By A.J. Helms
You were a giant in my childhood, tall and proud with a voice that could shake the sky. I dreamt of growing to your heights, once.
And grow I did, only to find that when I stood with my head on your shoulder, I could smell the alcohol on your breath and found it was not the sky that trembled when you spoke, but your hands. I begged and pleaded, but my tiny voice could not be heard by your overlarge ears.
Now, the hospital bed shows me your true size. You were never a giant, only human.
A.J. lives in the Arizona desert. She can usually be found lurking where there is coffee available and writing anything from short fiction stories to fantasy novels.