The Pygmy Giant

by Bob Jacobs

The stones in our garden move at night. They edge closer to our house. In the morning I put them back, but they don’t like it. The stones were Gloria’s idea. She started with Green Paddlestones and Plum Slate, then she bought a Blue Drilled Monolith, six feet tall, as a centre piece. She’s created a rockery from Iberian Quadrock that came in Candy Stone, Rainbow, Red Laguna and White. I thought we had enough, but since then she’s bought boulders of Granite and Schist, Caledonian Pebbles, and a bag or two of Sea Green Granite Chippings.

Last week I found a lump of Red Gritstone on her side of the bed. She claimed she didn’t know how it got there, but I have my suspicions. They love her, these stones, and it’s easy to see why. She cuddles and strokes them and makes them feel loved, talking sweetly to them, just like she used to do to me.

Sometimes at night I hear them moving. They whisper like children, then drag themselves across the lawn. Every day I find stones in my shoes, and it doesn’t happen by accident. They want me out of here, I can tell, but I won’t go without a fight. If they want her, it’ll be over my dead body.

Bob Jacobs lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio.