Scribbled Thoughts

(Not much today, and not great quality but I’ll polish it later).

Dear Jack,

I’m sorry about your father, mine lives but we don’t see each other much, and my mother died when I was a baby.

No, we can’t eat clouds but we do eat birds. I can send some down if you like.

I’m not allowed to come down, I’ve heard it’s very green, is that true? And that you can move freely.

I would love a friend, it’s so lonely here. Please write again.

Yours hopefully,

Felicia.

(Jack and Beanstalk poem continued)

Dear Sky Person,

I’m Jack, a labourer’s son. I pass by your beanstalk everyday looking for work. What’s it like living in the clouds? Can you eat them? My family is poor since my father died and we live off others’ leftovers or any vegetables we can grow.

Do you ever come down? No one wants to be my friend down here. Do you want a friend?

From Jack.

It was clumsy penmanship

with splotches on the page,

but she could feel the care

put into the words,

the hope felt to deliver it.

She knew she shouldn’t

but she decided to write back.

It was not an easy task;

she’d read his words with a magnifying glass.

She had to practice

over and over

to make her writing small enough.

It wasn’t to deceive,

she just wanted to make

a good impression.

(Another snippet from the Jack and the Beanstalk poem I’m working on)

The beanstalks were grown

to help with thinning oxygen.

For survival.

But they became a beacon,

a temptation

a change to everything.

They began purely organic

but pulleys were constructed

and indulgence seeped into their world.

Luscious fruits were small bursts

of juicy delight,

little trinkets were stored in pockets

and pulled out to admire.

They sent gold nuggets in exchange,

their only shiny marvel.

The letters began a year ago,

tiny doors into another life

Felicia had never imagined.

They sustained her,

gave her purpose.