Little Plimpton ate the ten little seeds, counting them out as he popped them into his mouth.
“They’re magic.” Young Jack promised him, “It’s the secret to living in the sky.”
Little Plimpton slept troubled that night; an acrid boiling in his stomach pickled his organs in knots. He dreamt of eating a thousand golden eggs, swallowing one after the other until his skin stretched over the stars.
He woke to the sound of harp strings vibrating in his ears. He felt the leaves and bark grinding against his tracheae.
“I’m so sorry, child.” Young Jack pressed a wet towel to Plimton’s face. “I guess you were the giant all along.”
Little P is back and living in the world of Giants. I don’t know if he likes it very much. I think he might have to jump to a few other stories until he finds one that fits.