The Munchkin Fraction

There was a man who was quite big but it was okay, just fine. Really it was. Because he could split himself into any number of people. His wife, for instance, enjoyed it when he would do his amoeba split and become younger twins half his size for “date night.” Sometimes she would go out in public in a pink feather boa with one twin on each of her arms. Just to scandalize the small town. He could split into any number of children, so his son and daughter never suffered any want of birthday party guests or kids to push them on playground swings. Sometimes the kids wanted him to continue splitting even further, until he was dozens of homunculi. He had been an entire army of toy soldiers that his son played with and arranged on the floor in battle lines. He had fought himself to miniature death for his son’s amusement on many days. There was a close call once when one of his daughter’s classmates stole one of his munchkins from the school “Show and Tell.” The man walked around feeling horribly incomplete for almost a week (he had nearly jumped off a skyscraper) until the munchkin fraction was able to make his escape and get home. What a tender reunion that was, as he leapt back into the breast of the man like a water drop entering a puddle in the street. But over time, these transformations took their toll; the big man had become increasingly depressed. His wife had noticed he had been over-dividing in recent days and she had even demanded that he seek therapeutic help. One day, she walked into his study and realized she couldn’t even see him. She wondered how many of him there were sharing the room with her, seemingly invisible, maybe watching her, maybe listening to her breathe. When she focused her eyes and looked again, she thought she could see glinting particles all over the surfaces of the room, the furniture and walls…even the windows. She imagined she could see him (no…them…pronouns!) shimmering with a tiny silvery life. They must all have eyes and mouths, she thought. But it was like looking at sperm under a microscope, some hopeless nation on a glass slide, that pointlessly frenetic shimmer. So sad. She suddenly felt terrible for her husband and cried out to him to gather himself back up immediately that she might hold him. But the room just shimmered on like the ghosts of salmon under a waterfall. The tiny bits of glow seemed to pulse in time with the almost-breathing of crickets just outside the window on this summer night. Maybe he had finally found a sort of equilibrium of division, a peace, the woman thought as she backed in her bare feet out of the room, turned off the light and closed the door as quietly as she could.