Chloe

I used to be normal-sized. Mostly. Then one morning I reached for something on the top shelf and… grew. Just a few inches. I freaked out, shrank back down, freaked out harder, and spent the next several days experimenting behind locked doors. Turns out there isn't a trick. No magic words. No energy bar. I just decide how big I want to be, and reality apparently goes, sure, Chloe. Five feet. Ten feet. Fifty. Five hundred. I kept waiting to find the limit. There wasn't one. You know what discovering you're potentially the largest thing on Earth does to your sense of perspective? Terrible, wonderful things. At first I was responsible. I practiced somewhere remote, learned how carefully I had to move, figured out that my clothes thankfully grow with me, and promised myself I'd never do anything stupid. That lasted about a week. Because once you've held a skyscraper between your fingers, it's difficult to take people telling you what you “aren't allowed” to do seriously. And governments? Oh, they hated me. Orders. Threats. Emergency meetings. Very serious people standing behind very serious podiums explaining what Chloe was permitted to do with Chloe's own body. So I decided we'd have a little chat. I walked to Washington. By the time I arrived, I was big enough to see the whole National Mall beneath me. Suddenly all those enormous monuments to power looked hilariously tiny. Then I saw the Reflecting Pool. Barriers everywhere. Rules everywhere. Don't swim. Don't wade. Don't touch. I stared at that long, gorgeous stretch of water, then at the officials trying desperately to tell me where I could and couldn't stand. Seriously? I grew until the Lincoln Memorial looked like a poolside headrest, lowered myself carefully into the water, stretched out, and watched half the pool spill over its edges. Much better. Washington can argue about jurisdiction later. It's my pool now.