by Darren Moss
I went to make a jam sandwich. I got my plate and a knife, the bread and butter and the jam. A cockroach said hi and scuttled off. It came back. And scuttled off. They don’t like me I think. I keep my morsels small and growl when they near.
I saw a toaster hiding on the middle shelf corner. I asked it two questions: have you cockroach? Will you kill me?
It didn’t answer so I took it down and plugged it in. No cockroach. No death. I put a piece of bread inside. I warily pulled down the metal lever. I imagined my brain frying with electricity. It didn’t work.
I made my jam sandwich. I put the butter back in the fridge. I forgot the jam. I put my jam back in the fridge. I forgot the bread. I put the bread back in the fridge. I grimly realised my sweet, lush jam sandwich could have since been violated by cockroach behind my back. I look at it. No movement. I pick it up. Same shape. I bite it. No crunch.
As the familiar taste lapped my mouth I tried my best not to imagine little legs protruding from my lips. I tried my best not to picture its tiny head bursting against my teeth. I tried my best. It’s never ever the same.
Darren Moss lives in Hyderabad and is not a consistent Shrewsbury Town defender.
The Pygmy Giant 