She took one of the mysterious seeds and tossed it into the pot of boiling liquid.   “It’s finished,” she announced. 

The liquid bubbled and fizzed, and globs of it oozed slowly down the sides of the pot.  The old woman filled a bowl and handed it to me.  “Eat this,” she said. “If my seed stew doesn’t make you grow, nothing will.”  

I looked dubiously into the bowl filled with hot, green, unappetizing goop.  “Hurry,” she said, and I gulped it down. 

My eyes watered and my throat burned.  I felt a rumbling in my stomach and my knees began to creek and groan. 

 “It’s working!” cackled the old woman.  “You’re taller already.”

This was worth every penny of my allowance!  I would no longer be the shortest kid in fifth grade.  

 “Come into the yard before you put a hole through my ceiling,” the woman said, leading me outside.

My fingers tingled, and I realized I was sprouting leaves.  I tried to run, but my toes had grown right out of the ends of my shoes and sunk deep the earth.

The woman smiled.  “I finally have that shade tree I’ve been dreaming about.”

© 2008 Suzannah Hayes. Original for CCF (Hayes grants CCF first electronic rights for one month; CCF may archive the material indefinitely and include it in an eBook anthology).