Beanstalker and Other Hilarious Scarytales

“There probably isn’t a lot of competition for that title,” Jack said, trying not to laugh. But Jack was wrong. The art of butter sculpting has a long and illustrious history. Most of the famous sculptures you know are actually stone replicas of far more amazing butter sculptures. Even the Leaning Tower of Pisa was modeled after a glorious butter tower. (That’s why it’s leaning—the butter had started melting, because butter isn’t known for its structural integrity. But the architect who was copying the sculpture didn’t realize it wasn’t supposed to be that way.) This gardener would go on to a streak of second-place finishes in local butter sculpting contests. The cow, on the other hand, would be renowned among all her kind for her excellent sense of smell. Cows know the difference between smelling good and smelling well, and they appreciate it.

“Can I buy the cow?” the gardener asked.

Jack rememb

ered what his stepmother had said. “It’s worth more than a bag of coins.”

“Of course it is! I would never give you money for the cow. I have these instead.” He stuck his hand through the hole in the vines, holding out three small beans. Please remember that our friend Jack is utterly clueless when it comes to any sort of vegetable. And while beans are actually legumes, not vegetables, Jack didn’t know that, either.

The gardener whispered in his most dramatic voice, “These are magic beans.”

“Magic?” Jack asked. Magic was more valuable than money! Jack had had money before, but he’d never had magic.

“Magic!” the gardener repeated.

Just then the cow passed a tremendous amount of gas. It did not smell good, and Jack smelled well, so he got the full power of the cow-pow. “Take it!” he said, grabbing the beans and passing the reins (but not reigns or rains) to the gardener.

After a great struggle, the gardener finally managed to coax the cow through the small gap in the vines. “Thanks, kid!” he said. Then he dropped a seed smaller than the beans into the gap. Plants immediately grew, filling it in. Jack was staring at a now totally impassable wall of green.

For a moment, he wondered if he had made a mistake. But beans were light and much easier to drag around a forest than the cow had been. He skipped along, thinking how proud his stepmother would be when he showed her that he had traded a plain old cow for magic.

You and I, of course, know better than Jack. Obviously you should never trade something real for something “magic.” Until the magic has been clearly demonstrated, the mechanics of how everything works thoroughly explained, and you’ve been given a detailed receipt with a return policy. After that, by all means, trade your phone for that carpet or lamp or handful of beans! Your parents will be so pleased.

But all that happy-forest skipping had made Jack tired. He found a small meadow nestled into the trees. It wasn’t good for a cow, but it was perfect for a Jack. Yawning, he curled up with the beans in his fist and fell asleep.

Here are two things you need to know about Jack’s sleeping habits:

He’s a drooler. An epic drooler. You could wring out his pillowcase in the morning and fill several buckets with spit. Why you would want buckets of spit, I don’t know, but I’m not here to judge your hobbies. At least you don’t light things on fire.

He’s a wriggler. Some people sleep as still as stone and as silent as death. Those people are really terrifying, and you should always poke them to wake them up and make sure they’re still breathing. It’s their own fault for being creepy. Some people move around a little, snoring and snuffling and otherwise politely letting you know they’re still alive. And some people, like Jack, sleep like they are being electrocuted.

So, over the course of his nap, the beans were flung from his hand. They landed near his face, where the drool was already puddling. The beans sucked up the spit, because beans are stupid and do not understand that water is good but spit is disgusting. And then they began to grow.

And grow.

And grow.

that the top of the thick, twisting stalk disappeared into the clouds above.

Jack awoke, shivering. He was cold because (a) he was sleeping in a puddle of his own drool and (b) because the stalk had grown so thick that he was now in the shade instead of the sun.

“Oh, pee porridge,” Jack cursed with a frown. His beans had not turned out how he had expected. And with no receipt, he couldn’t return them. (It might not have mattered anyway, because the gardener could have claimed the beans were not returned in the same condition they were given and refused a refund. You should always get the return policy in writing and read the small print.)

He had no money, no beans, and no cow. He couldn’t very well go back to his stepmother like this. And he couldn’t leave the kingdom, not with that wall of vines all around it. There was no castle to go to for work anymore, even if they would have taken him again (they wouldn’t have). He’d never go back to Jill with her stupid red cloak and her even stupider habit of pushing people into wells.

He looked up.

to where the stalk pierced the clouds. He had always wondered what it would be like to sleep on a cloud. He imagined it would be light and fluffy, warm and wonderful. Jack could never pass up an opportunity for a nap, even when he had just woken up from one. So he began to climb.

It’s a very long climb, so while he’s climbing, let’s take a look around the kingdom. There, a small fire burning. Hi, Cinderella! Hi, Prince Charring! They’re just the cutest couple, aren’t they?

There, a small girl with golden curls carefully following tracks in the forest. Goldilocks doesn’t want us spooking her prey, though, so we’ll move on.

There, the tail end of a very long, slithery body slipping into some undergrowth. Let’s not stay here.

There, a ragged red hood over ragged red eyes. “Brains?” Red Riding Hood says, looking up at us. Moving right along again, much faster!

There, a big bag that was supposed to be left in the middle of a sunny meadow. What is it doing in the depths of the darkest part of the forest? And why is the huntsman sleeping so quiet and still with two red marks on the side of his neck? Maybe I should—