Every once in a while, the magic beans you buy deliver as promised
Those Aren’t Beans, Boy
Dial 420-WEEK
THE MORNING JACK’S MOTHER THREW his magic beans into the garden, he woke to discover a giant beanstalk blocking the sun into his window. Mom and the siblings still crowded into the family bed, sound asleep. Jack dashed outside, wondering why the rooster failed to crow?
He scanned the stalk, from its thick roots, through the branches and upward, mile after mile, piercing the clouds. Had the plant grown all the way to the moon? He leaped for the closest stem, caught it with his fingertips, gripped the base with his toes and scrambled upward. He leaped for the next branch and continued to climb from one branch to another, each leap easier until the branches were no farther apart than the steps of a ladder.
He climbed for hours until the sun passed the clouds and shined from directly overhead. When the sun dropped beneath the clouds and dipped toward the western horizon, Jack finally broke through, poked his head above their wispy floor only to face ten flesh-colored boulders. Only they weren’t boulders.
When the sun dropped beneath the clouds and dipped toward the western horizon, Jack finally broke through the clouds, poked his head above their wispy floor only to face ten flesh-colored boulders. Only they weren’t boulders.
The giant hovered over Jack, his head brushing the next layer of clouds above. He rested his hands on his hips and kneeled to scrutinize the lad. His words sounded like thunder. “Fee Fi Fo Fum, where the hell did you come from?”
Jack pointed to the layer of clouds beneath the giant’s feet. “I climbed the magic beanstalk.”
The giant laughed louder than a thunder storm strong enough to shake a cottage. He polished the pipe he carried in his belt. “Ignorant and unobservant lad, beanstalks don’t have five branches. But as long as you’re here, you can help me harvest these magic buds.”
Jack stayed for the week, helping the giant and eating dinner with his family, a dinner over which they sprinkled the plant’s ground leaves like his mother sprinkled parsley. He didn’t need to climb back down on his return. He floated gently from the clouds.
Find my books
Wry noir author Phillip T. Stephens wrote Cigerets, Guns & Beer, Raising Hell, the Indie Book Award winning Seeing Jesus, and the children’s book parody Furious George. Follow him at Phillip T Stephens.
