credulity.

She turns so red so fast and radiates so much heat I fear she might catch fire. I can literally feel her body heat radiating onto my finger, even though it has a nice ring of tiny teeth marks on it now and is doing that “dull ache on every pulse beat” thing.

She plunges her head into the thimble again, and comes up gasping, still red and screaming. She apparently didn’t know capsaicin was not water-soluble but found out fast that water won’t quench the fire in her mouth. By this time I can see blisters starting to form on her lips – the capsaicin is chemically burning her skin in addition to making her tongue feel like it was on fire. Time to go to the kitchen again.

I return to find her alternating between screaming in pain and wheezing from the swelling. I grab her, forcing her arms – which were grasping desperately at her face and throat – to her sides with a downward movement of my hand, and quickly eject a drop of milk from my trusty eyedropper right onto and into her mouth. She chokes and coughs and tries not to breathe in the milk, but gets wide-eyed as the pain subsides. Capsaicin isn’t soluble in water but does bind to fats, which is why a small bowl of ice cream helps a hot-sauced mouth much better than a glass of ice water. She spits out the now fiery milk, its fats heavy with bound capsaicin, and starts to recover.

After some more milk and a lot more water, she was looking kinda rough – random bruises and red marks from her fishbowl collisions, red forehead with a little bruising starting to show, purplish stained face and hands, redness under the fetters binding her to the sinkers, and a blistered and obviously burned mouth. Life was really sucking for my tiny little cutie-pie.


As she calms down, I release her, and she gasps as she sees some of the pattern of her iridescent wings on my hand. I’d rubbed some of the scales off her wings, and now I had some pastel pink and purple spots on the palm of my hand.

I see her lower lip quivering and her entire demeanor changes. I grin.

I grab a napkin and with one quick movement knock her to the desk, pinning her facedown with a finger centered over her spine just below where her wings emerge from her back. I then use the napkin to wipe her shiny pretty butterfly wings, to remove every last scale that gives them their color and pattern. She understands immediately what’s going on and launches into a screaming crying foot kicking and fist pounding tantrum style fit. With the backs of all four of her wings (two to a side arranged in quadrants, like a butterfly’s) wiped clean I flip her over and hold her to the desk, this time face up, to get the other side. As she cries she keeps muttering something – I suppose she’s begging me to not destroy her beautiful wings. Again, I really ought to learn fairyspeak – I bet some of the conversations I could have would be worth recording for posterity.

When I let her sit up her wings are clear except for the veins, and I now have a very colorful napkin.

I hold a small front-surface mirror in front of her and when she sees her wings she gives me a look she’d not used before. I’d taken something from her and it was very, very personal. The injustices she’s suffered to this point were apparently not as personal as this. She apparently felt violated by this action, more so than for anything else I’d done to her thus far.

I’d stripped her of one of her forms of beauty. And to a fairy, and a female one especially, that’s a big, huge deal.

She rears her head back and slides into a doleful, morose, deep cry. It wasn’t the cry of the injured of body; it was the cry of the crushed of spirit.

Excellent.

I leave her there, crying on my desk, until the next morning.

Phase Three
Mind Games

I awaken and meander into the lab to check on my tiny little cutie-pie. She’s asleep, surrounded by the lead sinkers, and next to her is a small plate containing what used to be individual fruits. I’d seen her eat the blackberry, but during the evening and night she also polished off the three blueberries and took a few good scoops out of the small watermelon wedge. The thimble was empty as well.

She has a little potbelly from her food and drink, and is sleeping soundly enough that my breathing directly on her as I inspect her and her surroundings doesn’t faze her. Since I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet I’m surprised my morning breath didn’t melt her wings off.

I grab my desk lamp, which is one of the magnifier types that sport the round fluorescent tube around a large glass lens, and study her physical condition for my notes. She’s obviously fattened on the fruit and water, and aside from fruit-juice stains I can clearly see her injuries are minor and healing nicely. Still, if she were a full-sized human she’d look like a cute girl that lost a fistfight, but fairies are pretty resilient, as I’d come to understand through my experiments over the years.


I’d been staring at her like a giant voyeur for a few minutes when she suddenly gets a pained expression and begins to convulse as though trying to fight or fight off something. I note her eyes are closed but the eyeballs below are twitching crazily. Interesting, fairies have a REM sleep mode. That might prove useful later.

Even more interesting, she’s clearly still asleep and is having a nightmare. I wonder if I’m starring in it, I think, and chuckle quietly at the thought.


Suddenly she bolts upward with a shriek, sighs as she realizes she was dreaming, and rubs her eyes. Then she looks up and sees me through the magnifier, which I imagine must make me look like I’m a hundred feet tall and about to eat her. She screams in terror. I cop a menacing look, open my mouth and lean in, moving the magnifier down toward her as I do. From her perspective it must look like she’s about two seconds away from becoming some monster’s morning snack.

She just about comes unhinged. A total freak-out that’s so strong that she faints. I literally scared her unconscious. This is almost, but not quite, as funny as her finding that hot sauce yesterday.

While she writhes in semi-comatose shock I go about my morning rituals – including tending to my teeth and what I’m sure has to be some really atrocious morning breath – and grab some breakfast. I have a big day planned for my tiny little girl.


When she comes to, I have another sampler plate of small fruits and thimble of fresh chilly water to greet her. When she sees me she’s startled – her experience is definitely fresh in her mind – and shies away from the food. I wonder if she now thinks I’m fattening her up for dinner. One, she’s way too small for that, and two, fairies are tough and gamy, and their meat is definitely an acquired taste that I personally have no interest in acquiring. Still, I hear that fairy-kebabs are great aphrodisiacs. But, I digress.

I leave her alone with the food for a good couple hours. When I return I see very little evidence of her having eaten. Then it dawns on me that she’s probably still full from last night. It’s not like I didn’t see her distended stomach earlier. Oh well, it’s time to get back to the grind anyway.


I place a spool of thread in front of her, and this act draws a puzzled look from her. I then place a picture on the desk, facing her, using the spool as a stand. For me the pic’s three-by-five, a standard photograph. To her it’s a wall-sized poster. And what it’s a picture of makes her flush white.

It’s a picture of one of my test-subject storage boxes. This particular one’s full of fairies, each in a small compartment of his or her own, and each bound mummy-style with only the wings and head visible.

She gasps, raising her hands to cover her mouth, and tears literally start to pour out of her face. She’s shocked, appalled, and repulsed at the picture but it mesmerizes her like a really bad car wreck mesmerizes humans – you know you can’t bear to look but can’t turn away either. Only in this case making the car-wreck analogy work would require that you recognize cars involved in the accident as belonging to people you know and love.

The fairies in the case are her kinfolk, relatives, and neighbors. When I caught her, I also caught everyone in her village. So she gets to see everyone she knows, all nicely wrapped and neatly stored and clearly quite dead. She starts babbling and crying and touching the photograph, caressing individuals she recognizes. I assume the babbling includes the names of fellow fairies she knows.

Of course they’re not dead, but she doesn’t know that. I’ve been experimenting with fairies for a long time and while I don’t know their language I do know a great deal about their physiology, including how to put one in suspended animation, theoretically for years if need be. I also know how to efficiently catch fairies en masse, and it’s surprisingly easy. A basic butterfly net dipped in ether does the trick, said ether quickly knocking out every one caught in it, and at the same time expunging about the last hour of consciousness from their memories thanks to a currently unexplainable interaction between ether and fairy neurotransmitters. When a fairy I caught wakes up they literally have no memory of having been caught, placed into suspension, wrapped for display, and stored. All they know is one moment they’re in the woods being themselves and the next they’re in a strange room trapped in a fishbowl even though weeks, months, or even years have elapsed between these events. It’s maximally disorienting and disconcerting, which works to my advantage.

When I found her village I moved through it like a tornado, catching every adult in moments and going back for younglings once the elders were secured. Out in the wild their magic is active and relatively unrestrained so I have to work quickly or I’m screwed, so it’s a case of hitting the grownups hard and fast. If one were to get off a transmutation spell, for example, I’d find myself in miniature in a human-sized fairy’s hand instead of the other way around. Fortunately fairy magic is acquired via oral instruction and that doesn’t start until late adolescence, so once I have every adult the juveniles are pretty much unprotected. Nabbing them then basically involves smoking them out of their homes or simply peeling the home apart to reach them if they’re really young.

Just in case, I also have an ace up my sleeve: a small amulet that has a potent negate spell bound to it. It negates all magic within a circle of about twenty yards in diameter. I simply toss it into the center of a village I intend to clear out, and pick it up when I’m done. As long as I have it on my person I’m pretty much invulnerable to anything they can do unless they all start packing guns or something.

Her village netted me 153 adults and adolescents, and 29 juveniles, with four of the juveniles being infants. Although she thinks they’re all dead, she’s the first one from that haul that I “thawed” from storage to experiment on. I have a picture with her in the box as well for the next one, and the crop from her village will give me probably about three years’ worth of research material, assuming they each survive long enough to provide useful data.

The picture I showed her was only about a third of the adults and none of the juveniles, but it got the job done. She was now absolutely terrified of me. When her eyes met mine after a little while in front of the picture I see horror in them. Total, white-knuckle, bad guy jumping out of the darkness and stabbing you, horror movie horror. I had become in her eyes the god of death. Next to come would be the destruction part.

Phase Four
The Workbench

I put away the picture and leave her alone with her thoughts until after lunch. I did after all have errands to run, and all that. When I return I find her exhausted and panting, and a quick review of my recording – that camera that drives the kitchen TV is also piped into the computer – showed her frantically trying anything and everything to free herself. She even managed to get hold of my smallest screwdriver and tried to force the hooks on her leg weights. Ah, the marvel that is quickset epoxy – like I said before, this is not my first ride in this rodeo.

She recoiled from me with another look of sheer terror which told me her thoughts in my absence were not happy ones.

I head over to the closet and bring out my specially designed workbench for fairy research. I sit down at my desk and place it in front of her. She stares at it; her look of horror at me only slightly subsided. It’s a strange looking contraption really, consisting of a rounded portion made from machined plastic attached to a metal box base at a 45-degree angle. The base had two knobs for controlling the height and angle of the rounded portion, and on either side of the base were two holes, lined up along the rounded portion when viewed from above.

While she stares at the workbench I grab the weight affixed to her right arm. This makes her spin round to see what was happening, and when she sees me pick up the weight she suddenly starts pulling away, shaking her head and flicking tears around in the process. She was muttering something repeatedly and with increasing concern, and given the context and body language I imagine it was “no” repeated endlessly. I grab the other arm’s weight and begin taking up the slack in the leaders between them and her wrists. She’s trying to back away and pulling with both arms but obviously that won’t make any real difference.

She knows what was about to go down I think, and cries while repeating what I think is a “no” and adds repeats of what I think is “please.” Still, I lift her arms up over her head and slowly began to pick her up by her arm weights. I have to do this slowly, as a sudden lift would rip her arms and/or legs out of their sockets, and I don’t want to do that kind of damage this early in the game.

I get her lifted up enough that the leg weights are starting to move, and her crying is being replaced with groans made through clenched teeth as her joints and muscles strain under the load. I have her suspended in space now, her limbs and body pulled taut by the weights locked in gravity’s unforgiving embrace. The less than an ounce little body’s got four ounces of lead dangling from it, and to scale that to human terms it’d be like getting picked up by your wrists by a crane while five hundred pounds of weight dangles from each ankle.

I slowly swing her over the contraption that is my workbench and lower her slowly onto it so that the weights attached to her ankles slide to opposite sides of the rounded post in the middle. I lower her until she’s sitting on the post, and I then take the weights I’m holding and lower them behind the upper part of the post, pulling her down onto it. I drop the left arm’s weight into the hole on the right side and vice versa, which pulls her arms behind and across each other so that they touch at the wrists. I then position her leg weights into the remaining holes and flip a steel crossbar over each of the holes that now held the lead weights, latching them in place.

She’s now spread across a round plastic rod, grunting, crying, begging, and pleading. So, I start to turn the knobs. One of them raises the post, increasing the pressure on both arms and legs, and the other varies the angle, which manages the tension on the arms only. As I turn them I’m drawing up the slack and pulling her arms and legs tight, and along with them pressing her spine forward into her body and spreading her ribs outward as she bows across the rounded surface she now lay upon. Her legs are being pulled up and back, and her arms toward each other, and this pretty much immobilizes her. She can’t move anything but her head – even her wings are pinned back, and the angles of her arms are putting creases in her top wings.

I reach a point with the tension adjustment where she’s grimacing with the slightest turn, so I know she’s bound tightly enough. She’s breathing heavily now, her breathing made harder thanks to the way she’s being pulled into an outward curve by the workbench.

Not at all coincidentally, the workbench gives me complete and uncontested access to her front, top, sides, and bottom. She grimaces and moans and struggles and tries to move and cries and complains, all to no avail.


So, what do I want to do to my hapless little victim today? I have an arsenal of things I know work on fairies, some of them painful, others fatal, and still others that make fairies want to die in the worst way without actually killing them. I’ve got bullet ants here, which are excruciatingly painful to humans and hideously painful to the point of death to a fairy – bullet ant toxin makes fairy nervous systems literally explode, and it’s a rough way to go that’s pretty gruesome to watch and takes about five minutes to happen. I’ve also got a few spiders here that like fairies for food. There’s also the Emperor Scorpion in the terrarium in the other room – he’s so docile that he’s actually a pet but his sting will kill any animal with a body weight under about 20 pounds. Or I could go fetch a mantis from outside, but they have an annoying habit of eating their meals head-first and there’s just not much fun in the meal dying at the start. And then there are mechanical and chemical means of instilling variable degrees of discomfort from minor to lethal.

Ah, mechanically induced discomfort, that’s it, that’ll do nicely. I grab my rotary tool and kit from the closet. She’s too busy groaning under the strain to her joints to notice me chucking up a small lateral-bristle disc onto the rotary tool. These are great for polishing as they’re made of microgrit-impregnated plastic tines in a spiral but flat disc. To human skin they’re fine enough to be suitable for polishing, but to a fairy it’s like getting beaten with a high-speed jump rope coated with sand. My rotary’s a cable-driven handpiece connected to a motor via flexible shaft, and it’s controlled by a foot pedal, so I have total control over the tool. I can work that puppy into any opening I want, and make the opening first if necessary.

I grab my mini scissors and carefully snip off her clothing by cutting the fibers that hold the fabric panels together, being careful not to snip off anything of hers in the process. She’s clearly frightened by this, and starts babbling something new. I’m guessing she’s asking why I’m harming her.


Fairies look young even though they’re often ancient, and to an extent this youthfulness also applies in terms of thought processes. Although they’re very intelligent most hundred-year-old fairy folk function at what to humans is about the level of an eight-year-old. And one of the things they do when in trouble is wonder why they’re being treated badly. They want to know why because they cannot understand why unless it’s explained to them, as they don’t naturally think in abstract terms. Most of them don’t know that there are people out there that would harm fairies at all, and this is generally because someone that would harm a fairy won’t let one live long enough to report this back to their kin. So it comes as a real shock to find out there isn’t really a reason, that they’re being tormented simply because they were caught and stored and picked out of storage. They literally don’t comprehend that there are sick fucks out there who’d crush them underfoot without so much as a blink of the eye, and certainly don’t know how to cope with being handled by one – let alone handled by me.


As she cries and begs and pleads for me to not do whatever I’m doing or about to do, I tug her clothing out from under her, giving her back and bottom some light friction burns in the process. I then fire up the tool, whose high-pitched whine makes her eyes get really big and makes the now inaudible begging come fast and furious. I laugh in response, and that upsets her all the more.

I approach her with the polishing disc whirring in the handpiece, and touch her right side at roughly waist level lightly with the very outermost portion of the whirling circle of pumice-plastic. It immediately rubs the skin red and she lets out a scream I could hear over the scream of the tool. I start working her side over, making the skin a uniform shade of bright pink but being careful not to actually burn into it or rub it raw. She’s struggling like mad to get away but achieving nothing.

I get up to just below her armpit and suddenly there’s a sharp cracking noise. I quickly draw the handpiece away and let up on the foot pedal to spin down the tool a bit, in an effort to find out what that noise was. She stops screaming for an instant, her eyes as big as they can get them; she inhales fully, and lets out a scream that could probably be heard outside. I look closer and see that she’s struggled enough to dislocate her right shoulder in an effort to pull away from the precisely applied friction burns I was giving her.

Well, crap. I lift my foot off the foot pedal and the handpiece quiets as the disc spins down to a stop. I lower the angle a bit to loosen the tension on her shoulders, grab her arm and chest, and with one quick movement and one loud pop plug the bone back into its joint. She screams another bloodcurdler and cries loudly. I’ve had that happen to me and know what it feels like, so for a brief instant I empathize with my tiny little cutie-pie.

I fire up the tool and work over her left side now, making it as bright pink as the right, and making her scream and shriek and cry and who knows what else that I can’t hear over the tool.

I’ve only worked her over for about thirty seconds and she’s already too exhausted to cry. She’s panting heavily, looking at me and between breaths weakly asking something in a language I don’t understand. I say nothing, but imagine how I’d answer if I spoke fairyspeak. No, little one, there is no reason why you’re suffering so. Yes, I will be hurting you some more. No, I will not be releasing you yet. Will you die? Not yet but assure you you’ll wish you could. And no, I’m not letting you die of your own accord just yet. Death is not on your itinerary right now. Perhaps later, if you amuse me sufficiently, I shall allow you to feel its embrace, but if not, it shall elude you. Yes, I am every bit the heartless and unfeeling bastard you’re thinking I am, and then some. No, you’ve not seen anything yet – your experiences are just beginning.

I fire up the tool again and burnish the skin on her abdomen to a bright pink.

My light touch has paid dividends – she’s uniformly the bright pink of a friction burn but not rubbed raw, and I didn’t cut her anywhere. Despite this she’s nearly unconscious, so I depart for a few to let her recover. Time is, after all, my ally and her enemy at this point.

I come back after about twenty minutes to find her moaning and sobbing. She sees me and gets fidgety and talkative, again in a questioning but decidedly frightened manner. By now I’m sure she’s detected a pattern to my skin treatments and has a pretty good idea what areas are next.

I pick up the tool and she gets really excited, and not at all in a positive way.

So, I put her fears to rest – by confirming them. I carefully friction-burn her breasts and chest up to her neck and out to each shoulder. If you thought she screamed when she popped her shoulder out of joint, you ain’t heard nothin’ like how she went off when I worked on her areolae. I swear she could have broken my safety goggles. She wasn’t that loud when I burnished the swollen skin over her reset shoulder as she did when her breasts, tiny though they are, were being brightened up. She finally has all she can stand and passes out as I finish up along her miniscule collarbones.

I back off the tension on her arms and legs, and leave the bright-pink and out-cold fairy on the workbench. Time to go meet a few friends, so she gets to recover from her ordeal. But before I depart I set up a hamster water bottle on a stand beside her so that she could hydrate while I’m gone. I’m sure she’s dry again from all the crying.


When I return late in the evening she cries and moans and begs and pleads at my mere sight, which yet again draws that laugh of mine that I know she has to loathe by now. So, I grab a pair of needle noses and make another Lidocaine cotton ball.

As I reach toward her with it she smells the Lidocaine and the begging and pleading start, only much louder and more fearful in tone. She tries desperately to avoid it, to turn her head away, but all I do is move it to whatever side she’s facing. Then, I press it onto her face and she struggles mightily, trying to wrest her head from the embrace of the poisoned cotton, and with her loosened restraints she arches her back in a fruitless effort to gain a slight opening through which to breathe untainted air. She’s suffocating, or at least is acting as though she thinks she is. The Lidocaine does its dirty work with quickness despite her efforts, I see her terrified eyes glaze over and half-close, and yet again I have a limp little cutie-pie.

I remove her from her stressful position and place her on my desk, with another thimble of fresh water and small assortment of food. As I pick her up I note how stiff her shoulder and hip joints were and note several popping sounds as things shift back into their original positions. Since she’s now buck-naked, I also provide a small square of silk fabric snipped from a clean handkerchief for her to cover with should she get a chill during the night.

And with that, I leave her for the morning.


God, check. Death, check. Destruction, check.

Phase Five
Thinking Inside The Box

I meander into the lab just after sunrise to check on my tiny little cutie-pie, and find her laying on her back with her hands under her head and the silk square pulled around her body like a blanket, gazing upward. She’s sad-faced, and I can only guess that it’s because instead of seeing sky and stars she gets to stare at a popcorn ceiling. I also imagine she’s probably trying to figure out what the justification is for the torments with which she’s been subjected thus far.

When I enter her field of vision she slowly and methodically pulls the silk over her head and lay as still as she can, as if she could hide from me. How quaint. I think she’s even holding her breath in the hope that I somehow didn’t notice her presence.

I head to the closet and return with another of my homemade contraptions. This one’s a clear box, solvent-welded quarter-inch-thick clear acrylic, with a platform in its center that has a series of motors and small paddlewheels on it. When power is applied, the platform rotates slowly and the paddlewheels spin quickly. There are twenty of these paddlewheels, and each is set at a slightly different angle.

The lid, which has a gasketed hole in its center, is removable separately, and I do so. I then unlatch some latches and the lid splits in two save for a hinge at one side. I then dump the active ingredient into the box itself: airsoft ammunition. Roughly a thousand rounds of it in fact.

I gently grab the silk square by an exposed corner and snatch it off, prompting a short screech of surprise from the body it hides. I grab her next, and as I scoop up both her and her weights she helplessly drums her fists on my hand in protest and shouts in terror. I grab the lid and roughly line up the hole with her neck, and start to carefully close it with one hand while holding her as still as I can with the other. She of course will have nothing to do with any of this and tries her level best to wiggle free. Naturally, her efforts are amusingly ineffective as I draw the lid’s halves together with her neck centered in the gaskets lining the hole.

A quick snap of the three latches and I have a fairy mounted by the neck in an acrylic plate, head sticking above one side and body hanging below. The hole and gasket are sized perfectly to hold her without choking her, and it does this as intended. She helplessly attacks the thick acrylic from underneath, at first trying to hit it, which hurts her hands. She then claws desperately at it, which is pointless since I made the halves close seamlessly once it’s latched. While she’s doing all this I’m bringing her to the box and carefully lowering her weights into it.

The box has an adjustable pedestal upon which its guest can stand, so I adjust it so that she can stand roughly tiptoed with the lid in place, which prevents the weights from pulling on her legs. She looks down into the box as best she can though the clear lid, unable to tilt her head below the horizontal. She whimpers in fear – she has no idea what this device is but can’t imagine it’s going to be pleasant based on experiences so far.

I plug in the wall wart that powers the box, and flip the power switch. The motors within spring to life. As the turntable slowly spins, the paddlewheels spin far faster, each slapping the airsoft ammo up and at her body. The impacts trigger an “oof” from her from the first few hits. She flails her arms wildly in an effort to fend off the airsoft ammo, but the effort only nets her some extra hits to the arms.


Time for another human-scale analogy. Imagine being restrained in place by the neck while fifty high school students pelt you from the neck down with basketballs at whatever speed they decide to, or are able to, throw them at. And they can, and do, hit you anywhere and everywhere, without concern for the cumulative effects of being hit lightly to moderately forcefully in the same spot. They’re also indiscriminate, hitting privates and publics with equal measure.


The paddlewheels don’t impart any real velocity or force but she’s getting belted by probably twenty of them a second at random places from above her ankle fetters to below her neck. And since the platform upon which the paddlewheels are mounted is slowly turning, she’s getting nailed from all sides. As if this isn’t bad enough, the airsoft ammo is six millimeters across, which is about double the width of her arms.

After about the first five seconds she’s groaning in pain as she suffers being pelted endlessly everywhere by the airsoft ammo. She doesn’t cry, as she’s too busy grunting from the impacts, but there’s definitely some tear-gland action going on. She’s also experiencing the extra fun of getting hit in areas I know fairies are sensitive at, such as her genitals, her breasts, and the bases of her wings. Those hits make her scream thanks to that extra special pain they deliver when struck. She grimaces and grunts, gritting her teeth while tears stream down her face, as the machine pounds her mercilessly from all sides.

The view into the bottom of the box is a quick-moving cloud of airsoft ammo, moving at a slow blur in all directions within. I can’t even see her body for all the flying plastic pellets.

I head out to do a few of my quicker morning things, leaving her in the box with the motors running.


I come back about fifteen minutes later to find her unconscious. I shut off the motors and she hangs limp, dangling from her neck. Her body is literally one giant bruise – I cannot see any part of her that isn’t purplish-red. She’s even bruised on the backs and palms of her hands, and a few fingers on each hand look to be either broken or dislocated. Oh, how much that must hurt. No wonder she’s out cold again.

Adding to my amusement is the sight of her wings. One of the four is missing from her limp body, broken to bits and scattered throughout and among the airsoft ammo. The remaining three wing panels are bashed to hell and back, with chunks knocked off and portions of the clear parts perforated during the onslaught. Given how bad the remaining wings look I bet her body will jettison them shortly, as fairies can eject damaged wings and regrow them in about two weeks.

What next catches my eye are her legs. Specifically, the yellow and dark blue streaks down them. She took so much of a beating that she lost control over her body functions, defecating and urinating all over herself. This annoys me, as it means having to clean the box, its mechanisms, and all that ammo.

I unsnap the lid halves and simply slide it open without lifting it, and she falls into a crumpled purple heap among the bright yellow airsoft ammo. So I scoop her out, lay her out face-up and spread eagled on my desk, and inspect her with my magnifier desk lamp. A closer inspection confirms that she was beaten quite evenly over her entire body, with a clear demarcation line at the neck and feet that look untouched. She was so evenly pounded that I can’t make out individual impact marks, which tells me my design worked flawlessly as intended.

I flip her over and inspect her backside, and sure enough, a tiny red line at the base of the most damaged wing tells me her body is already unplugging the wing’s blood supply in preparation of detaching it. She’ll probably lose them all before she even wakes up. My tiny little cutie-pie will be traveling by foot for a while, assuming I decide to permit this.

I set the fingers – they were indeed dislocated – and reach for my wire cutters. Some careful snips and her fetters are removed. She’s not going to be flying anywhere and trying to get off my desk will likely kill her, so it’s safe to remove her bonds. Then again there’s also the idea of being a free prisoner – she’ll probably see their removal as a release but quickly realize she’s still inescapably under my complete control.


I leave my customary bit of food and thimble of water for her, put the box away after cleaning it out and cleaning and storing the ammo, and head out for a long day’s errands. I expect she’s going to need quite a while to recover from the box. But before I go I leave her two additional presents: a small pile of lead sinkers and her cut-off fetters, and a small plastic handheld mirror that to her will be full-length. If she doesn’t see her wings are missing before then, she will when she gets up.


I return a few hours later and she hasn’t moved. She’s still alive, but still unconscious. I set my computer up to monitor the camera and alert me to any movement, and with that I leave the lab again to do some housework.


Roughly two hours later a beep announces that the computer has noted movement. I switch my TV to the video feed from the camera, and sure enough, her position has changed. Then, it changes again – she’s twitching and convulsing intermittently, as her consciousness tries to reassert itself.

Suddenly she sits up with a start, wide-eyed and screaming. I smile, as when she sat up suddenly her remaining wings stayed where they were on my desk. She ditched them all in her coma and is now not only beaten to a near-bloody pulp but also completely wingless. Oh how she’ll react if merely removing the coloring from her wings violated her like it did – if that was personal, this was unspeakable, a taboo to fairydom.


Her first act is to draw into a tight ball, moaning, grimacing, crying. She’s hurting everywhere. It’s not as intense a pain as the hot sauce dealt her but it’s almost as bad. Her entire existence is pain. I imagine it’s probably so bad it’s affecting and possibly even overriding her other senses. And as if the pain from being beaten like she was isn’t enough, she’s at the stage of injury where your every heartbeat causes changes in pressure on the injured tissues, and subsequently makes the pain pulsate.

She slowly rolls from one side to another trying to find one that hurts less, and failing since she was flogged very evenly. She changes position again, grimaces, and launches into a deep long sob. Her tears begin to form a puddle around her desk as viewed from the camera above her.

She’s so messed up that she’s totally unaware of being unfettered and wingless. Again I laugh, knowing that the longer it takes for her to make those discoveries the more amusing the reaction to them will be.

And to think, all the damage done to her thus far is not fatal in its severity even cumulatively – she’s going to survive it all, and if given enough time she’ll recover fully. Her mental state, however, is never going to be the same. To her all humans will always and forever be hideous monsters, and as far as she’ll be concerned I am the aforementioned evil god of death and destruction.


I set the TV to picture-in-picture mode and watch some prime-time programming on one of the learning style channels, keeping a wary eye on her via the inset display from the camera feed to make sure she’s not going to try to kill herself. It’s pretty late at night before she’s able to do much moving aside from the roll around and moan thing.

She finally manages to crawl slowly to the thimble and plate, drags herself up onto the thimble’s rim, and gingerly sips the cool and refreshing water within. She’s not even fazed by the little extra something I added to the water – a few nutrients that were discovered that promote healing in fairies, and microdoses of a couple anabolic steroids that work safely with fairy metabolisms. Not only will she survive it all but she’s going to recover faster than normal, and be slightly stronger as a result.

She’s been bawling nearly continuously from the pulsating agony of her airsoft-induced beating for about five minutes when she notices there’s no fetter attached to her left arm. She stares at her now unrestrained arm, sniffling and moaning quietly, and then checks the right. Nope, nothing there either, so she next slides from knees to rump. This prompts a yelp from the transfer of pressure from one bruised area to another, and with it, a shift in where the pain is most intense. But now she’s caressing her now bare ankles, still sniffling and moaning quietly.

She looks over at the pile of weights, and next to it the mirror, and sees herself. Her jaw drops open as she suddenly realizes what’s wrong with the image of herself that she’s seeing. Back her head goes, and she lets out a single deep morose moan, and with that comes more crying.

She’s free of the weights, but still very much a prisoner. And she appears to know it.

Phase Six
Adding Insult To Injury

I enter the lab after leaving her to recover overnight, and as I do so I note she’s nowhere to be seen. Being the god of death and destruction I happened to have a good idea where she is, but I take my seat and grab the keyboard from its vertical holder next to the monitor, and bring up my notes on my tiny little cutie-pie.

After making some edits, I’ve actually amassed some interesting data thus far on her physical resilience in terms of survivability, but comparative weakness in pain tolerance. So far I’ve scared her unconscious once and subjected her to enough pain to pass out twice. She might be able to survive a lot of abuse but she apparently can’t or won’t do it awake.

My notes also reflect that thus far I’ve beaten her to a pulp, de-winged her, and friction-burned her torso, but her other injuries such as the forehead bruise and now-healed fat lip have been self-inflicted. My to-do list is still unsatisfied, however, so she will remain with me for a little longer.


I glance around my desk while checking my E-mail, noting that although my desk is very sparse it does have a few potential hiding places for an intelligent creature her size. I know of them all and they’re marked with optical sensors that pop lights on a small LED panel on top of my monitor, so I can tell at a glance if one of the hidey-holes is occupied. I don’t see any of the LEDs lit though, which tells me precisely where she is.

I press on the top of the monitor with one finger, slowly rocking it backward on its stand, and as I do so I feel resistance earlier than normal. A little more pressure and I suddenly start to hear a groan. A wee bit more, and a scream fills the air. I release the monitor and out behind it spills my tiny little cutie-pie – she was tucked up under the monitor behind its pedestal, so when I pressed the top and tilted it backward I crushed her in her hiding place between it and the pedestal. Like I said, this is not my first ride in this rodeo.

She rolls to an ungainly stop, caressing one arm which bears a purplish mark of the sort skin makes when pinched between blunt objects, and as she sees me she tries to run. It’s just the kind of run I was hoping for, a desperate clamoring klutzy trip-over-your-own-feet affair devoid of any intended direction other than away. She has nowhere to run to, but runs nevertheless, and it’s strictly to get away from me, not to head toward some goal. Her entire focus right in this instant is putting distance between herself and me. Her pinched arm and yesterday’s beatdown are not even entering her mind. I grin. Perfect.

I don a rubber exam glove and reach for her, and she shrieks in horror as she sees me coming. The running gets even more desperate and erratic and she’s falling to her hands and knees more than actually running. Of course her inability to run well is partially due to her having wings, as fairies only use their legs to stand and walk short distances, and almost never need to run since they can fly. She’s so scared that she even clamors on all fours in desperation. The look on her face is also one of abject terror – eyes at maximum size, pupils as big as they get, mouth open in screams of fear. It’s like watching a claustrophobic bolt from a windowless elevator.

After about fifteen seconds of her trying to evade me I back her into a corner. As I reach to grab her she screams bloody murder, fists clenched and up by her neck. She spontaneously wets and soils herself as well, all out of fear, which is in part why I donned a glove first.

As I pick her up I have her held so that only her head peeks from the top of my hand. She’s screaming like mad, and I suddenly see her look down at my hand. She rears back and opens wide to bite but stops short – a few sniffs tells her the glove has a tiny strip of hot sauce rubbed on it. Experience tells me to be prepared for certain actions, and biting is definitely one of the more common things a fairy in the hand will try. The scent instantly reminds her of her first run-in with the sauce I like and she goes back to the screaming-in-terror thing.


I take her for a walk into the bathroom, as I have my next little surprise there waiting. I drop her into a narrow but tall container she can’t quite reach the top of, and adjust the temperature of the water in the sink to slightly above room temperature. She’s bawling and utterly terrified but watching, hands and nose pressed to the milky plastic so she can sorta kinda see what’s going on. The glove’s served its purpose so I remove and dispose of it.

I grab the plastic container and place it under the faucet, blasting her with far more water than she’s used to being hit by at one time. I fill the container up to about her waist, and set it back on the counter. Off with the water, out with a knife and a small soap bar of the sort used for traveling. She’s standing very still in the warm water, terrified of what might be coming up next, as I whittle off some soap shavings into the container. She picks up one and sniffs it before dropping it and making a disgusted face. I guess that means she doesn’t like my choice in soap. Oh well, I didn’t ask for any opinions.

She’s going to really hate this part I think, as I snap the lid onto the container. She’s got about two hours’ worth of air in there if I was to leave it alone, but that’s not the purpose of this exercise. I pick up the container with its fairy and water and soap shaving contents, and start to shake and swirl the water around inside. The container’s only about two inches in diameter and six long so she’s able to extend her limbs and keep herself centered as the water and soap swish around and foam up. I tilt it back and forth, give it short brief gentle shakes, and even do a maraca impression briefly, until all I see of the insides is some nasty looking water and a lot of foam.

I pop the top and replace it with a special strainer style top, and then upend it to dump out the water. She emerges from being hidden from view by the foam and gets just about dumped onto her head, landing upside-down on the lid while coughing and sputtering. I turn the faucet back on to get it to the same temp, and hold the container underneath its stream, this time filling it up. The look on her face as she realizes the water will reach past the lid is priceless – nobody in a horror flick has ever conveyed that much fear via facial expression alone. Sure enough, my tiny little cutie-pie is suspended in a container full of water, cheeks puffed out from the lungful of air she’s holding, beating on the side of the container for all she’s worth.

I upend it to drain it, and do the fill-and-drain a few times to get all of the soap out. Each time, she ends up upside-down on the lid, half choked on water and coughing it out.

But at least now she’s cleaned of her excreta and the last few days’ worth of grime. Even her hair looks nicer. And she smells like the chemical equivalent of a quiet meadow instead of having the weird form of fairy funk that she’d been slowly developing since being brought around from storage.

I pop the lid and dump her out onto my hand, making sure to prevent her from making a break for it. In here there are no protections to prevent her falling to the tile floor, and that’d surely break her legs and kill her in a hurry.

I press her onto a small chamois pad at the waiting on the counter, and she’s silent but sniffly as she notes that I am in fact drying her off with it, holding her face-down with a finger between the small of her back and where her wings attached. I’m holding her down with a finger while using a corner of the chamois to towel her off, and when I release her she flips over of her own accord, still apparently terrified but at least understanding now what was going on.

I fold her into the chamois and head back to my desk, unloading her from it with the somewhat inglorious act of releasing one side and rolling her unceremoniously off onto the desk. This prompts some shaky-voiced protests and yelping, which I silence with a glare.


I next grab her again, and once again I hold her with only her head peeking up from the top of my hand. She notes the glove is missing, does a quick sniff, and bites down hard on the middle of my index finger. I make no noise but I’m sure my expression is indicating that she’s suddenly inflicting pain on me, an act for which there will for a certainty be consequences.

With my other hand, I reach for a small nose hair trimmer. As I hold it up and turn it on, its sharp buzz makes her look up from her efforts to carve a chunk out of my finger. As soon as she lets go, I rock my thumb forward, essentially pinning her head in place by pressing on the back of her neck, and start to carefully shave off her hair with the trimmer. I feel her trying to struggle but I have more muscle tissue working my thumb than she has in her entire body, so her efforts are amusingly futile at best, or would be amusing had she not annoyed me by biting my hand.

She sees the first clump of hair fall off and again her lower lip starts to quiver. In about thirty seconds she’s a fuzz-topped, wingless fairy. I drop her unceremoniously to the desk from a height of about five inches, which clearly hurts her ankles and makes her spill sideways. She looks up, and then looks at the piles of her hair scattered on her desk.

To add insult to injury, I get the mirror and show her what a bald fairy looks like. Her expression tells me all I need to know – I just stripped another form of beauty from her. Compared to how she looked when we started our time together, she looks absolutely horrid, a tiny shell of that tiny little cutie-pie in the fishbowl. She drops to her knees, buries her face in her hands, and mourns her loss.


I step out of the lab and make a quick trip to the kitchen. When I return I set a bottle in front of the still sobbing little cutie-pie. She looks up, hands still up to cry into, and as she does I wipe a large drop of my favorite hot sauce from that bottle across her face. I hit her eyes and lips, and in the process inadvertently push a little up each nostril and some into her open mouth.

She starts to gasp and choke. She screams long and loud and deep as the capsaicin burns into her face like battery acid. Her pain is so intense and so all encompassing that she doesn’t even try to stand – she just claws at her face and screams as continuously as her lungs’ air capacity permits. It’s a gurgling scream, partially from the swelling and blistering and partially from obstructions courtesy of the inactive ingredients of the hot sauce.

I give her about thirty seconds of the special kind of torment that is hot sauce before basically half-drowning her in milk. Once she starts to recover, I leave her to contemplate her actions and the response they garnered. Hopefully for her sake she doesn’t try something that dumb again.

Phase Seven
Swan Dive

After leaving her alone for a few hours to give myself time to become non-annoyed, I check on her via my camera feed, and sure enough, she’s curled up into a tight ball and sobbing inconsolably. How much of that is from her face full of hot sauce is debatable but I’m certain at least part of her sorrows are physical in inspiration. Having been exposed to pure capsaicin I can attest personally to its affects, so yet again I can empathize with my tiny sad hairless wingless little cutie-pie.

As I walk into the lab she hears me and I see her head poke up and whip around to seek me out, but even though I can see her clearly she’s not reacting to the sight of me. As I step closer I see why – the hot sauce has blinded her. Well, in a sense anyway – her eyelids have swollen shut. As I pull my chair back to take a seat I also note she’s breathing through her mouth and crying between breaths because her nostrils have also swollen shut. She stays deathly still with her head up, listening, as I take my seat and roll up to the desk. I laugh, and my laugh at first startles her and immediately thereafter sends a visible shudder through her tiny frame. She’s deathly afraid of me and that was bad enough when she could see me, but now that I am an unseen monster making noises in the darkness I’m frightening multiplied by untold orders of magnitude.

She shrieks once and starts another desperate flight to get away from the sounds of my laughter. This time, however, she makes no attempt to run but gropes out in front of herself to feel the route she faces while trying to crawl away as fast as she can given the circumstances. She’s whimpering and whining as she tries, a sure sign of the fear gripping her mind as the bogeyman in the darkness haunts her imagination as well as her reality. An idea flashes into my mind, and I roll backward in my chair over to the futon against a nearby wall.


Yes, I have a futon in the lab, even though the lab is a converted spare bedroom in my house. The reason? Well, sometimes I conduct research that requires regularly timed action on my part or requires I be close enough to intervene in a hurry. My home’s pretty big and my bedroom’s upstairs, so at best it would take me a couple minutes to dash to the lab from there without braking my neck coming down the stairs. By keeping a tolerably comfortable bed in the lab I can be seconds away from anything that requires that kind of response time. Normally I leave it in couch mode, but keep some soft, comfy pillows and a folded blanket on it so that when I need to do so I merely unfurl it to bed mode and crash. I grab one of the pillows, place it on my lap, and roll back over to the still blindly groping along little cutie-pie.


By this point she’s almost out of easy reach, so I reach out and grab her by the hips with my thumb and index finger. As I do she lets out a scream. I drag her slowly backward, and she claws at the desk while kicking wildly, trying to gain some traction and hopefully shake her tormentor loose. I’ve got her back to just about where she started when I cease my pull and loosen my grip ever so slightly. She gets some purchase and scrambles free, and takes off like a shot. Well, more or less. This time she’s not groping first to feel out her path, she’s doing a full-bore crawl as fast as she can in a somewhat straight line. She’s whimpering loudly now, the desperation heavy in her noises.

I reach out and grab her left foot by the ankle as she’s crawling away. She shrieks in horror again, and as I drag her backward again I hear the scraping of her fingernails dragging on my desk’s surface. This time, though, I rotate her as I pull her, slowly turning her round. When I loosen my grip again she’s headed more or less toward me instead of away. Again, by my permission she gets free and scrambles forward, only this time forward isn’t the direction she thinks it is.

Suddenly her right hand finds free space instead of desk and she stops abruptly. She feels along and discovers she’s at an edge – the edge of my desk. From there it’s thirty inches, or about eight or so times her height, to the carpeted floor. If it were tile a fall would be very likely fatal, but she’s at risk of a survivable but crippling injury falling onto Berber carpet with three-quarters of an inch of padding under it. The stuff might feel good underfoot but it’s really bad to land on.

I toss the pillow from my lap onto the floor under the desk where she’s hanging onto the edge. As I do so she’s holding onto the edge with her left hand and reaching blindly with her right for something, anything, to indicate she can continue her flight from the unseen monster.

Time to drive her over the edge, methinks. In this case, literally.

I reach past her and pretend my hand is a great and evil five-legged spider that jumped down to the desk from above, and I convey this image to her by dropping my hand fingertip first onto the desk, my fingernails making a sharp clacking sound against its surface. This makes her stop reaching and turn back, looking with blinded eyes. She holds her breath, head slowly panning back and forth, listening.

I move my fingers like a spider’s walk, tapping my fingernails on the desk as I do, and move my hand slowly toward her. She whimpers once as she hears the sound.

I tap faster and more forcefully, and while I still move toward her slowly the tempo change and increasing strength of the vibrations she feels makes her think a monster is running toward her, with what she can only imagine as malice on its mind.

She screams, whines once, grabs the desk edge with both hands and launches herself off the edge for all she’s worth. As she starts the descent into the unseen and unknown she shouts something in extended and terrified tones, and I can only imagine it being fairyspeak for “oh-h-h-h-h shi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-it!”

At her scale it’s about a two-second fall to the pillow below, but if time dilates to stressed-out fairies like it does to stressed-out people it probably feels like a minute’s freefall to what has to be in her mind a certain death.

She plops into the soft comfy pillow with a yelp of surprise. The yelp is rapidly replaced with screams of pain, however, as she lands hands first and instantly dislocates that shoulder again. I reach down and grab the pillow and screaming blinded fairy, and quickly reset her shoulder. She rolls around on the pillow screaming from the pain of that for about ten seconds, before passing out again. My tiny little cutie-pie definitely has a limited pain tolerance level.


I place her spread eagled on my desk and do another inspection for my notes. Her bruising is already healing nicely and is now probably just a dull ache and a really, really bad memory. At this point her only real concerns revolve around that shoulder that’s popped out twice now, and of course her swollen face thanks to a case of capsaicin induced chemical burns. All in all she’s in decent shape. I even note the beginnings of wing buds on her back when I inspect that side of her.

Her emotional state is nowhere near as good as her physical state though, injuries notwithstanding – she’s a nervous wreck and so scared of me it’s difficult to describe accurately. She’s been crying to various extents for about a week now, and only partially due to physical pain. And my laugh, oh how she must loathe my laugh with every fiber of her being by now. I bet if I were to record it and play it back on a continuous loop she’d throw herself into a whirring blender to get away from it. Mental note: I need to make a sound file of my laugh and see how she likes a few hours’ exposure to it on replay, assuming she doesn’t kill herself before then that is.


I build up a cage of sorts by building walls around her with some plastic building bricks I keep on hand for amusement and light-duty robotics construction, and a trip to the kitchen nets some food and drink for her when she comes to. The walls are eight inches tall and porous due to the bricks I use, but no opening is large enough for her to fit through. Ledges around the top dissuade climbing, and with that I leave her to recover from her latest round of injustices.

The water’s spiked again, this time with anti-inflammatories in addition to the vitamins, nutrients, and steroids I fed her earlier. Hopefully a little reduction in the swelling will come from it.

This time I give her a whole day off, only showing up to replace her food and drink, and by nightfall she can see pretty well again. My tiny little cutie-pie was rapidly heading back to semi-normal.

Phase Eight
The Chamber

After giving her more time without my presence than she’s had since coming out of storage, I wander into the lab. As is now the norm, my mere presence makes her panic, only instead of trying to run – which has never worked for her up until now – she’s taken to curling into a tight sobbing whining trembling ball and hoping beyond hope that I’ll not torment her.

I head to the closet, this time to fetch my largest creation, a one-foot-cube monstrosity affectionately named "the chamber." The top two-thirds of the cube are clear, aside from a myriad of wires and parts visible under a layer of polycarbonate.


Viewed from the top down, it's a clear box with its walls and floors studded with brass tacks laid out in a tight grid. A clear perforated lid secures to the top, and attached to it are additional electronics, with a ribbon cable tying the lid into the control circuitry below the gridded floor.

I plug it in – it doesn't use a wall wart, it has its own on-board power supply that accepts home AC for power – and a small LCD panel on its sloped control panel displays software and hardware versions while an illuminated red button to the right of the LCD flashes invitingly.


She is now recoiling in sheer terror from me, and seeing a new gizmo she's recoiling from it as well. I can't blame her really, as thus far every invention I've shown her ended up harming her greatly in some way.

I remove the lid and reach for her, and this naturally prompts panic and screaming and efforts to escape. Also naturally the efforts are futile as I grab her and drop her somewhat roughly into the box. I put on the lid, snap its catches into place to secure it, and plug in the ribbon cable hanging from it. Meanwhile she's dashing around the box, searching for an exit with sheer terror in her eyes and a fear-filled whimpering coming from the depths of her soul.


I set a few options on my chamber’s digital controls and press the invitingly illuminated button. A few beeps announces a self-test and then the floor begins to glow green, lit from beneath by a grid of tiny LEDs each set diagonally between the brass tacks poking through the plastic floor.

She looks at the floor, a look of deep concern replacing her initial fight-or-flight style panic. And as she stares, a section of the floor roughly centered under her turns yellow as the controller located a few inches under her feet sees, by way of electronic eyes in the lid, that something is there and hasn't moved lately. After about ten seconds the section is now glowing red and both she and I hear the telltale rising-pitch whine of a capacitor charging. She's looking around – only the part she's standing on is red; the rest is green.

Suddenly, the floor section under her flashes red twice and a single sharp ticking sound announces the delivery of fifteen hundred volts to the grid of tacks. This instantly shocks the soles of her feet and makes her launch straight up with a terrified and pained shriek, hitting the top of her head on the rather tightly secured lid. She lands on her ass with a painful-sounding thump, and whines. She plants her head in her hands and starts to bawl, and I’m sure her feet feel like she’s gone for a walk on freshly deposited lava. Without warning, the floor around where she's sitting suddenly glows yellow instead of green.

She catches a glimpse of this, leaps to her feet, and steps quickly off the yellow portion of the floor, and sure enough the yellow area reverts to green. She stares at it, standing very, very still as though hoping whatever it is that was going on somehow couldn't see her, and when the part floor currently under her switches to yellow she looks up at me through the lid, whining and babbling something in terrified fairyspeak. She steps off the yellow again, and again it reverts to green.

I see the light come on in her mind, and she walks around the box slowly, staring at the floor. Because she's moving, none of it changes color.

She walks around like this for a moment or two and then stops, and sure enough, after a brief pause that spot of the floor turns yellow. I smile, knowing she's testing the chamber to see if it works like she thinks it does. Presently it changes to red and we both hear the charging again. Then, two flashes and a pop and she just about does a back flip from intense electrical shocks to the feet. Idea confirmed, I think.

She lands in an ungainly manner on her stomach, starts to sob, notes a sudden color change beneath her, and springs to her feet. She starts to walk around the chamber, still sobbing.

I laugh, and the sound of my laughter sends shivers of fear through her like shockwaves from a great explosion. I can actually see her react physically to the laugh she hates so much.

Her long march has begun.


I set up the computer to record her marching in both real-time and time-lapse forms, and head out to leave her to the chamber’s care. I have quite a bit to do today and most of it will be away from the house. Besides, she’s got a long walk ahead of her.


I return roughly ten hours later, worn out from my day’s activities. A quick check of the video feed shows me that she’s still trudging around inside the chamber, so I grab a shower and see to dinner.


After another hour or so I drop in to check on my tiny little cutie-pie. By now she’s been walking almost constantly for twelve hours. A faint acrid smell, ozone mixed with burned flesh, tells me she’s stopped several times throughout the day, and the zap counter on the chamber’s LCD reads 21, so she’s already been nailed quite a bit. As she walks I note her right arm is curled up close to her body and she’s dragging one foot slightly, and on closer inspection I see that her right foot is missing its pinky toe.

Her demeanor is the worst it’s been thus far. I’ve seen happier emo kids. She’s also physically exhausted, and at this point is dragging herself along purely on willpower. Every step with her right foot triggers a grimace, and she’s letting out long and deep moans as a result of her pain, both physical and mental.

She looks up and sees me peering down into the chamber. She stops, stares up at me for a second, and drops to the floor of the chamber into a tight ball, letting out a shriek at the same time that would make a banshee look for earplugs.

The floor almost instantly goes yellow. What she probably didn’t know is that the longer the chamber is powered up, the shorter the trigger timer delays are. As the fairy walking around within tires and slows down they are actually more likely to be shocked, as the chamber drives its prisoner to move faster and faster over time.

In two seconds it goes red and I hear it charging. She does as well, and inhales for another scream. Before she could fire it, though, the floor flashes and pops her pretty much all the way down one side of her body. She screams in agony and the acrid smell of burned fairy punctuates the air. The impulse causes her muscles to spasm so violently she throws herself across the chamber, landing facedown on the far side.

Instead of getting up, she lets out a long sob. The floor goes yellow. She looks down, still in mid sob, and it goes red. I’m impressed – she’s gone so long that the timers are currently running at 1.5 seconds to yellow, 2 seconds to red, and 1 second to shock. It flashes and nails her up and down her entire body. It pockmarks her cheek, singles her jaw, and burns a grid pattern across her breasts and abdomen. Her entire body goes stiff and straight for that instant, and I’m not sure but I thought I saw a wisp of smoke.

She screams in pain, but again starts to cry instead of getting up. The floor goes orange now, which prompts an uh-oh from me – orange means it’s kicking in a second charger circuit and that ups the power delivered to the grid. She and I both hear a relay engage and the charging resume, and when it nails her again it does so at four times the power of the impulses it was delivering before. This time it pops while she’s looking down, and thus blows off the tip of her nose. I also see the third finger on her left hand pop like a firecracker as the pulse of high voltage turns it into a fuse. The muscle spasms this time fling her up to the ceiling and she lands on her back, grimacing and moaning. This I think is far worse pain to her than the hot sauce.

The floor is still orange and I hear another charge. She tries to roll over to get up, and as she’s halfway through that move she gets nailed again. This time I definitely see wisps of smoke as she takes another powerful jolt across large parts of her body. She tries to sit up and gets nailed yet again, this time across the butt cheeks and backs of both legs. The spasms this causes pitch her into the wall with surprising force, and she hits the floor of the chamber upside-down, sliding down into a crumpled heap. Her body’s littered with electricity burns now, and as she finishes falling the chamber nails her yet again, burning her in several dozen more places and destroying another finger while muscle spasms launch her. This time though she simply ragdolls across the chamber, unconscious.

She lands in a heap and it fires again after another few seconds, blowing off about half of her right ear and left thumb and flicking her across the chamber again. Another hideously bad landing, another pop after a few seconds, more damage and bits blown off and her limp body ragdolling across the chamber. The smell of charbroiled fairy and ozone hangs in the air. She’s basically ping-ponging around the chamber at this point, and the chamber’s dumping strong enough shocks to hurt me pretty well, so she’s got no chance at all within its prolonged embrace. This is obviously the point in the chamber’s programming where it begins efforts to finish off its victim.

I reach down and press the red button, and the chamber powers down. I think it’s done its job rather well.

The question now is whether my tiny little cutie-pie survived it.

I undo the lid catches, remove it, and scoop out my cuie-pie for another full body inspection. She’s got loads of spot burns now, and is missing most of one ear, a chunk of her chin, part of her nose, a thumb, four fingers, and two toes. The soles of both feet are practically burned to the bone, which makes it surprising she was still walking. She’s also got two burn marks I bet are memorable assuming she survives – one on the left breast’s nipple and the other almost dead center over her labia.

On the upside, since high voltages blew off her missing body parts, the wounds are all cauterized and none of them are bleeding. There’s no telling how much nerve damage she took though.

Amazingly, I check for and actually find a pulse. She’s alive, more or less. She’s a tough one, even though she’s out cold again.


I clean and bandage her up and leave her to recover on a soft pad, under a small silk handkerchief fragment that will serve as a blanket for her. She’s going to need some attention in the morning. Fortunately for her, though, the same mechanisms that allow her to regrow wings also mean she’ll regrow the parts that were blown off. They’ll just take longer. Hopefully my additions to her water over the last few days will speed that process up a bit. Can’t have her dying of an infection or being permanently crippled this late in the game, after all.

Phase Nine
Convergence

The next morning sees me entering the lab bright and early to check on my charbroiled tiny little cutie-pie. She hears me enter and does nothing in response but try weakly and unsuccessfully to draw up into a ball. She does manage to get about halfway into round before the agony of electricity-damaged muscles alerts her to that being a bad idea. She grunts and grimaces and slowly returns to lying relatively flat.

As I take my seat she’s staring up at me with utter fear in her eyes but a blank expression on her face. She’s either too far gone mentally to care whether I kill her or is in far too much pain to worry about being scared of me. Either one works for me, actually.

I pull back the “blanket” and start to check her. She seems to either understand this or is too weak to fight, and just lays there limp as I prod and probe and check. Those eyes are still screaming in terror though, even though the body’s silent and not putting up any sort of resistance.

I remove her bandages and check her wounds, applying a light dab of a homemade salve I whipped up that’s fairy-friendly. It’s got a tiny bit of Lidocaine in it to numb an injury, a little anti-inflammatory action to reduce swelling, some antimicrobial ointment mixed in for fending off infection, a cocktail of vitamins to promote healing, and some other odds and ends to help out harmed fairies, all mixed into a petroleum-jelly base. I dab it onto her facial wounds very gingerly, and the smell of the Lidocaine makes her fidget, but it’s oh so soothing to burned flesh and that calms her down pretty quickly.

She lies there and allows me to inspect her fully, and makes no effort to prevent my applying that wonder-salve to her various burned spots, and once I complete the wound care I dress her damaged hands carefully, making sure the tiny stubs that were fingers yesterday morning are wrapped separately. Otherwise, as she grows new fingers they’d grow together, effectively ruining the usability of her hands.

I roll her over and do the same to her backside, and note something potentially worrisome for her: the base of her wings is missing – when she took a hit across the back it blew off the wing base, leaving a crater that only barely covers her spine, and from the looks of things wiped out two of the muscle bundles that operate the wings. I give that area a little more salve.

She might not ever regrow her wings. Wow, is she ever going to be upset when she figures that out!

I roll her back over and leave for a few. When I return I bear the now-customary fruits and water, and of course the water’s tweaked a bit to give her recovery a boost.


This wound management process pretty much becomes her life for a while.

It takes three days before she can sit up, and another two before she can attempt to walk. She’s marginally functional in a week. I didn’t kill her but apparently came damned close. I think I need to tone down the super mode in the chamber, and add a separately invoked “finish you off” mode to its programming.


After about two weeks of work she’s back to herself enough to cower in trembling fear at the mere idea that I might be coming into the lab. So, I Lidocaine her to sleep and prep another rig. She’s going to really love what I have in mind, in part because it’s the final entry on my to-do list for her and once it’s done she’s retired from my testing regimen.


She wakes up from the Lidocaine, and is greeted by the lovely headache she knows so well. It’s dark but she can see somewhat, and quickly determines that she’s in a fishbowl with some sort of cloth over it.

Suddenly the cloth is taken away and the brightness momentarily hurts her eyes. Yep, it’s the same fishbowl she was in all those days ago, down to the small scratch she made with a tooth.

What catches her eyes once they adjust to the light level is that there’s a large white foamboard panel just outside the bowl, and it’s blocking her view of part of the desk. She sees me, shudders, and if her body language is any indication seems to note that I’m doing something behind that foamboard. I see her watching me with a look of grave concern and laugh, and although the sound’s muffled by the bowl and its weighted saucer lid, her reaction tells me she heard it more than well enough.


Satisfied with my work behind the screen, I remove the foamboard.

She sees a second fishbowl now, and inside it is another fairy. She flushes white.

It’s her sister. Or at least I think it’s her sister since the new arrival looks very much like my little cutie-pie did in the beginning.

At first sis doesn’t recognize her, which is hardly surprising given the partially-healed face, missing wings, and various other injuries, but as she presses against the bowl she screams and cries and beats the glass with her mangled fists and tries desperately to communicate with her sister. Recognition comes after a moment, and at first sis is happy to see her. The happiness quickly turns to shock as sis notes how badly hurt she is. Both fairy sisters are by now very pale and scared and crying, and try to shout to each other. I squelch any efforts in that direction with a small fan, its noise neatly obscuring any sound that could otherwise get from one fairy to the other.

I let them stare at each other, each with hands and nose pressed against her respective fishbowl – for a few moments while I prep my next surprise.

I lift the lid on the bowl holding my tiny little cutie-pie, and drop in a cotton ball. This one’s soaked in sodium hypochlorite – a.k.a., chlorine bleach. She sees it coming and jumps clear of it, and sis watches her try to get away from the cotton ball, somewhat confused.

After about five seconds the bleach fumes start to do what they do to fairies, which is to dissolve everything but bone. Chlorine bleach is very, very nasty to fairies. Something about their body chemistry reacts violently to it. It’s roughly akin to human skin reactions to exposure to sulfuric acid, except that even the fumes are incredibly destructive. To make matters worse, my cotton ball is soaked in pure sodium hypochlorite, not the heavily diluted watered-down “bleach” sold in stores. This stuff came from a chemical supply company, and I had to jump through some pretty annoying regulatory hoops to get it. It can give a human a pretty nasty burn, so a fairy stands not a snowball’s chance in hell against it.

At first she screams as the bleach fumes begin to blister her skin, and once the fumes start attacking her lungs and mucous membranes the screams are so intense I can hear them over the fan. At the thirty-second point her by now bubblewrap-esque skin is peeling off in sheets, and as she stands there screaming the agony of the end moments of a horribly painful death, the fumes work their way into her muscles and internal organs. As sis and I watch, her muscles begin to break down and she collapses, expiring with a sad gurgle and terror in her eyes just before they rupture. It only takes about two minutes for her to melt into a pile of bubbling, semi-fibrous goop draped over a pile of tiny bones in the bottom of the fishbowl, with sis watching in horror the entire time.

Like I said, chlorine bleach is very, very nasty to fairies. When I clean out the fishbowl I’ll save and preserve the skeleton.


My tiny little cutie-pie is now officially retired.


I head out of the lab for a bathroom break, leaving the two fishbowls next to each other. When I return there’s fresh vomit in sis’ bowl and she looks green.

I lift the lid on sis’ bowl and drop on a cotton ball soaked in Lidocaine and Menthol. Time for the next tiny little cutie-pie to begin the experiment regimen I have planned.



Phase One
Introductions



The end.

This reminds me of the Dear Gurochan comic not to long ago.

I like how this man thinks. It almost brought a tear of joy to my eye.

You sir win the internets.

Anon & REd:

Thankye thankye. :-)

Would you believe it only took a couple days to write, but a couple weeks to tweak?


J:

Got a link to that? I must've missed it.

If you mean the dear gurochan comic, it was done by Woodenrobe I think. I don't know it should still be there near the end of the pages on the image board. Someone Rapid Shared it. But still good story on both the comic and this one. ^.^

I just have one word for this :
AMAZING

A wonderfully written story.
You have to write more.

Wow. Really great story... I can't belive I actually feel sad for a ferie... Stories and pictures of humans (mainly girls)being tortured and\or killed presented on this board doesn't have that "feel sorry for her" effect.

This is not a complain of any sort, this story is really great I couldn't stop reading it... Even though I wanted at times...

(Begin in-character...)

As if her short life in my care wasn't bad enough, my tiny little cutie-pie expired knowing that her sister was next - and I still have 181 others from her village. And I have scores of inventions and experiments to conduct. The fun is definitely just beginning!

Sharp-eyed readers might have noticed that I never once subjected my tiny little cutie-pie to any sort of sexually-oriented experimentation, although she did inadvertently suffer some injuries to genetalia during her time with me. Other researchers are working on fairy reproduction and the social interactions revolving around that, so I can stick with the less perverse and to me more satisfying exploration of fairy physiology. This isn't to say that I won't ever conduct such research in the future, however.

(End in-character...)


As an aside, what would thrill me, and to me take this story to the next level, would be if someone like Zenith or Woodenrope were to make some illustrations for it. Who knows, maybe with a great illustrator I can churn out an entire series of short stories. I certainly have enough fairies on hand for a series. ;-D

Oh, speaking of Woodenrope, does anyone have a link to his comic? I couldn't find it in the threads. This place really needs a search engine.

oO

>>19
Agreed with you.
But maybe you should try requesting on the request board.
There you will have more answers than here.

Actually I tried posting in /req/ - after fifteen minutes of "waiting for reply" on five separate tries I gave up. Either there's something amiss with the forum software or it doesn't like me.

Hmm. :(
It´s bad that there are no one to make cartoon from it.
It´s a really great story and all.

I agree with everyone, this is probably the best story I have ever read (probably, my memory is worse than an Alzheimer's patient) and it definetly needs some images to go with it.

This is as good as pink in agony´s story.
If I might not say better.

Great story, but sometimes i felt lots of pity for the poor fairy. Though i love guro and stuff, i felt the urge to save that little fairy. *sniff*

But you really got some potential! Make more!

>>25

LoL

Thanks for all the positive comments, folks!

BTW, a sequel is coming...

oO

*Evil Laughs*

Mortal Combat Announcer: OddOne wins. Wins the internet that is! Flawless victory!

No seriously your story telling is solid, you have good gramar and spelling. Awesome subject and setting to write in as well. My only personal hope is that their is sexual conduct to come.

Teaser:

The males come from opposite sides of the center to regroup with and check on the females. They’re obviously hurting but fighting back the pain, and I catch glimpses of bleeding backs and bottoms on them. The middle-aged male is wingless but the youngster has managed to keep one wing segment, which I expect he’ll eject in the next hour or two. Everyone’s pink from friction burns where they’re not bleeding from really bad friction burns, and no skin was safe - even between their fingers and toes is rubbed raw.

One final coup de grâce remains, I think. I grab a spray bottle from a supply cabinet, remove the pen’s lid, and hose all four of them down with some isopropyl alcohol. Can’t have them getting infections from all that skin damage, after all. Although this form of alcohol is safe to use on fairy skin, just like it is on human skin, it stings mercilessly in abrasions on fairy skin, again just like it does on human skin. All four of them shriek deafeningly loudly in response to the blinding severity of the agony this causes them, and all four subsequently pass out.

I’ve noticed that fairies can usually only take so much pain at one time before they lose consciousness, and it’s a bit of an art to do this without killing them in the process. I’m really, really good at making fairies pass out without dying.

The sequel is much rougher in terms of fairy damage, and this time I play with several at once!

Stay tuned, it's coming...

oO

:D :D

YAY!

Just finished up the rough writing for the sequel, and it's much, MUCH rougher than #1 was. In fact it turned out more disturbing than anticipated.

Once I'm happy with the minutae I'll post it.

oO

Im more excited on this than im excited on the release of iDeaS new version for the next month. :D

Sequel posted. Go go go!

oO

Wow, poor fairy... You have quite an imagination...

Bumping, as series entry #3 is about to be posted...

oO

As one author to another, that was very well done. I've only written two guro/vore stories, but plainly mine are child's play compared to yours. I don't really know why I read and enjoyed every word, but i did.
Here is my one hopeful question. Can Fairies be forced to breed with lesser biologicals? Say, drop a horny mouse in the fishbowl? A horny rat?

this shit is very well written and not at all insipid as i thought a lit about fairies would be. Everything else on this board seems to be about sex and pedophilia or crao but this is interesting to read just for the details. However, the lack of sexual content does have the effect that i did not fap at all to this. That isnt to downplay the story however, i read it as i would read a regular book for pleasure.
You should think about getting this published if you have not already.

>>39

I agree with everything you said.

FuCKEN SAVED!

bump

bump cause this owns

Hey OddOne, do you have any other stories?