Posted by: danzierlea | January 4, 2013

Magic Food

This is part one of a two-part challenge. It wasn’t supposed to be two parts, just this, but then I figured out how to have horror in limbo, so there will be more. You know the drill: go here ( ), learn the challenge, do the flash fiction, post, repeat until your fingers bleed. Or something. This is Superhero genre, set on a comet, with magic food being very necessary. I went a little wackazoid on it, because I could. The second bean set, by the way, is purloined from the VeggieTales episode “Lord of the Beans”.  746 words, plus a title.

Quick Fix

WE sat on an ice shelf and stared bleakly at the fire overhead. It would be thousands of years before he got home. He kicked at a pebble. It bounced weakly off his tennis shoe, floated briefly away, and was caught in the flaming corona and vaporized.

Stupid no gravity, WE thought. Stupid no air. Stupid fire dome. Stupid beans.

Beans, beans, beans.

Not beanstalk beans. No, those had been used up long ago, their magic siphoning all the life from a third of a continent and introducing the planet to the devastation of oxygen-deprivation-induced megalomania. Giants and castles in the sky indeed.

Not, either, the magic beans of legend that could grant their owner small kitchen gadgets. Rumor had it that those beans had been the key ingredient in either the world’s best chili or the world’s best cookies, and nobody knew for sure which it was any more. Either way, they’d been eaten long ago.

The beans WE hated, the beans which boasted no brains in his estimation, were his. His vast supply of magical Mexican jumping beans. Magical, first because they jumped without worms inside them, and second because when that moron had decided to make dinner, dinner had pulled a Gingerbread Man Escape.

Not that it had done any good.

WE glared at the fire creeping closer to his head. Resistance was futile, but it was something to do. He stood up, ducking slightly, and twirled in place. Sauce splattered around him, and when he stopped, dizzy, the corona was significantly further away. Also, the pebble was back, and the ice shelf had reformed where his warm backside had melted it into something slightly more comfortable. WE sighed.

Magical Mexican jumping beans, made into paste that wriggled, schlepped on a tortilla, coated with pepper and hamburger and other nasty-looking goop, flung in a hot pizza oven and burned to a crisp. And then, when the oven door opened and the poor dazed thing sat coughing and wheezing in the rain, the prodigious announcement—spoken without a single damn given—that defined WE’s life. “Ladies and gentlemen and touristas, I give you Pizza Pablo’s first and only dish made from a child’s recipe book: the Whole Enchilada! And now, I quit.”

And WE was unceremoniously flung on a plate, slathered in guacamole, and dropped on a table in the rain.

The plate broke.

The slithering magic bean paste slithered, and WE bounded from the plate in the instant before it broke.

People screamed. First they screamed because the enchilada was very evidently crap. Then they screamed because the crappy enchilada moved on its own. And then they screamed because they were splattered with some kind of brownish sauce.

Eventually they screamed in delight. The enchilada—THE WHOLE ENCHILADA—stayed there, floating in the air. The broken plate, covered in enchilada magic sauce, mended itself. The sauce came easily away from clothing and hair, leaving the clothes mended, clean, fresh-smelling, and occasionally in better taste. It left the hair clean and neat (and the bald man wept as he felt his head sprout anew). It had left the tables clean, and even the napkins used to clean it up went in the garbage neatly.

Many months later, the city dump was honored by a visit from the President, who commended the place for its commitment to improving the environment. It was by far the neatest, cleanest, most encouraging dump on the face of the planet.

The people, of course, tried to catch him. Run, run, as fast as they could, but they couldn’t fly. All they could do was follow WE’s trail. Everywhere he went, things got better. Broken windows mended. Potholes in streets filled in and disappeared. Plants bloomed, sun shone and soft rain fell, rainbows and butterflies festooned the very air. People were nice to each other.

So of course they caught him. They hunted him with vigor. They chased him with bottles. They threw broken bits of trash at him, hoping that they’d recapture the mended item with a dose of magic sauce still inside.

And then some dingbat hit him with a rock.

Stupid space junk.

Not just any rock, unfortunately. A rock that had dropped through the atmosphere, a million billion years ago (or some time), slammed into the earth’s crust, smashed to bits, changed the planet, eradicated the dinosaurs, and, clear back before all that, had escaped the broiling heat of a comet’s corona.

Stupid magic fix-everything sauce.


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