Big Hats Eat Flesh and Drink Blood

By  E.A. Noble

“Fix your muthafuckin’ face before I fix it for you.” Mama’s lips are fists. She straightens the royal blue, raven-feathered church hat—a gift from the Saints of Cassowary Baptist, her coronation piece for this first Sunday of worship. Every Tuesday, the missionaries met with Mama. They always came around between her swallowing headache pills that made her groggy and closing the blinds, but before 1 p.m.—that’s when she poured herself another glass of her feel good juice. And now we’re here in the parking lot, dressed in our Sunday’s best, waiting for our souls to be saved, so we may grow wings and ascend to heaven.

I swipe away tears onto my white Easter dress—all-lace collar and puffed sleeves, stiff with crinoline and cinched with a satin sash that digs into my waist––and squirm in the passenger seat. Mama says I’m getting too grown for my own good, and a little church will prevent me from becoming too fast like Keisha down the street—pregnant at fourteen, same age as me. But I didn’t wanna be here in a dress two sizes too small that made my ribs ache. I wanna have friends, play outside, but Mama says nothing is worth knowing in them streets.

“Now, we gon’ go in this here church, you bet not make a fool of me.” Perched high, the hat engulfs her head; its feathers spread wide. From underneath, Mama stares pierce-sharp enough to tear flesh from bone. My barrettes clack as I nod, pressing myself against the seat. That big hat takes up too much space. If I’m not careful, it’ll sprout legs and find me hiding under thin blankets in bed. Sprout a beak from its brim, writhe on top of me, pluck my eyes out until there’s nothing left but stems. I hate that big hat. I hate how it watches me. At night, Mama strokes that big hat, hums to it, cradles it in her arms like a newborn baby, says receiving it was the proudest moment of her life.

Mama switches off the car engine.

I sneer. Curl my lips. Bare my teeth at the royal blue raven-feathered church hat.

Mama does a double take of my face. Her slitted pupils are venom; her tongue split in the middle. Mama raises her palm. “Fix your face!”

I flinch, remembering my place. I crawl within myself—my small self. Swallow’d by this new Big Hat Mama—Tall Mama, Beaded-Jewels-and-Pearls-Wearing Mama. I prefer Drunk Mama. Slur Mama. Disappear-into-the-night-and-don’t-return-’til-morning Mama. At least that one folds me away, tucks me into dark corners, forgets me as long as I’m quiet.

I smile big to please Mama. 

Making sure my lips spread across crowded teeth until my cheeks pinch.

Mama lowers her palm and unlocks the car doors. “Don’t just sit there looking dumb, deaf, and stupid. Get out.” 

I get out. 

Eyes low, twisting cotton fabric of a dress I can’t get too dirty, or else Mama can’t return it.

“Come on.” 

I follow, focusing on my socks with pink ruffles and white, buckled dress shoes. Pebbles turn into steps as we climb up to the white church building nested inside a thousand tree branches. Inside smells like earth worms and strong piss. Just like Mama when I have to drag her away from the toilet and onto the couch. The walls are twigs reaching out with small fingers. The missionaries, the two hens Mama has been seeing, gather in the foyer, adorned in their big feathery hats. Ms. Tina, eyes jet-black, round and glossy, with thin lips that curve into a sinister smile, and Mrs. Walters her hat a blood-red with two black strips, and a lace veil pulled over beady amber eyes. Mrs. Walters spots Mama; Ms. Tina spots me. I shrink behind Mama, avert my gaze.

Heels cluck against wood. 

Mama nudges my shoulder. “You don’t hear Mrs. Walters speaking to you? Say hey, girl.”

“Hey, Mrs. Walters.” I look toward Mama for more instructions. 

“She’s quiet as a mouse, ain’t she?” Mrs. Walters says with heavily drawn black lip liner. She runs her tongue over pointed teeth, “How old is she again?”

Mama squeezes my shoulders, “She’s ten.”

I ain’t ten. Haven’t been ten in four years. Mama pops me in my mouth if I ever correct her. Mama says I’m a child, and chirren should stay in chirren’s places, especially when being ten allows me to get into the all-you-can-eat buffet for free, and other places where she doesn’t want to pay. She stuffs me into whatever age that suits her.

Mrs. Walters chirps. “I wish my daughter was this obedient. You’re raising her right.”

More hens circle us, cawing their greetings. Their faces warp into long beaks, and some have needle noses. Feathers flare and beat like restless wings atop their hats, but none fly away.

Big Hats, Big Hats, Big Hats. 

Shiny diamonds, wide brim, bird’s nest hats. One stacked like an anthill, one spread like a throwing disk. 

Big Hats. Big Hats. Big Hats. 

Talking hats, laughing hats, crowding, trapping hats cage me in. 

“Aww, give me a hug, Suga.” Ms. Tina, in her purple peacock hat, rips my arms away from my breasts. 

I shriek, bumping into Mama. 

Clinging to Mama. 

Mama pinches the back fat of my arms. “Stop acting like that and give Ms. Tina a hug.”

Ain’t nobody acting. 

Ms. Tina smells too sweet, too sickly, too strong, chemically enhanced floral bleach. Ms. Tina traps me into her arms; my body goes stiff. Her big hat slaps my cheek. Peacock feathers are rough as birch, stinging my skin.

Her big hat hurts. 

Her big hat heavy.

Her big hat don’t know, no.

Her big hat don’t know, no! 

Ms. Tina kisses my neck. 

Music fills the foyer.

Church drums kick on, dum dum.

Tisk, tisk, hiss the cymbals .

Ms. Tina let me go. She squeezes my nipple. I cover myself, searching for a hole to burrow in, away from the birds swarming, stalking, hungry. 

“She’s growing titties?” Ms. Tina scans my chest.

She speaks about me, around me, but never to my face.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk…

Low strum of bass guitar joins the musical percussion. 

“Oh, she’s out of those training bras, I see. You better start getting ready,” Ms. Tina says. 

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk..

Big Hats talk all at once. Big Hats reach out red-painted talons. Big Hats claw my mahogany skin. I tighten into a little ball, my barrettes rattle and hiss.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk…guitar strumming, guitar shredding, guitar playing.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk. Cymbals don’t miss. 

Dirt fills my throat. I can’t talk. I tug at my dress, pull it over my knees, careful to keep the white white, careful to keep it away from stains and claws, and hands, and hands, and hands. A tail unfurls from in between Ms. Tina’s legs. Curls around my ankles, licks up my thighs. 

I hide, heart hammering, behind Mama. But Mama pushes me further into the pecking order.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk.

“Honey-brown,” One Big Hat says.

“Silky hair,” Another Big Hat says.

“She gets it from me. That’s the Indian in our blood,” Mama says. 

Hands pinch my butt.

“She gon’ fill out nicely.” A Big Hat with a long thin nose and jagged yellow teeth says. 

“Just like her Mama!” Big Hats cackle. The sound echoes in my chest.

“Better be careful, or someone will snatch her pocketbook.” Ms. Tina runs fingers through my freshly relaxed hair. 

“Oh, she ain’t no fool. Not about to embarrass me in these streets,” Mama says. 

Mama says, Mama says. 

Big Hats clap. Big Hats hum in unison. Big Hats take their pound of flesh. Big Hats cluck like chickens. 

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Mrs. Walters holds Mama’s hand. “We welcome you, and your sweet baby into the fold. Once the Reverend lays his hands on you, everything will change for your good.”

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk…the guitar screams.

“Oh, that’s my song!” Ms. Tina says.

Big Hats praise, heels hammering wood flooring. Big Hats convulse––foaming at the mouth. Long tongues slither, sensing blood in the air. Big Hats drink it up while consuming a rotten corpse that died for our sins. They say I gotta do it too if I wanna be saved. They say, I have to open myself up, let the Holy Spirit come in me. They say God will go deep, past my intestines and full bladder, down to my soul. They say it pleases God when I’m on my knees worshiping him. They say the only way I can be pure is to stand before The Almighty completely naked.

They say, they say, they say. I’m tired of them saying. The music is itching my brain. I want to reach my hands into my ears, and scratch until it stops.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk. 

The music swells louder. I stomp my feet, cross my arms, twist my face into a sour knot, refusing to move.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk. 

Big Hats gasp and clutch their pearls. Shake heads, wag fingers with sharpened claws.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Walters says. “Nothing the good Reverend can’t handle.”

Ms. Tina whispers to Mama, “I run the youth group here at the church. Whenever you’re ready, I would love for her to attend. We can fix her inner demons.” Ms. Tina caresses my chin.

I snap at her fingers.

She recoils, squawking. She joins the Big Hats as they flock into the sanctuary. Waddle-wide hips layered in funeral ready fabric.

Mama yanks my neck.

“Fix your damn face! Got people out here thinking I don’t take care of you. Like I don’t put a roof over your head, clothes on your back. Pull yourself together.” Mama smooths down my white dress, then pets her hat. The hat shivers, its feathers flapping, a long thin smile curling at the brim.

I growl at royal blue raven-feathers.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk.

Mama’s lips are fists.

Her talons strike, popping me in the mouth––a reminder of a child’s place. Blood blooms where my teeth carve into my lip. Her eyes stay fixed on me. 

I wither.

I crawl within myself––the hidden self: the self that visits me in the shadows, whispers dark magic in my ears and promises it’ll take me far from here.

Mama throws open sanctuary doors.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk.

Music assaults my senses.

I watch brown bodies bend backwards, breaking—shattering. Clapping to God, stomping to God. Speaking words that sound like fast-forward recorders.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk.

Sound too loud, light too bright.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk. 

Hallelujahs rejoice.

My heart pounds, thumps like drums against my ribcage. I panic. Claw my skin. Rip at my collar. 

Mama snatches my hands, holds them tight, crushing my bones, and drags me to the altar. We pass Big Hats, gloved hands in white skirts and shoes that curl like talons. Some sit in pews; white, brown, and speckled eggs are scattered across the seats, the floors, and stacked in straw-lined boxes along the walls. Big Hats coo, cluck, and praise a man they call Reverend. He breathes heavily in a mic at the pulpit. Sweat drip, drip, drips down his bald head to his bell pepper nose, down to his puffed up chest, and onto his red bow tie tied tight around a thick throat.

Mama grabs my neck, crushes me in her palm.

Big Hats surround me. Praising hats, tap-dancing hats, crowding, trapping hats cage me in. Big Hats drop to their knees. Big Hats cluck. Big Hats crow. Big Hats hoot at the Reverend’s feet. They open their beaks wide, begging to satiate their hunger. The Reverend reaches into his basket. Pulls out pus white maggots. The feathers on their hats flap ferociously. Reverend drops the wiggling grub into waiting mouths. Throats convulse, cords bulging like rope knots as they slurp the live maggots with their tongues, gulping them whole. 

My stomach curls. Vomit burns my esophagus.

Mama drags me forward. Places pressure on my shoulders until my knees cave in from underneath me. Mama kneels next to me. Her big hat, ready to feed. Reverend dangles the maggot over her mouth. “Welcome into the flock,” he says, releasing the meaty maggot into her throat.

Mama takes it greedily, the pus bursting at the corners of her mouth. 

Reverend brings the meat to my lips. Commands me to open my mouth. Let God in. Tells me it’s righteous, tells me it’s for my salvation.

Mama pries open my jaw. Reverend slips the grub inside. It tastes like salami.

I hate salami.

I hate being touched.

I hate the noise.

The bodies, the bodies, the bodies.

“Mama!” I cry. My voice is buried under the wails of bass guitar. 

It’s too late. 

God already done got her. Her body vibrates. She shouts. Big Hats cover Mama with white sheets when her body tumbles to the floor.

The Reverend brings a cup of blood to my mouth. It smells like Mama’s happy  juice.

“Your turn, little one. Time to get those demons out,” he says. He says, he says, he says some more.

I shake my head. I would say no, but the maggot squirms at the base of my throat. Big Hats grab my head and wrench it back until I’m staring up at Ms. Tina. She smiles—all gums, no teeth—like she’s about to regurgitate into my mouth. 

“Be a good girl. Do what you’re told. Open wide, little bird,” she croons, driving her nails into my cheeks. My jaw cracks open.

Blood enters my mouth. Hands clamp over my lips.

Blood tastes like vinegar. 

“Surrender yourself to God!” Reverend spits. He huffs and puffs and blows into the mic—knocking Big Hats over, their feathers ruffling, shedding, puffing up into the air. High heels come off. Stockings rip. Feathers burst from their backs, beaks from their mouths. They grow wings, and Mama does, too. Their clothes fall to the floor. They flutter widely around the room––lifting from the ground in short, broken bursts––before crashing into themselves, into their eggs, yolk leaking down the walls like snot. 

Hens, hens, they’re all hens.

The music quickens. 

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk. The guitar howls like wind.

I hold the blood on my tongue. Refusing to swallow. Refusing to give myself over to the flock. I don’t want my body to transform. I don’t want to grow wings and fly to heaven!

It’s my body, not God’s. Not Big Hats. Not Mama’s.

Mama’s big hat flops at my feet. I raise my foot—strike it, crush it underneath my heel.

It’s my body. My body. Mine alone. When hands release my lips, I spit out the blood. Let it drip, drip, drip onto my white cotton dress Mama can’t return.

Dum. Dum. Tisk, tisk.

I fix my face. Let blood leak from the corners of my mouth.

I look to the ceiling. Up, and up, and up to God.

I bare my fangs and smile.

E.A. Noble studied Creative Writing as an undergraduate at Jackson State University, an HBCU in Jackson, Mississippi. Her debut novel, When Blood Meets Earth, won a 2025 Indie Literary Award for Best in Urban Fantasy. Her previously published works can be found in FIYAH Lit Mag, and more to come. For more information, please visit theeajournal.me.