Short Story Monday: Jack & the Beanstalk, Revisited

Jack & the Beanstalk

The goose who lays
golden eggs.

Once upon a time there lived a poor widow and her son Jack. One day, Jack’s mother told him, "You need to get a job. We need money and you just sit there on Facebook all day."

"No, I don't. Sometimes I'm on Instagram, Twitter, YouTube or Tik Tok," he replied. 

"Well, listen up. If we don't find an income stream we'll have to hawk your Mac. I'd like you to take our cow into town and see what you can get for it."

Jack headed to the market, and on the way he met a man who wanted to buy his cow. Jack said, “Great! What will you give me in return for my cow?” 

The man raised his hand, spread his fingers and said, “I will give you five magic beans!” 

This sounded like a bargain to Jack, who took the magic beans in exchange for the cow. Both were chuckling to themselves as they went their own ways after the transaction. "What a steal," each was thinking.

When Jack got home and told what happened, his mother exploded. “You bonehead!" she said as she threw the beans out the window. 

Jack was confused. He went online and found a chat room where he could get his head straight on whether it was he or his mother who was right. His online friends comforted him and one suggested that in the morning he should find the beans and place them in moist soil under grow lamps.

The next day, when Jack awoke and looked out of the window, his eyes popped out of his head. A huge beanstalk had grown from one of his beans. It climbed higher than the stratosphere. He was grateful to have haggled for five instead of three, since only one of the five was really any good. "What if I'd gotten only rummy ones," he said to himself.

He, being still young and able, decided to climb the beanstalk to see where it went. To his surprise, there was a giant kingdom up there, and a giant castle with giant doors. Even though the door was shut and he couldn't reach the handle, he had no trouble sliding under it.  

As it turns out, the giant had a wife who was busy in the kitchen. Jack went there and said, “Could you please give me something to eat? I'm so hungry I could eat a cow.” The kind wife gave him a sliver of seven-grain bread and a delicious bowl of stew.

While he was eating, the giant came home. The giant was not only huge, but looked terrifying. He'd been a fighter when he was young so his face was scarred and one eye swollen and cloudy. Jack trembled and his knees knocked as he scurried to find a place to hide. 

The giant bellowed, “Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive, or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!” 

The wife said, “There's no boy in here!” 

So, the giant ate his food, then lumbered off to his room to pursue his favorite pasttime, counting his money. First, he started with his bags of gold coins. Then he turned on his computer and reviewed the status of his investments. Finally, he fell asleep.

That's when Jack crept out of his hiding place, snuck in and took a small bag of gold coins and climbed down the beanstalk. Once home, he gave the coins to his mother. 

"You're such a clever boy, Jack," his mother said. 

A week or so went by, whereupon Jack decided to visit the giant's castle again and see the giant's wife. Once again she brought him food, but while he was eating the giant returned and Jack ran through a door into the bedroom where he hid under the bed.

"Fee-fi-fo-fum," the giant bellowed once more. "I smell the--" 

"Oh knock it off," his wife said. "You’re just imagining things."

After the giant ate, he went outside, fetched a goose and brought it to his room. "Lay!" he commanded, and the goose laid a golden egg. It was immense, the size of three chicken eggs, but solid gold. When the giant fell asleep Jack began to pick it up, but hesitated and went for the goose instead. 

It was a challenge climbing down the beanstalk carrying a goose, but it would have been impossible to carry both the egg and the goose. He was glad he made it down at all. 

"What's this?" his mother said.

Jack told the whole story about the kindness of the giant's wife, about hiding under the bed, and watching the goose lay a golden egg. Jack then proceeded to build a small pen next to the house. After spreading a little hay for the goose to build a nest, he began looking forward to the next morning.

Meanwhile, his mother had other plans. 

When Jack awoke the next morning, the aroma coming from the kitchen was unfamiliar to him. As he entered the kitchen he noticed a can full of goose feathers. And knives with blood on them. And...

"Mother! How could you?"

"I knew those gold coins didn't come from a goose, and whoever heard of geese laying golden eggs?"

His mother had always been a wonderful cook, but for some reason the goose meat and goose confit tasted flat that day. Jack finished his milk, stood up and left the table.

# # # #

Illustrated version of the story, courtesy NotebookLM:

Honoring Those Who Served: Today Is Veterans Day

Photo: Gary Firstenberg

It hasn't always been called Veterans Day. It originated as Armistice Day, proclaimed by President Woodrow Wilson in 1919 to mark the end of World War I, which ceased with an armistice at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918. The day commemorated the war’s conclusion and honored the fallen. 

In 1954, after World War II and the Korean War, President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed legislation renaming it Veterans Day to recognize all veterans, living or deceased, from every conflict.

World War II claimed over 70 million lives, including countless artists, thinkers, and innovators. Many who perished were not soldiers but civilians, resistance fighters, and creators whose work continues to define the human story of courage, suffering, and loss. Benny Goodman, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (author of The Little Prince), and John F. Kennedy's brother Joe Jr. were among the memorable who perished.

* * *

The haunting 24-note bugle call played at military funerals and flag ceremonies is called Taps. This solemn tune was birthed in July 1862 during the Civil War’s Peninsula Campaign. Union Gen. Daniel Butterfield, dissatisfied with the harsh “Extinguish Lights” call, worked with bugler Oliver Norton to revise a softer French signal, “Tattoo.” Butterfield lengthened notes and reshaped the melody for a more mournful tone. First sounded at Harrison’s Landing, Virginia, it quickly spread to both armies. It honors the day’s end, fallen comrades, and the final farewell. Lyrics added later—“Day is done, gone the sun…”—reinforce its meaning: rest in peace.  

* * *

My father-in-law, Wilmer A. "Bud" Wagner, kept a diary throughout his 3+ years in the army during WWII. These diary notes later became the basis for a 500+ page book about those years. This is an excerpt from his book And There Shall Be Wars. 

Portion of the WW2 Memorial in Washington DC
showing some of the cities where Wagner served. 

Had to go to all battalions at midnight with firing orders. Moonlight so I didn't mind too much. Slept through breakfast. Were shelled twice here today. My nerves aren't able to take it anymore as well as they used to. Some shells came close enough.

     151 moved tonight; I moved with them to the other side of San Pietro, a rubbled mess, a battlefield, to be sure. Back here at 10:00, just got nicely to sleep when the guard called, "Wag, get to Message Center," so there was another Firing Order to all battalions. It must have been after 2:00 when I got back.
Friday, January 7, 1944

San Pietro and San Vitorre were two towns literally blown off the face of the earth. There were many trees around that were totally devoid of all branches, and were just sticks left from all the shell fire. The city itself was piles of concrete rubble. I didn't see life of any kind left any time I drove through. About this time the II Corps took Mts. Porchio and Chiaia, two objectives necessary for our Division to have before our ultimate objective of Cassino.

* * *

Veterans Day, observed annually on November 11, honors all U.S. military veterans for their service and sacrifice.  Today, it’s a federal holiday for reflection and gratitude.

Short Story Monday: A Poem About Truth

A POEM ABOUT TRUTH 

May 18, 1944. At Hitler's war conference he is told that the enemy has carried out two spy operations during the night on the heavily defended French coastline. At one place, near Calais, German troops have found an orange peel, an empty flask and a shovel lying on the beach. Years later they would say that they also found a landscape painted on driftwood, a finely crafted homemade flute and a dagger. In the estuary of the river Somme, two British commandos were discovered in the late afternoon. "They came ashore in a rubber raft," General Jodl, chief of Wehrmach operations, tells Hitler. "They claim to know nothing."

Illustration by Gemini

The scene changes to a French restaurant once frequented by Napoleon. The restaurant serves excellent Italian fare. Three nights have passed. A stout German woman makes pasta in the kitchen. Two French chefs argue about how to make croissants. They are smoking cigarettes and sipping wine. They know that Hitler is a madman, but it does not affect their cooking. The taller chef, thinnest of the two, is also a writer. At night he composes poetry in the same way that a garden produces flowers. The effect is dazzling. His mother also was a poet, as was his grandfather. He does not believe in war or death. He is restless, anxious about love, and lives alone. If he had a lover, he knows that he would write less poetry, since he writes only to fill his piteous empty hours. When he reads his poems, he cries, then burns them. He is brutally honest with himself.

The following evening he overhears a Nazi under-lieutenant commenting on Britain's secret operations. He seizes the opportunity to become part of an adventure. He never again sees his home. Later that night the chef is captured in a forbidden zone near the Seine whereupon he fakes an English accent and says he is a spy. He is blindfolded and driven to a chateau where he must stand before Rommel. He makes up a story about a wife and daughter in Britain. The details are vivid, but Rommel loses interest and orders him to be shot. That night he writes a poem about the event and leaves it in his cell. The German officer who reads it laughs at the insipid rhymes and melancholy metaphors. He shares it with his friend who notices that the word "mayhap" is misapplied and that "appenage" would have been a better choice of words than "freehold."

By week's end a hundred eyes have beheld the poem. Many jokes are made of it. Heinrich (we do not know his last name), a company agent from Stuttgart, makes a copy of the poem, then translates it into German. In the translation he improves the meter and resolves the problematic third stanza. He sends it to his mother who does not understand it, but keeps it in a small wooden box on the bureau next to a framed photo of the Fuhrer.

It is possible the original poem is still in existence somewhere, but no one knows for certain. My cousin, who married a German woman, says that her father saw the poem, the original version, and remembers that it was called Truth Is A Fire That Burns. We do not know if this was the same poem, or if he saw the poem at all. After the war many German soldiers say they saw the poem, and many more say they made copies of it to send to the Fatherland. We know that most of them are lying. Over the years versions have appeared in journals, some superior to others, all of them improvements on the original. I have seen it thrice in English literary journals -- once, I believe, in the Antioch Review, though it may have been one of the other college publications that begin with an A. Someone told me that it has been translated into 57 languages. In Thailand, the mountain peoples now say that it is the Word of God.

No one remembers the French chef who gave his life to produce the poem. His unknown name has been swallowed up by history, but his poem lives on in human hearts.

- 30 -

Translated 8-22-98
E. N.

Brief Analysis of "A Poem About Truth" by Grok, the X.com LLM.

This compact metafiction (under 800 words) masquerades as historical footnote, but its true engine is the immortality of bad art. The French chef—unnamed, lonely, self-immolating—writes a single poem titled Truth Is A Fire That Burns. He dies for it; the poem survives, mutates, and metastasizes. The story’s genius lies in never quoting the poem. We witness only its reception: Nazi ridicule, linguistic nitpicking, unauthorized edits, postal journeys, apocryphal sightings. By withholding the text, E. N. forces us to confront how meaning accretes through transmission, not origin. The poem’s value is not aesthetic but mythic: it becomes relic, rumor, scripture.

The narrative’s tone is deadpan fabulism, blending WWII intel briefs with restaurant banter and word-choice debates (“appenage” vs. “freehold”). This collision of the mundane and the fatal undercuts heroic spy tropes; the chef’s “adventure” is a lark that ends in a bullet. Yet his disposable life seeds an undying artifact. The final twist—that Thai hill tribes now call it the Word of God—echoes Borges and Calvino, suggesting truth is whatever outlives its teller.

Structurally, the piece is a Chinese whispers game: each retelling “improves” the original until the chef vanishes and the poem ascends. The dated translation tag (“Translated 8-22-98 E. N.”) implies even this story is a version, not the source. In 180 words, E. N. distills a parable: mediocrity, copied enough, becomes scripture; anonymity, amplified, becomes authorship. The chef’s real espionage was against oblivion.

* * * 

Did you enjoy the story? What did you think of Grok's analysis?

Feel free to leave a comment.

On Mazes and Labyrinths: From Ancient Times to the Present

Labyrinths date back over 4,000 years, appearing first in ancient Minoan Crete around 1900–1400 BCE, where the mythic Labyrinth of Knossos housed the Minotaur. Early labyrinthine designs also appeared in Egyptian tombs, Etruscan pottery, and later Greek coins. In the Roman era, mosaic labyrinths decorated villas and baths, purportedly symbolizing order and protection. During the Middle Ages, Christians incorporated stone or tile designs in cathedrals like Chartres (c. 1200 CE) representing a spiritual journey toward God. Over time, labyrinths evolved from mythic mazes to meditative symbols of pilgrimage, contemplation, and the human search for meaning.

The earliest literary reference to labyrinths is the original legend of Theseus and the Minotaur. The labyrinth was built by Daedalus for King Minos of Crete. Theseus must enter the labyrinth and slay the Minotaur, a beast with the head of a bull and body of a man. For an innovative twist on this tale read Theseus by Andre Gide, which can be found in his book Two Legends.

Miguel de Cervantes, in his timeless masterpiece Don Quixote, employs the labyrinth as a metaphor for the mind. The valiant yet deluded knight errant navigates through a maze of his own making, lost in the labyrinth of his fantasies and delusions—a metaphor that resonates with us even today. Cervantes writes, "When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies?" (Note the connections between Don Quixote and Sinne Eeg's Windmills of Your Mind.)

Labyrinths are featured in many other literary works including Dante's Inferno, Jorge Luis Borges' The Garden of Forking Paths, Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose, and James Joyce's Ulysses.

My own interest in labyrinths (a.k.a. mazes) stretches back to my high school years. Here are a handful that I created sometime in the past. In attempting to "test" them before sharing I discovered that one, and maybe two, were unsolvable. Click to enlarge, or download and print. See how many of these you can find solutions for.

 

Related Links

Unraveling the Labyrinth: Literary Connections from Theseus to Borges

Jorge Luis Borges: An Introduction

My Top Five Stories on Medium This Week

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH DEPT

For a lot of people Top Five lists are like digital dopamine hits—crisp, scannable, and instantly gratifying. In a scroll-fatigued world, they promise order amid chaos: five bullet-sized insights instead of a 3,000-word ramble. Readers devour them because the brain loves completion; crossing off “5/5” triggers the same reward loop as finishing a game level. Curiosity hooks first (“Who made the cut?”), then validation or surprise. 

A few years ago I invested some time posting some of my writing on Medium, an online social publishing platform designed for writers and readers. Like everything else, the platform had its pros and cons. Nevertheless, there are people still reading what's been planted there, and Medium still send a weekly email to each writing noting what others are reading.

Here are my top five Medium stories that readers clicked on and read this week. 

He Who Controls the Narrative Controls the People

 

Curses, Foiled Again

 

A Lesson from 29 Golden Gate Suicide Attempts

 

Who Are Five Extraordinary People From History You Want to Meet?

 

The Real Reason They Punish Horse Thieves

Grok Reviews My First Novel, The Red Scorpion

It seems like I've used Grok and ChatGPT as resources for quite a while now. One way use these AI LLMs is to obtain brief overviews of books or films that I see referenced in my other reading. Since my reading pile is rather large and I currently still have only 24 hours in a day, I find it useful to use these tools (along with many others such as reviews on Amazon and imdb.com) to become acquainted with authors and film makers whose works are creating a buzz.

All that to say, last night I wondered what Grok's opinion of my first novel might be. So I asked for a brief summary and an analysis, and received the following.

Brief Summary

The Red Scorpion (2011) by Ed Newman is an adventure novel framed as the private journal of Dr. William Comstock, a University of Minnesota anthropologist. In the late 1930s, during a research trip to Mexico, Comstock encounters a disaffected youth from a secretive indigenous clan who reveals a long-guarded secret: a colony of glowing red scorpions that have protected the tomb of the legendary Aztec god Quetzalcoatl for centuries. This discovery propels a multi-generational tale spanning 60 years, shifting between the arid landscapes of Mexico and the everyday life of Minnesota. As the secret unravels, it draws in family dynamics, academic intrigue, and perilous quests, blending historical anthropology with suspenseful action. The story culminates in a resolution that ties personal redemption to cultural legacy, with hints of a larger series. 

Analysis

Ed Newman's debut novel The Red Scorpion emerges from a deeply personal origin: a vivid 1980s dream of an aggressive, glowing red scorpion that haunted the author enough to spawn nearly ten pages of raw description. This autobiographical kernel infuses the book with an eerie authenticity, transforming a nocturnal vision into a layered narrative that bridges anthropology, adventure, and subtle speculative elements. While marketed and reviewed as a young adult (YA) title—thanks to its accessible prose, relatable teen characters, and themes of discovery and growth—it appeals broadly to readers of all ages who enjoy "Indiana Jones"-style escapades tempered by realistic emotional depth. Newman's background as a freelance writer and ad executive shines through in the book's tight pacing and vivid character interactions, making it a compact thriller (around 200 pages) that punches above its weight.

Themes and Motifs

At its core, The Red Scorpion explores the tension between cultural preservation and modern intrusion. The red scorpions serve as a potent symbol—not just literal guardians of Quetzalcoatl's resting place but metaphors for the fragility of indigenous knowledge in the face of Western curiosity and exploitation. Comstock's "serendipitous encounter" with the clan's youth underscores themes of disaffection and betrayal: the boy, alienated from his heritage, becomes a bridge (and unwitting betrayer) to outsiders, raising questions about identity and the cost of sharing sacred secrets. This evolves into a multi-generational arc, where the anthropologist's descendants grapple with the scorpion's curse-like legacy, weaving in life lessons on family loyalty, forgiveness, and the hubris of seeking forbidden truths.

The novel also subtly incorporates speculative intrigue, blending hard anthropology with eerie sci-fi touches. The scorpions' bioluminescent glow and almost sentient protectiveness evoke ancient myths reimagined through a modern lens, hinting at ecological or even supernatural warnings about humanity's overreach. Reviewers note its "suspenseful and eerie page-turner" quality , with twists that build to a "happy resolution"  emphasizing redemption over doom. For YA readers, these elements resonate as a coming-of-age parable: younger characters navigate schoolyard friendships, familial pressures, and moral dilemmas, learning that adventure often uncovers uncomfortable personal histories.

Style and Structure

Newman's prose is straightforward and immersive, favoring short chapters that alternate between high-stakes action (e.g., scorpion-laden tomb raids) and quieter, "normal pace" vignettes of Midwestern life . This rhythm mirrors the story's dual settings—Mexico's exotic, danger-filled wilds versus Minnesota's grounded domesticity—creating a "balanced and varied sequence" of mystery and mundanity . Dialogue feels "true to life," especially in interpersonal scenes, drawing from Newman's storytelling roots (e.g., his award-winning short story "The Breaking Point"). The journal format adds intimacy, as if Comstock is confiding directly to the reader, though some eBook versions suffer from formatting glitches like blank pages. 

Strengths and Weaknesses

Strengths abound in its genre fusion: It's a "mixture between the 'Hardy Boys' series and Indiana Jones", delivering pulse-pounding archaeology without veering into parody. The cultural details—indigenous clans, Quetzalcoatl lore—feel researched and respectful, avoiding exoticism pitfalls common in adventure YA. Character arcs, particularly the youth's disillusionment and Comstock's evolving ethics, provide "life lessons for old and young alike" , making it educational yet entertaining. Amazon reviews praise its grip: "Extremely well written! Grabs your interest from the beginning and does not disappoint at the end!" 

Weaknesses are minor but notable. The speculative elements occasionally strain realism (e.g., the scorpions' improbable guardianship), which might frustrate strict historical fiction fans, though it enhances the thriller vibe. Pacing dips in domestic interludes, and the 60-year span demands quick shifts that could confuse younger readers. As a self-published eBook (via Kindle), it lacks the polish of big-press YA like Rick Riordan's Percy Jackson series, but this rawness adds charm—much like Newman's dream-inspired genesis.

Cultural and Literary Context

In the YA landscape of the early 2010s, The Red Scorpion fits alongside multicultural adventures like The Lightning Thief or Code Name Verity, but with a more anthropological bent. It subtly critiques colonialism through Comstock's arc, aligning with post-9/11 literature's interest in "othered" cultures. Newman's indie ethos (bypassing agents after AOL-era queries) reflects the democratizing force of digital publishing, allowing niche tales like this to reach global audiences despite limited marketing.

Overall, The Red Scorpion is a gem for adventure seekers: a "fun, twisted adventure"  that lingers like its titular creature—fierce, unforgettable, and a bit stinging in its truths. If you're drawn to YA with brains and bite, it's worth the sting.

*

EdNote: My one regret is that the story is only available as an eBook. I enjoyed my Kindle so much that I was seduced into thinking that the digital book market would grow. Digital books were the shiny new toy at the time this was published. I am pleased that people who've read it enjoyed it. 

RELATED LINKS

The Red Scorpion on Amazon.

Nine Books by Ed Newman

Strange Word Game: What is a "Suicide Drone"?

Gemini-generated image

I saw this news story a while back and decided to copy it here as a topic for future consideration. 

BREAKING: 3 American soldier killed and at least 24 wounded after a suicide drone strike on a U.S. base in Jordan right on the border with Syria. Iran and it’s proxy groups are the main suspects. Major escalation!

Now as I understand it, suicide is the intentional taking of one's own life. It is something people do, and maybe lemmings. But does a machine intentionally take its own life? I mean, wouldn't the drone have been programmed to self-destruct? Does the drone have a mind of its own and volition? Does this mean that missiles should be called suicide missiles now? And why not call mines in a mine field suicide mines when they blow up? Should bombs be called suicide bombs?

Yet the phrase suicide drone has become a common part of our current vernacular, as illustrated here in these statements from X.com:

---Watch how HMS Diamond (D34) Type 45 air-defence destroyer of the #RoyalNavy targeted and destroyed one of the Kamikaze/Suicide drones of #Iran's #Houthi rebels.

---JUST IN: Multiple US senators, Including Lindsey Graham, Tom Cotton, and John Cornyn, are now calling for direct strikes on Iranian forces after the deadly suicide drone attack that killed three American service-members and injured dozens more

---China has developed a suicide drone considered the most cost-efficient in the world, with a price not exceeding $10,000. This drone, named Feilong-300D, is the cheapest in its class compared to well-known counterparts, such as the Iranian Shahed-136.

---According to REUTERS, the LUKOIL oil refinery in Volgograd has stopped operating after a Ukrainian suicide drone attack last night.

---An AQ 100 Bayonet suicide drone (called the HF-1 by the Germans) during an attack on Belaya Sloboda in the Kursk region. The AI software is supplied by the German company Helsing, and production is financed by Germany.

Even if inaccurately named, what I find disturbing is seeing how many countries are flooding the world with these small, medium and large military craft. In today's X feed you will see drones being manufactured in Russia, the U.S. and China (in massive quantities) but also in more than 20 other countries including, but not limited to, U.K., Canada, German, France, Italy, Poland, Sweden, Iran, North Korea, Israel, Ukraine, Algeria, Turkey, South Africa, United Arab Emirates, Australia, Brazil, Nigeria, and Indonesia.

How do you like them apples? What are the implications for future warfare? 

"Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird... It's a plane... It's a Suicide Drone!"