MEETA JARRED-A-LOT

by Bill Reed

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MEETA JARRED-A-LOT

by Bill Reed

If you were born jammed between two muscly, lusty males and therefore so overlooked that the hospital only recorded their births five minutes apart… and if you had spent the next six years being elbowed out by them when it came to everything, including being shoved aside in the art of being able to grow normally… and if, because of that, you were now so small you fitted in the crook of your mother’s arm waiting out the constant headaches… then surely you would have welcomed the Great Franklin feeling such pity looking into your lovely big blue reared-up eyes that he sat you and Mummy down in the grotto and gave you the real what-for.
At first, the great hypnotist called you Meeta Jarred-a-lot and that was okay because you guess by Meeta they always meant you were only where your normal-sized two sibling brother-brats met in the middle. But the great man looked into your eyes and soon showed you how his friend Picaninny overcame her early headaches in a jar even smaller than the orange marmalade jar you lived in there. Oh, and how if you followed what his friend Picaninny did, you too could spring out of that jar into a bigger jar and then into a bigger bottle and then not even the biggest wine bottle in the world could hide you. And then no more being elbowed out of everything… not even anything… not even when you had kept growing so that you had the front row forward position of the national rugby team nailed down as your own -- and you still only still eight years old, and a girl to boot. Well, not to boot around anymore, that’s for sure. Those twin brother-brats of yours had found that out months ago.