I've been working on publishing stuff literally all day today, and my brain is cooked. But I'm trying to do better about lining up blog posts, so you're getting one anyway. You're welcome. I'm thinking short picture ficcy thing. Because I can.
He'd told Alice and Rory that there were little noises and things in the house. That they weren't mice--the cat would have taken care of mice--and even his hearing wasn't good enough to hear bugs. They didn't have bugs anyway.
Well. The rest of them didn't have bugs. He didn't know or what to know what was living in Rory's room with him. Presumably it wasn't tiny people who wore steampunk goggles.
They were intricate and perfect. The tiny braided black strap, with brass circle eyes and the smallest glint of glass. Could it be glass? Could you make a circle of glass that small? Did they have tiny little glass makers? How do normal sized people even make glass?
His hand automatically went to his pocket. He had it on, and the search engine screen pulled up before he even thought about what he was doing. He was going to search how to make glass. He had a camera phone, in his pocket, with irrefutable proof there were tiny people living in his house, but he was going to search how to make glass.
The information age was a strange time to be alive.
It wasn't irrefutable proof though. Sure, he knew they were real, and neither of his roommates were imaginative enough to have played that sort of prank on him. But no one else would believe that. If he took a picture the whole world would say he'd doctored it. He'd taken a regular pair of goggles and shrunk them down on the computer and...
What if someone did believe him? Would they come rip his house apart looking for the little people? Did they deserve that? If they were little people, and they were human--or human-like or fairies or whatever else--they weren't hurting anyone. What if they had babies? What if there was a whole society of tiny little people living in his walls, like those books his sister had loved when they were kids.
Jack stared at the floor, and heard the thump of the cat on the stairs coming down. Rory's car sputtered to a stop outside, he and Alice laughing loudly. He reached down carefully and pulled the goggles out of the crevice in the floor, and moved them to a flat protected spot away from the floor vent--how much wind pressure did it take to be problematic for a tiny person?--and put his phone back in his pocket.
It was his turn to make dinner. He'd be sure to drop a couple of crumbs while he was at it. It was Rory's turn to sweep anyway. They wouldn't have to come back tonight.