Face Off

I would prob­a­bly nev­er have spot­ted him if the boys hadn’t turned the kitchen into such a dis­as­ter area dur­ing their bed­time snack. With all the crack­er frag­ments strewn about, appar­ent­ly not even a pix­ie nin­ja could avoid mak­ing a sound.

Every­one tucked in and snor­ing at last, I had already turned off all the oth­er lights in the apart­ment, and was in the bath­room star­ing at my face when I heard some­thing crunch in the kitchen. I reflex­ive­ly stuck my head around the door frame and there he was, frozen in a tense crouch, star­ing right back at me. He was about a foot, maybe fif­teen inch­es tall, but super thin, like he had start­ed out around eight inch­es and then been heat­ed and stretched. A wiry beard stuck out from his tiny chin. He looked almost exact­ly like I would expect a pix­ie to look, save that he was wear­ing a nin­ja cos­tume: black cot­ton pants and tunic, a sword on his back and what appeared to be tiny nunchucks tucked into his black sash.

What are you wear­ing that for?” I asked.

He con­tin­ued to stare, motion­less. After what seemed like for­ev­er — it must have been at least thir­ty sec­onds — I final­ly blinked, and he was gone.

Weird, I thought, as I turned back to the mir­ror and squeezed a few more blackheads.

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