The Pygmy Giant

by Rhoda Greaves

Remember that time Dad made you eat your dinner outside?

He called you a farm animal. Usually it began with ‘effing’ when he was that mad. It must have been a Sunday, as you had on a do-up shirt and I was wearing my red velvet dress. We’d just got back from Sunday school. Remember those colourings we’d done? Of the loaves and fishes? You were only allowed crayons at home, but the vicar’s wife – was she really called Mary? She’d let you use pens and you hadn’t made a mess. Mum put them on the fridge with Pac-man magnets, and when we showed Dad he just laughed out loud. Asked us, didn’t we know God was dead. Asked Mum, why was she filling our heads with that shit.

You told him you were a Christian: had tasted the blood and body. Because he was laughing, you didn’t know not to. And that’s what started him – you eating Jesus. I could see it in his nostrils and the way his left eye twitched. He wouldn’t say anything though, not until we were all at the table. Not until he could turn it into something else, like chewing your food without sealing your lips.

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Rhoda Greaves is a PhD Creative Writing student, short story writer, dog blogger and mum.