Unfair: A Diaper Dimension Novel (Chapters 115 Uploaded!)

[Personalias]

 Unfair

PART 1: The Old Routine

Chapter 1: The Facts of Life.
The world isn’t fair. 

This was typically the first morbid thought that crept into my head every morning as the alarm buzzed me awake from whatever dreams I’d been having only moments before.  The past six to eight hours had been rendered completely moot in a blur of unconsciousness, not counting a trip to the toilet around three A.M. or so.  Today was no different.

 “Snooze,” my wife, Cassie, said, her groggy tone somewhat a hybrid of a plea and a demand.  Almost reflexively, I rolled over and slapped the snooze button, silencing the alarm.  “Thankooo,” Cassie slurred before rolling over and resuming a light session of snoring.  Damn, I loved the sound of her snoring. 

The next nine minutes lasted a short eternity, with me likely drifting off just before the alarm sang out again.  I’ve always wondered how an entire night can go by with a snap of my fingers and the shutting of my eyelids, but nine minutes feels like forever.   The only conclusion I could ever come to was that the world wasn’t fair.

Eyes open, but vision still blurry (it looked like there were two overlapping sets of alarm clocks),  I groped around and actually turned the darn thing off, not just hitting snooze.  It was part of our morning ritual, me and Cassie. Our routine.  I always hit the snooze button once, and only once; just enough to feel like  we were getting away with something. In its own weird little way, it felt like winning.  Little victories.

But today was work.  So no sleeping in.  Time to get up and get out of bed.  If my head hit the pillow again, sleep would win.  Sleep never won. 

Not that I could go back to sleep, anyways.  I had to pee like a racehorse. I’d already woken up once, about an hour ago, but my lethargy outweighed my discomfort, so I’d just rolled over and drifted off again.  Now it was time to get up.  Time to go to work and face the dangers of the world outside my house.  

Time to exist.

Stretching out the first of my morning aches, I walked to the bathroom, whispering “The world isn’t fair,” as I crossed the threshold.  It’s my own personal “memento mori,” but it served a different purpose than the generals of the ancient and mythical land of “Roam.”  Conquering heroes needed to be reminded of their own mortality, lest they become arrogant. 

 My own personal motto reminded me of exactly how lopsided the world was so that I’d stay alert.  Couldn’t get too cocky.  Couldn’t get too comfortable.  When the game’s not fair, you can’t afford to rest easy, and the game started every time I stepped out my front door.

That might have been the reason why I never had the master bathroom refurbished.  Cassie would grab her phone and shamble to the other side of the house and use the guest bathroom.  It made sense, honestly.  The seat there fit her, and neither of us were foolhardy enough to go out and buy a potty adapter. Even Cassie, internet whiz that she’d become, wouldn’t buy something like that online.  That’s how they getcha.

Me?  There was a certain thrill about climbing up the stepladder every morning and pissing into a toilet sized for an Amazon.  Another guilty pleasure.  Getting away with something, again.  Another Little victory.

Oh, yeah.  I guess I should mention in case you haven’t figured it out: I’m a Little.  Capital “L.”  Noun. Not an adjective. 

We lived in an Amazon-sized house. Got it relatively cheap with a good mortgage.  The old Amazon couple that we’d gotten it from actually seemed pleasantly surprised on the day I showed up to sign the papers.   

They’d lost their adopted Little girl to old age and cancer- some things even Amazon tech can’t cure a hundred percent- but had modified the spare bathroom to accommodate someone our size.  They were the rare breed that believed in “potty training” Littles. And yes, please note the quotation marks to indicate eye rolling irony.  You’ll most likely be seeing a lot of them.

Amazons were crazy; they were almost determined to see Littles as babies that never grew up, at best, and their own personal dolls, at worst. But if you didn’t trigger their eccentricities, they were otherwise very reasonable.  I had made sure to remind Cassie of that when I came back from the in-person signing.

In turn, Cassie reminded me if she hadn’t done some careful obfuscation about our stature, (never outright lying, that would have come back to bite us), we wouldn’t have gotten our dream house with such a low mortgage payment.  

Only “grown-ups” could handle such stressful responsibilities like a job and a mortgage.  Littles who fell behind on their payments weren’t allowed to be grown-ups and pay them late. 

We both knew Littles who’d tried to live the dream and had been pressured into signing more than half of their monthly paycheck away.  Some of them were still struggling, working overtime and multiple jobs just to make payments and keep food on their table. 

Others weren’t…

I’m getting off track, though.  This isn’t the story of how my wife and I got our beautiful home.  This is another story entirely.

Still gloriously naked and a little stiff in the legs, a low moan escaped my lips and mingled with the sound of liquid hitting liquid echoing through the master bathroom.  Everything in my house was a high-loft, comparatively speaking.  There was something luxurious about it.  

Once my tank was on empty, I looked down at myself- pale flesh and tiny little red hairs all over- and smiled.  I liked my body hair.  It made me look and feel more manly (though Cassie preferred calling me “fuzzy”).  My body hair wasn’t super bushy or massive, but no one was mistaking me for a toddler, either.  Good.  Good enough, anyway.

Leaning over so as not to fall in, I placed one hand on the tank for balance and then flushed.  After climbing down from the toilet’s step stool, I did my other morning ritual of looking down and clapping my hands on my belly.  

Damn.  I was getting kind of chubby.  Too much candy and late night snacking.  That was no good.  If a Little ever got too fat, one of those giants (sorry Amazon readers, that’s what you look like to us) might see a beer gut and think “baby fat,” and then their maternal instincts would get triggered.  

That’s the curse of getting old.  Your metabolism starts to slow down on its own, but your eating habits don’t. At thirty-one, I was ancient in Little terms.  No, we live just as long as the Amazons and Tweeners, on average.  But in Amazon country, most Littles were lucky to remain free and uncribbed past the age of twenty-eight.  

Amazons were just as likely to “adopt” an eighty year old as an eighteen year old, but if you made it to thirty-five, chances are you’d gotten your shit together enough so that you could make it to eighty.  So yeah, I was gettin’ up there.   Better old than never being allowed to grow up. 

Climbing yet another stepping stool so that I could reach the sink, I grabbed my razor and shaving cream and started to lather up. I promised myself that I’d pop in that yoga DVD again as soon as I got home from work. 

I hated yoga, but having a pre-recorded Amazonian fitness instructor tell me to assume the child’s pose on the yoga mat was better than a real giant telling me to lay down on a changing mat. Jogging as exercise was out, lest some passerby think I was running from something and decide to “protect” me.   

Weights were a no go, too.  A Little with a developed physique was unfortunate, as far as Amazons were concerned.  A Little with rippling musculature was a challenge, a dare, or so I reckoned. 

Yoga was really my best option.

Shaving was another kind of balancing act for me.  My bright red goatee definitely made me look more “distinguished” and less like a toddler, but with it came more responsibilities. Serious, serious responsibilities.  If my chin hair ever got too long or scraggly, someone might think that I didn’t know how to take care of myself, and it’d be all downhill from there.  Same principle if I got a five o’clock shadow anywhere before 5pm. It’s why I shaved twice a day, just in case.  A big ol’ f**k-off grandpa beard was never going to be an option for me, sadly.  

The top of my head was its own balancing act. My own hair had a tendency to grow curly- “adorably” curly, which made me a potential target. However, my paranoia never let me feel comfortable going full buzz cut, either. Bald could be just as dangerous.  Barbers that cut Little hair (and didn’t offer a lollipop after) in this part of the country were rare.  

I was lucky in some respects, though: a curly top was bad, but long, flowing hair was worse.  

You know how I said that Amazons were equally likely to adopt an eighteen year old or an eighty year old?  Admittedly, there’s truth to that.  What I failed to mention, however, is they also tend to prefer our women over men.  There are studies that suggest that as far as “adoptions” go, women outnumber men two to one, closer to three in some locales.  And it’s no big secret that when an Amazon can’t find a Little girl to take...they have a tendency to just “make” their own.  As a precaution, I learned to cut my own hair and make up for talent or style with a ton of hair gel.

I leaned forward and mugged a bit in the mirror.  Flecks of gray were dotting my hair.  Salt and ketchup.  I smiled a little.  A typical Amazon might adopt an eighty year old or an eighteen year old Little, but their special brand of crazy was more likely to be triggered by a cuter, younger, more babyish looking Little. Those flecks of gray and white were practically battle scars.  

“I might just make it to being a silver fox, yet,” I’d think to myself.

Body hair.  Goatee.  Short and neat hair. A penis.  Those were all things that played to my advantage out there in the Big Big Amazonian world.  Even my name was supposed to be a shield.

 Oh yikes.  I almost forgot.  Forgive my manners.

Hi.

I’m Clark.  My last name?  It’s complicated.

My parents gave me the name “Clark” as its own kind of protection.  “Clark” is one of those names that’s just awful for a kid.  Like “Dane” or “Glenn” or “Harlan.”  Hard to imagine a baby with that kind of name.  If you’ve read this far, I think you see my point.

I grew up hearing the story about my poor uncle Thomas on my mother’s side, lost to us before I was born.  He didn’t die.  An Amazon just thought that he looked cute and that “Tommy” was more fitting for him.  As far as anyone in the family knows, he’s still being forced to breastfeed and shit his pants.

A name wasn’t going to stop any of the giants from taking me, but just like everything else about me at that point, it was another layer to prevent any unhealthy interests in me ever taking root.  Just like the carefully ironed dress shirt that I put on everyday, each little piece of my appearance was another button holding everything together.

It wasn’t fair.  I knew this as I pulled up a neatly pressed pair of slacks and went for my belt.  It wasn’t fair that every day I went to work, I was in my own weird way putting myself in a surreal kind of danger.  It wasn’t fair that my custom loafers had lifts in them, in the hopes that I might be able to pass as a short Tweener instead of an average-to-tall Little.  It wasn’t fair that I had to basically prove myself as an adult every single day while other, bigger, taller people got the benefit of the doubt and then some.

It wasn’t fair, but it was fact. 

I finished tying my tie- a risky maneuver if it ever went askew, but it always paid off. 

“Breakfast time,” Cassie said, bringing me my breakfast shake. It was high in protein and had a tendency to constipate me, but that was a bonus as far as I was concerned. Didn’t hurt that it tasted like chocolate, either.

 An artist, Cassie worked from home, never letting anyone know her actual size.  Most people wouldn’t believe a Little could do anything artistic beyond scribbling with crayons, but that’s just propaganda there.  She had an eye for detail and the manual dexterity to make absolutely beautiful and intricate works of art.  She could cook, but neither of us wanted to get up early enough to make or eat breakfast, so we’d developed this little ritual instead. 

I took my shake, peeled off the seal on the bottle and chugged it down.  “Thanks, hon,” I said. “You’re the best.”

“I know, hon,” she yawned.  We never called each other “babe,” always opting for older-sounding terms of endearment. “Love ya.”   A quick peck on the cheek, and then I was out the door and on my way to work.

So here’s the thing: looking back on it, I couldn’t tell you the exact date this happened.  I’ve long forgotten it.  Not because anything made me forget, but that’s because much of my life BEFORE was largely forgettable; blessedly, blessedly forgettable.    If anything, the above sequence of events might not ever have happened exactly the way I described them above, but they all happened at some point.  This was my morning, most Mondays through Fridays, barring summer vacation or the occasional three-day weekend.

Some, I know might criticize or try to discredit me as I write this- call me an unreliable narrator, only with smaller, more patronizing word choices.  Typical Amazons.   What I am is flawed, just like anyone without a computer for a brain.

The mind, especially mine, has a habit of blocking out or blurring the routine together in a jumbled haze, because why would we know every single detail of every single thing that has ever happened to us in our sentient existence?  We’re not robots.  It’s the rough stuff, the emotional stuff, that we remember. The stuff that even thinking about makes us happy cry, ugly cry, curl our fingers in rage, curl our toes in fright, makes us nauseous or aroused: that’s what sticks out in our mind with crystal clarity. 

 This?  This morning could have been any morning. For all intents and purposes, it was my morning, every morning.  In fact, do me a favor:  Get a bookmark or a highlighter and between every chapter, remind yourself that for the longest time, this was my morning.  If, up until a certain point, I talk about “the next day” or talk about any transition in time, a scene very much like what you just read probably unfolded first: a little bit of existential dread and anxiety, a lot of careful preparation, a terrible meal, and then out the door before dawn.

 It wasn’t fair.  But it was normal. Blessedly, blessedly normal.  It was routine.  It was the facts of life.

(If you’d like to read more chapters of this story before they’re released to the public, please visit and support http://patreon.com/personalias.)

[BabySofia]

Glad to see you posting this here! (Everyone you are in for an amazing treat! Probably my favorite Diaper Dimension tale yet!)

[Personalias]

1 hour ago, BabySofia said:

Glad to see you posting this here! (Everyone you are in for an amazing treat! Probably my favorite Diaper Dimension tale yet!)

Shameless plug.  Just wait till tomorrow on Patreon. 

[BabySofia]

7 minutes ago, Personalias said:

Shameless plug.  Just wait till tomorrow on Patreon. 

 Looking forward to it!

[herezulo]

A diaper dimension story from the Personalias? ? This is gonna be good. 

[Personalias]

1 hour ago, herezulo said:

A diaper dimension story from the Personalias? ? This is gonna be good. 

I sure hope you like it!  I'm going to be updating it here every week or so for the foreseeable future!

[Panther Cub]

WOOO! I'm so excited to see where this goes!

[timlandolt]

Can't wait

[Personalias]

6 hours ago, Panther Cub said:

WOOO! I'm so excited to see where this goes!

I'll update next week.  I've got 30 chapters in the can right now, so to speak.  Over 200 pages all told.  And I'm still writing.  I just figured 200+ pages was a good enough of a head start.

4 hours ago, timlandolt said:

Can't wait

I hope to please.  Warning.  If previous reader feedback is any indication, you very well may get sucked in.

[Baby Billy]

I did like the start of this story, and I read every diaper dimensions story that is written.  Unfortunately to many are never finish to an end, I would say only about 6 as I know of.  I do like your work so will be looking forward to seeing how this goes, but I am not the type to wait for an update once a week so will wait a few months to come back to it and see how it turns out or if you gave up.  I know Baby Sofia had trouble with time and work when she worked on Exchange and it took a while to finish.  I do hope you work this out and I am looking forward to end end result.  I really do like going back and spending a day reading a finished story that I enjoyed.  Bye the way Baby Sofia does not give praise lightly so if she likes it I will to.?  

[Personalias]

1 hour ago, Baby Billy said:

I did like the start of this story, and I read every diaper dimensions story that is written.  Unfortunately to many are never finish to an end, I would say only about 6 as I know of.  I do like your work so will be looking forward to seeing how this goes, but I am not the type to wait for an update once a week so will wait a few months to come back to it and see how it turns out or if you gave up.  I know Baby Sofia had trouble with time and work when she worked on Exchange and it took a while to finish.  I do hope you work this out and I am looking forward to end end result.  I really do like going back and spending a day reading a finished story that I enjoyed.  Bye the way Baby Sofia does not give praise lightly so if she likes it I will to.?  

It's up to chapter 28 on Patreon and is over 200 pages at present.  

[Baby Billy]

1 hour ago, Personalias said:

It's up to chapter 28 on Patreon and is over 200 pages at present.  

I would like to support you but I am on social security with limited funds.  

[SGTbaby]

Nice!

[Personalias]

1 hour ago, SGTbaby said:

Nice!

Thank you!

[littleTomás]

Well done! I have a feeling that this man is going to slip up and end up in a crib. What do coronavirus and free littles have in common? It’s best for both if you don’t leave your house.

[kirababy]

glad to see another DD story.  For some reason, i'm getting the feeling this day was not normal for Clara.  I mean, Clark.

[Personalias]

8 hours ago, littleTomás said:

Well done! I have a feeling that this man is going to slip up and end up in a crib. What do coronavirus and free littles have in common? It’s best for both if you don’t leave your house.

Lol.  Good analogy!

You'll have to see and come along for the ride to find out if its true, though. 

3 hours ago, kirababy said:

glad to see another DD story.  For some reason, i'm getting the feeling this day was not normal for Clara.  I mean, Clark.

Perhaps.  Perhaps not.

[Personalias]

Chapter 2: Breakfast with Beouf   

Before I move onto the second ritual in my everyday routine from BEFORE, I’d like to make a possibly controversial statement:

Amazons are all crazy.  All of them.  Every single one of them.  I have never met an Amazon past puberty that isn’t. “Crazy” does not mean “stupid” or “demented.”  As a whole, they’re ridiculously intelligent from a science and technology standpoint. 

Many can do Math in base 16 by the time they hit high school, and they’ve got an almost instinctual understanding of practical applications of physics.  I’ve seen Amazonian preschoolers who can’t read and who don’t know their shapes or color names make absolutely intricate tinker toy contraptions.  

In the most literal sense, they see the world like the rest of us.  They know which way is up. They can differentiate between fact and fiction.  Statistically speaking, an Amazon is no more likely to hear a dog telling them to go assassinate a celebrity or head of state than anyone else. 

Add to that that they’re bigger, stronger, and faster than any non-Amazon and it’s no wonder they’re at the top of almost every pyramid they come across.  Lots of brains and the lions’ share of the brawn.

That’s not what I mean by “crazy.”  Amazons, by and large, also have a near overwhelming parental instinct.  As a whole, Amazons have a drive where they want to mother, smother, guide and control every aspect of the world around them.  They want to “correct” and “nurture” and “love” so much that they’ll take almost any excuse to infantilize someone under their power.  When you’re an Amazon, there’s always someone under your power.

Sometimes it’s other Amazons:  Facelog stories of unruly Amazon teens caught shoplifting and put back into diapers for public humiliation make the rounds all the time.  There are always tons of comments about how it’ll “teach them not to be so immature” or that it would be “better to start over.”  

It happens to Tweeners, too: the In-Betweeners, or Tweeners for short, have their own balancing act.  Bigger than Littles, but smaller than Amazons, they’re literally in-between and caught in the middle of the two extremes.  On my way to work, I saw a “Now accepting Applications! Tweeners Welcome!” billboard for a local Littles Daycare.  It might have been for employees, it might have been for attendees. The ad wasn’t clear.  Maybe that was on purpose.  Maybe it was for both.

The school that I had once attended and the school that I worked at both had a Diapered Detention Program; a DDP.  Offenders were made to wear diapers and write lines on the chalkboard. (For some reason, it was always a chalkboard, even though every other classroom had infinitely less antiquated technology.)  They were then required to wear diapers and get changed by the school nurse for a number of days afterward.  Cut down on suspensions.

In my experience, Tweeners were much more likely to be standing at the chalkboard doing lines than either Amazons or Littles.  Amazons got in trouble less often. That’s not to say that they were any less likely to get mouthy, mischievous or rebellious than their same-aged smaller-sized peers- just that they were far less likely to see any sort of consequence for it. 

Littles?  Too often, Littles got taken out of school altogether. 

The difference between Amazons and Tweeners compared to Littles was a matter of societal expectations.  Amazons, and to a lesser extent, Tweeners, were expected to mature and grow up and bear the burden of responsibility.  They were supposed to outgrow and put aside childish things.  For them, diapers were a corrective action; a form of social shaming to ensure future good behavior.  

Littles?  Being a “baby” is considered our default by most people.  We’re given enough rope, expectation wise, just to confirm already deeply held beliefs.  Any slip up, any faux pas, any mistake, any sign of weakness based on any given Amazon’s perceived expectation on what “adult” is, is automatic justification to snatch us up, “adopt” us (read kidnap), and put us back in diapers and nurseries for the rest of our lives.  

The more paranoid part of me thinks they let us reach adulthood just long enough to breed so they never run out of playthings.

It’s always diapers, too.  Bulky, infantile, absorbent padding is the default correction as far as Amazons are concerned.  Missed a car payment? Diapers. Jaywalking? Diapers.  Forgot to wear deoderant on a hot day? Diapers.  Looked just too cute and defenseless and someone might just abduct you and put you in diapers?  For your own safety, diapers.

When it came to diapers, Amazons were very two-dimensional.  You were in them, or out of them.  You were an adult or a child.

But it’s so much worse for a Little.  For most Amazons, it’s JUST diapers.  Most Tweeners, too.  It’s a punishment.  “You’re supposed to be a grown-up; act like it or else.”  Time is served.  You are humbled. Then you’re allowed to be normal again, most of the time.

  For us, it’s threats of diapers, and losing our jobs, and being taken away from our homes, and bottles, and breastfeeding, and spanking, and enemas, and suppositories, and pacifier gags, and cribs and highchairs with restraints built in and never ever ever being allowed to try again.  For us it’s “you never really were a grown-up and you just proved it.”  

 And so many think they’re doing us a kindness.  So many feel justified in what they’re doing and don’t realize how much it scares the shit out of us.  So many of these Amazons are hurting us.

And I’m all but completely convinced that it’s some kind of instinct.  Some kind of built in primal desire or survival instinct that’s just gone overboard, and their own natural physical advantages make it hard to stop and far too easy to facilitate.  Why else would Amazons devote so much damn time to infantilizing every single person in their wake? 

I could stop right now and just copy and paste all the technological advancements that Amazons have dedicated solely to the infantilization of other people from Wikitome and it would be longer than anything I’ve written thus far.  It’s their trigger.  Their passion. It’s damn near their artform, martial or otherwise.  There are rumors and jokes that they’re investigating faster-than-light-speed space travel for the sole purpose of the discovery of sentient alien lifeforms...so that they can baby them.  

Or maybe it was interdimensional travel...I can’t remember.  You can find almost anything on the internet.

In some Little communities there’s the pervasive theory that it’s all a form of control.  Stack the rules of the game in their favor.  Create a form of soft discrimination; soft slavery so that they’re always in control of the conversation and at the top of the social heirarchy.   Punish each other just enough to seem like equal opportunists, but focus most of their energies on keeping everyone else in check.

So that’s it.  Either Amazons as a group are a bunch of baby-crazed mad scientists, or they’re brilliant social engineering tyrants.  I sleep better thinking it’s the former.

I still wanted to sleep when I rode my scooter into work that day. I loved my scooter. Cassie got it for me online when I first got my job.  “If you’re doing this, you better do it in style,”  Cassie told me.   That’s Cassie talk for “A bicycle will just get you picked off around Amazons.”  It was a souped-up light orange number that could hit 50 mph if it had to.  I’d be roadkill on the highway, but for the eight miles between home and work, it did its job well.

In the pre-dawn light with almost no morning traffic, I was able to motor all the way to Oakshire Elementary School, dismount, take my helmet off, walk my bike out of the parking lot, and arrive at my classroom door.  Mrs. Beouf was already there, waiting for me.  As soon as she saw me, she opened the door so that I could store my scooter in the class closet.

“Morning, Mr. Gibson.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Beouf.  How are you?”

“I’m well, yourself?”

“Ugh.  I think I slept funny.  There’s a crick in my neck this morning that just won’t quite work itself out.”

“I hear ya there, Clark.  I think it’s about time for a new mattress.  EIther that or I’m getting old.”

“No.  You’re not old at all.”

“Good answer!”

We both laughed.

Small talk.  This is another thing that might not have happened precisely this way, or it might have happened exactly this way close to a thousand times and neither of us noticed.  Before my life turned upside down, I kept my daily anxieties at bay through a series of rituals.  They were pointless, mostly.  But the predictability of it was comforting in a way.  And what’s more pointless, predictable, and comforting than morning small talk at work?

I closed my closet door, hopped up on one of my step stools (there were lots of step stools in my classroom), and locked it shut.

Mrs. Beouf started walking back to her classroom.  We were neighbors, our classrooms back to back and connected by two doors and the narrowest of walkways.  “Coffee’s on in my room,” she said.  “Left a step for you to get it. Already poured you a cup just the way you like it!”

Melony Beouf was forty-eight years old and had the kind of blonde hair that anyone past twelve could only have by going to a hairdresser. We’d been classroom neighbors for almost ten years. She was a friend, a mentor, and easily my greatest ally at work.  She also towered over me and could potentially force me back into perpetual toddlerhood on the slightest whim.  Like most of the faculty and staff, she was an Amazon.  I was the only Little that was employed instead of enrolled.

Life is complicated...

I walked over to her room, taking nine or ten steps to stride across a divide that was very likely only three or four for her.  I grabbed the cup of coffee that was waiting for me on the counter and joined her at one of her kidney tables.  She sat in the teacher’s spot.  I grabbed a student seat.  It fit me anyway.

We sat there in silence for a moment.  I drank my coffee slowly and fully; draining it with both hands before putting the mug down.  To call something so loaded up with cream, sugar, and mocha flavoring “coffee” was likely a misnomer.  Mrs. Beouf took hers black and took it in little sips.  

Both of us, still tired.  Both of us, desperately needing the coffee to get through the day.

I never considered myself a Helper- what we in the Little community call those self-loathing, self-serving souls that do everything they can to please Amazons on the off chance that they won’t end up back in diapers because they’ve been Good Little Helpers.  In hindsight, because of rituals like this and other contexts that I’ll soon reveal, I can see why I might be accused of such, so I can’t begrudge my accusers.

I looked around Beouf’s room, and if not for a few small details of decoration or building geography, I might think I was in my own.  Our classrooms were nearly identical in form but completely different in function: we each had toy chests, kidney tables, art supplies, low level academic posters for decorations, televisions and DVD libraries stacked with cartoons year-round and cabinets filled with healthy snacks.  We shared equipment for various pretend and play centers that we rotated in and out of our respective rooms throughout the school year.  Both of us had in class bathrooms with toilets too tiny for an Amazon adult to sit on comfortably.  Nearly identical.

But to the side of her classroom was an extra room filled with old but sturdy cribs.  Her bathroom also had a heavy oak changing table in addition to the toilet.  The table saw infinitely more use than the toilet.

I was Oakshire Elementary’s pre-kindergarten teacher.  She taught Oakshire Elementary’s “Maturosis and Developmental Plateau Unit,”  a phrase which here means “a classroom that regresses Littles so that they have shit in their brains as well as their pants.”

I had a class of mostly Amazon three- and four-year-olds.  My job was to get them potty trained and have them ready for kindergarten by the time they hit age five.

Mrs. Beouf’s class was comprised exclusively of “adopted” Littles, and her job was to do the exact opposite: to make them not only dependent on diapers and the Amazonian “Mommies and Daddies” who changed them, but to ensure that they accepted their new status.  Make them like it.

And we were friends.

Life is very complicated...   

Amazons like Mrs. Beouf are what make me want to believe that Amazons are over-maternalized crazies.  For close to ten years she had been one of the nicest, most pleasant, most respectful, most decent people I’ve ever met.  It’s really hard to think of her as a monster.

For example, the coffee: every morning, I’d come in, and Mrs. Beouf and I would share some before work.  Sometimes it would be in my room and I’d take my teaching spot at the table, with her huddled up to her knees in one of my student’s chairs.  Sometimes we’d do it in hers.  But she’d always prepare it and I’d drink it, fully and without hesitation.

If you’re an Amazon, you’d be surprised how many stories and close calls every Little or a friend has had with regards to the coffee.  It’s already a natural laxative, and bitter or sugared to the max, it was good for hiding extra little somethings in them.

One accident.  That’s all it’d take in this town to get sent into her class, and that’s if I was lucky.  Some Littles went to New Beginnings.  We both knew that.  A typical Amazon would hasten that, try to control circumstances so that I’d end up right where their crazy instincts wanted me.

Beouf wasn’t a typical Amazon.

“Ready for the day?” I asked, sitting my cup down with both hands.

Mrs. Beouf took a sip from hers.  “No sir,” she said.  “But gotta do it anyways.”

It was a sign of trust.  I trusted her not to poison me.  She trusted me to trust her.  That was the basis of our friendship. Back then we were trying to prove something to the world and to ourselves.  Not all Amazons were monsters.  Not all Littles were babies. 

“Faculty meeting, today,” she reminded me.

I got up and stretched.  “I know, I know.  Want me to save you a seat?”

“Think you’ll beat me to it?”

“I suspect so.  My students’ bus tends to take off before your students’.”

“That’s just because you don’t have to buckle all of your students into those special car seats.”

I shuddered. I brought that image on myself.  “Point taken.  Still, want me to save you a spot?”

“Sure,” she said, taking our cups over to a nearby sink and rinsing them.  “We’ve gotta stick together.”

I let out one last yawn before the coffee kicked in.  “You know it.”  I suspect we both did.  She was looking for camaraderie.  I was looking for safety.  Ten years knowing the same Amazon and no betrayals.  That was a good track record. 

 Go on.  Call me a Helper if you want.  Maybe I was.  I’ll own it, now. It wasn’t the most dignified thing, but there’s no dignity in diapers.  Truth be told, I picked my profession for a reason.

The few Littles I knew of who went into teaching picked middle or high school.  Hormones.  Puberty.  Double digit years of bad habits learned from their parents.  Students able to pick up their teachers without straining.  Total recipe for disaster.

I was at least the same size as most of my students. I got my own assistant, and if I could make an impression on them as kids, plant the seed early enough that Littles were adults, then maybe future generations of Amazons wouldn’t be such crazy assholes.

Speaking of assistants, Tracy poked her head in from my side of the divide.  “Hey, Mrs. Beouf.  Hey, Boss.”

“Hey, Tracy,” we said in unison.
  

Tracy was a Tweener.  Taller than me and most of the fifth graders, still dwarfed by Beouf. She was my teacher’s assistant.  I doubt I could have taught if not for her.  Four-year-old Amazons were still four-year-olds, meaning that they could be taught good habits.  They were also still four-year-olds, meaning that very physical tantrums also still happened.  “Thought I’d find you in here when the room was empty but the light was on.”

“Sounds like me,” I said.  “The lights are on, but nobody’s home.”

We all had a good laugh at that.  Beouf was chuckling and shaking her head, like she felt guilty for laughing.  Tracy was howling, the little poof ball bangs of her hair bobbing up and down as she pounded the kidney table.  I laughed too, proud of myself.

The laughter died down and Tracy started talking again.  “Got your printouts from the copy room.”  

“Thank you, Tracy,” I said in a kind of lackadaisical sing song. 

She answered back in the same cadence with  “Welcome, sir.”  

I’ll admit it: I secretly loved it when taller people called me sir.  “I’ll put them where I need them right after the kids’ breakfast.”

“Yes, sir,” Tracy said.  “Ready to go clock in?”

It was Mrs. Beouf who made a show of stomping her feet and whining.  “But I don’t wanna!”  Another joke, though it was how we all felt at this time of morning.   

“You sound like the kids!” I joked.

“Whose?” Tracy asked.  “Hers or ours?”

Then Mrs. Beouf said “Both!”  She and Tracy laughed again.  I didn’t.  It didn’t feel good being reminded how Littles were viewed.  If they noticed my discomfort, they were either nice enough to stop without apologizing, saving me the embarrassment, or it was just a coincidence how abruptly their bark of laughter ended.

“Oh, before I forget,” Tracy told me.  “Watch out for Raine today.”

I cocked an eyebrow.  “Who?”

“Raine,” Tracy said. “Y’know, the school receptionist?” 

I threw my head back.  “Oh, Miss Forrest,” I said. I’d long ago developed a habit of thinking of most Amazons by their last name.  Even Mrs. Beouf wasn’t always “Melony” in my mind.  “What is it this time?”

“I was up front and saw her packing some kind of chocolate.” she said.  “No wrapper. I think she wants to give it to you.”  I slapped my forehead in exasperation.  “I know, right?”

Beouf shook her head in disapproval.  “That woman….” was all she said. Forrest

All Amazons are crazy.  I’m still convinced of this.  But not all Amazons are equally nutter butters.  Beouf was crazy in that any given Little, regardless of age, could be either a baby or an adult.  I was an adult to her.  Her students weren’t.  Crazy, right?

Miss Forrest was crazy because not only were we ALL babies to her, but she wanted a “baby” of her own oh so badly. Her own daughter had grown up and moved to college and the gossip mill was churning that she was looking to “adopt” to fill that empty nest in her life.  

Typical Amazon.

Our school receptionist was a junkie, and I was heroin on two legs.  Mrs. Beouf couldn’t believe that the woman would violate some unspoken code of Amazon ethics that so very few of them, in reality, actually shared.  

I couldn’t believe anyone would name their kid Raine Forrest.

A knock at the door (out of politeness) and then the turn of a key, and Mrs. Zoge entered.  I shoved my hands in my pockets and did my best to look casual as I backed away. Wire-rimmed glasses, wrinkles just starting to set in, and dark black hair despite it all, Mrs. Zoge was Mrs. Beouf’s teaching assistant.  The “Maturosis and Developmental Plateau” unit got one too.  

Toddling and waddling in close behind her was her daughter, Ivy.  “Good morning everyone,” Mrs. Zoge said, eerily cheery as usual.  “How are you?” She looked at me.  “How are you, Mr.  Gibson?” She always made a point to single me out. It always sounded so forced when she said it, too.  

Maybe it was her accent.  

It probably wasn’t her accent.

Some rituals weren’t always as pleasant as coffee and small talk...

I gave my usual non-committal reply. “I’m well, thank you.”  

Mrs. Zoge turned to her daughter. “Say hello, Ivy.” she chirped.

“Hiiiii,” Ivy waved.  She did a curtsey, lifting up her short skirt and letting her nappy peak out as she did.  “It’s good to see you all today.”

A tired chorus of “Thank you, Ivy,” and the girl was satisfied, giggling and clapping her hands as if she’d done a performance.  In a way she had, most likely.  I hoped.  We’d been doing this routine with Mrs. Zoge and her daughter for the last ten years at least.

If you’re doing the math and if you have any empathy in you, you also know why being around Mrs. Zoge and her daughter made me distinctly uncomfortable.  A fringe benefit for Mrs. Zoge was that her Little girl got to attend instead of going to a private daycare.

“Alright,” I said, opening the door to my room.  “Let’s go sign in.  We can cut through my room.”

Tracy and Mrs. Beouf were right behind me.  “Ivy, I swear I just changed you, you silly thing!” I heard Mrs. Zoge scoff, lifting the front of a twenty something year old Little’s dress to check for wetness. “Don’t wait up!  We’ll meet you at the bus loop!”

I never waited up.

[Baby Billy]

OK I really like this and can wait for updates.  I find you work on this like Baby Sofia in that you seem to take your time on the chapter and put a lot of thought into it.  Also like her the length shows a lot of thought.? 

[Personalias]

1 hour ago, Baby Billy said:

OK I really like this and can wait for updates.  I find you work on this like Baby Sofia in that you seem to take your time on the chapter and put a lot of thought into it.  Also like her the length shows a lot of thought.? 

Thank you.  The chapters are not uniform in length, but I try to communicate the ideas and emotions that I'm hoping to convey.  Sometimes it's quick, sometimes it's long. Sometimes its juuust right.

[Panther Cub]

I am hooked alright.

Gotta see what happens next!

[Personalias]

2 hours ago, Panther Cub said:

I am hooked alright.

Gotta see what happens next!

Thank you! May I ask what you like?

[Panther Cub]

The slow buildup, that's for sure. Also, I like how you're establishing your characters, and can't wait to see what finally happens that goes wrong for the little teacher!

[kirababy]

Really digging the slow start, and details.  Who is going to get him?   How will it happen?   Love the rearward sounding tone and storyline.

[Personalias]

5 hours ago, Panther Cub said:

The slow buildup, that's for sure. Also, I like how you're establishing your characters, and can't wait to see what finally happens that goes wrong for the little teacher!

 

3 hours ago, kirababy said:

Really digging the slow start, and details.  Who is going to get him?   How will it happen?   Love the rearward sounding tone and storyline.

Thank you, both.  Something that my patrons have said that they like about this story thus far are that you really get to know the cast of characters and the world that they live in.  To paraphrase one of them.  "Damn it!  You made me care about these people!  In a DD story!"

Something I've really been trying to work on is giving the reader a sense that they too know this world (or at least my newly constructed corner of it).  Considering the P.O.V. is first person, Clark might not be the most reliable of narrators (any more than a non-scientific or non-historic expert can be unreliable)  but he's very much a Little who has grown up here and wishes to continue to grow up as it were.