Traditional fiction and the story I was working on stalled (as did poetry) and this is what’s been coming out instead.

Henry Needed Something Stronger, And It Was His Undoing

The coffee wasn’t going to cut it. Henry needed something stronger. Blood, maybe. Yes.

He dragged himself into the bedroom where the girl slept. He grabbed his tiny pocket knife—still sharp, twenty years after his father gave it to him—and carved a little flesh from the girl. She moaned and stirred in bed but didn’t wake up. Henry thought he deserved points for that.

He collected blood in a small paper cup. It struck him how many wee things he used. Tiny knife, small cup. Perhaps the solution to his problem lay in his size.

Henry drank the blood, which shrank him down considerably. He was perhaps two inches tall now. Beside him, the knife and cup was huge.

The girl woke and felt her wounded leg. “Henry,” she sighed, “have you been cutting me again?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “Also, I’m very small now.”

The girl looked over the edge of the bed at tiny Henry. “So you are. Did you make coffee?”

“Yes. I needed something stronger, so…you know.”

The girl nodded. “I know.”

She swung out of bed and stepped on Henry. She savored the crunch of his small bones. She trailed a bloody footprint as she walked into the kitchen. As it turned out, the coffee was just fine.