The GiantThe silver weights on the basement floor can't be lifted. A giant left them there. He'd arrived here after running down a beanstalk after the bastard who'd invaded his gym, stole his golden towel and two headbands made of diamonds. He moved into our house. We couldn't say no. My dad had served with him in a war, the Wicked Witch Battalion, and though he drinks all our beer and milk, we let him work out downstairs. He groans like thunder when he does his reps. We reach for our umbrellas, but there's no rain. When he's out eating Englishmen, we sneak into the gym, marvel at his blimp-sized shorts, vomit after smelling his bloody sweat. We make believe we're him. It takes all of us to swing his club around the room. We scream through a microphone, "Fee Fy Fo Fum." The sound echoes all over the house, scaring cockroaches and timid mice. But we can never move the barbells. It's like they're anchored in concrete, keeping a sailing ship still. They hold a power we dream of having. When his hands grab. When his muscles flex. When air shudders. When he crashes.  |
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