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Contest - Fable

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Old 05-07-2015, 05:40 AM
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Default Contest - Fable

I am sure that most, if not all, of us will know a fable or two from when we where children. I don’t know about anybody else but all the once I know feel old and in some cases culturally outdated. As such the challenge and theme for this contest is to write a Modern Fable. The subject of your Fable is up to you, as long as it is a Fable in some form.

Aside from general WB posting guidelines you have complete freedom in this contest. It is all up to you, prose or poetry, sad or happy, traditional or otherwise, short to long (within reasons ).

Entries should be submitted as posts in this thread. One you have posted you cannot change anything, any edited entries will not be counted. If you notice a typo or similar small mistake contact me with a PM and explanation and if I think it a reasonable change then I will make it for you.

Closing date is the 31st of July. The winner will be determined by Public vote after the closing date.

Good luck and above all have fun.

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Old 06-04-2015, 02:34 PM
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A Christmas Supper

J B Bergstad

On Friday, four days before Christmas last year, I was asked a peculiar question. My youngest great-grandson and I were having a "man to man" talk about past Christmas celebrations. Josh looked up at me, his sweet face clouded with an earnestness only the young possess. His big brown eyes shined with anticipation of a story. "Yeah, but Poppa," he said. "What was the weirdest Christmas ever?"

I smiled sat forward and took his soft, freckled cheeks in my callused palms. It seemed kids today craved weird tales more than stories of family and Santa Claus and the birth of Jesus Christ. It seemed they wanted dark as opposed to light. Not because they understood the concept of evil and not because they would welcome a vampire, zombie, werewolf or the king of darkness himself ... Satan … into their home, but because those were the villains, and sad to say, in some cases, the heroes of their video games.

"I’m sorry, Josh," I said. "In all my years on God's green earth, I’ve never had a weird Christmas, but I did have a miraculous one and I’ll never forget that day.

"What's murquous mean?" Josh asked, a quizzical look in his eye.

"I'll tell you the story and if you still don't know what miraculous means we'll look it up in the dictionary, okay?"

Josh nodded his head so fast and hard I was afraid he was about to bust his neck. I picked him up and set him on my lap, then settled back into the cushions of my well broken in old sofa. He looked up at me with that familiar look of anticipation on his face. I couldn't help but smile and stroke his thick curly auburn hair.

"Well sir, it all began one cold, clear morning in 1961, the 23rd of December it was. One day away from Christmas Eve."


I sat between four of the biggest men working the northern Wyoming cattle ranch I now called home. My position on the bench was dictated by grub shack etiquette, the first lesson I learned after hiring on with the Double G crew. The foreman, Lester Wallace, and two senior hands held down the
opposite side of the long plank-topped table.

Teller and Nate, two old sourdoughs I’d heard about, but never met had gone up the mountain a week before I hired on. I’d heard tell those two men were a strange breed. Nary a word passed between them, so went the story. Rumor had it they couldn’t stand the sight of one another. Yet, they wintered in a line shack holding a passel a cattle in a pocket canyon until spring thaw.

How could they see to the feeding and care of the stock until snow melt? I wondered. It sounded more than mysterious to me. Either those boys were a couple a strange ducks or the story was nonsense ... a hoorah for a new hand put on by the crew.

Anyway, I had my head down, elbows in, and putting my share of breakfast away when Mr. Wallace banged his cup on the table for attention.

"Mr. Gravanski asked me to wish y’all a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. For those with family nearby, the boss hopes you’ll spend this joyous time with your loved ones."

Not since I started forking a saddle have I seen six cowboys' move so fast. The four on my side of the table jumped up, one splashing coffee on his shirtfront as the bench dumped over. I’m fast on my feet and came up with them, saving my plate as I did. I kept chewing while I watched those boys scatter to the wind before I could say scat.

I forgot myself and shook my head whilst I set my plate down. After picking up the bench I sat and snuck a look at Mr. Wallace. He had me hogtied with his eyes.

"Well, Jack," said he. "Those fellas appear in a hurry. You short on family close by?"

"I expect I’m the strange pup in the litter," said I. "Don’t have no family close by no how."

The foreman chewed on a chunk a ham and forked a scoop of scrambled egg in his cheek for good measure. He stared at his plate until his mouth emptied.
"You want to stay here I’ll expect you to pitch in with whatever comes up. You understand, Jack?"

"Yessir." I waited for more detail, but Mr. Wallace bent to his plate and finished up with a slurp of scalding coffee the hash-slinger poured in his cup.

He stood, stretched and yawned. "Dang fine vittles, Vittles"

The cook nodded his bald head. "Much obliged, Les. Say hello to Sissy and the kids for me and a Merry Christmas to y’all."

"Same to you, Vittles. Take care of our new man for me." He hollered the last at the cook’s back as the short, broad man disappeared into his kitchen.

The foreman stared down at me. "Vittles Poister will act as foreman until I get back. Vittles has been with Mr. Gravanski since the first posthole got dug for the Double G. He’ll tell you what needs doing and when."

Mr. Wallace walked out of the grub shack and left me with my coffee and the last of my eggs. I’d seen a smile twist the corner of the foreman’s mouth as he turned away. I figured I was being set up for a little new man grief from the old hash-slinger, but to my surprise Vittles treated me right reasonable the rest of the day.

Christmas Eve morning he barked at me for coming late to breakfast, but fed me a fine big meal just the same. The cook, I decided, was a little strange, but an all right fella. I belched and walked my utensils to the washtub at the front of the grub shack.

Vittles appeared in the kitchen doorway and gave me a look over the top of
his spectacles. "By the by, Jack," he said with a big wicked grin plastered on his gray-bearded puss. "The boss wants to see you, pronto."

I must a had that "deer in the headlights" look in my eye because he laughed
like he’d told the best joke ever and leaned against the doorjamb to keep from falling over.

"About what?" said I when he straightened up and wiped his mouth.

"How the heck would I know, but you see me when you’re done,


I stood in the foyer waiting for the maid. The house was huge, a three storied structure with curving staircases dividing the north and south wings. An atrium-like dome cast a pale glow over the landings, staircases and foyer.

The smell of old leather and polish filled the air of the first floor. It was an open affair with a huge sitting room off to the south. I had no idea what lay hidden behind the staircases to the north, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. A maid showed up and said, "Follow me, please."

This would be my first meeting with Mr. Gravanski. When Mr. Wallace hired me on, he said I’d be lucky to meet the boss before spring roundup. That was okay by me. I was just grateful to have a bunk period, most spreads in the territory ran a skeleton crew in winter and wouldn’t consider a new hand no how.

I followed the maid by a large kitchen, dining room and all the way to the end of a long hallway lined with family pictures on both sides. At the end of the hall she pointed to an open doorway on my left.

Mr. Gravanski sat with his back to me as I entered his office. He swiveled around at the scuffing sound my boots made on the pegged maple floor. The boss looked me over and I snapped to attention not knowing what else to do. Way I saw it I could be getting my walking papers. There wasn’t much going on what with the stock wintered up.

"Jack Zagerro is it?"

He caught me wool-gathering and I jumped.

"Yessir," said I. My voice cracked and I wanted to cough, but thought better of it.

Mr. Gravanski stood and offered his hand across the large worktable separating us. We shook. His hand was a bit softer than mine, but not by much. We released as if we'd met many a time in the past. His hand was cool, dry and every bit as hard-callused as any man who handled rope and leather daily ... it surprised me no end.

"Well, Jack. I’m glad to meet you at last," said he. "Have a seat and let’s talk."

I took a leather chair in front of his table.

Mr. Gravanski folded his hands and studied me over steepled fingers. After a moment or two he said, "Are you a praying, churchgoing man, Jack?"

Uh-oh, a bible thumper, I thought. I’m off the range for good after this, but I’ll be danged if I’ll lie to the man.

I held my ground. "No sir, Mr. Gravanski. Can’t say I am. I ain’t had too many times in my life when praying done me much good."

The boss dropped back in his chair. It looked like a dilapidated piece of office furniture compared to the furnishings I'd seen as I followed the maid. The old chair squealed and squawked and I wondered why a man of means like him kept the old thing around. Looking closer, I saw the leather covering was cracked and peeled in places. I could see stuffing and wood at the edges of the arms. I decided there must be a story there, but I wasn’t about to ask.

"I’m right sad to hear you’ve had bad luck with the Lord, Jack." He held up his hand and shook his head. "Don’t take me wrong, I don’t hold it against you. I appreciate a man who’ll speak the truth no matter what he thinks I want to hear."

"Thank you kindly, sir," said I.

"I’ve got a special job for you, Jack. It’s a simple errand, but it’ll mean a good deal to me if it gets done."

"I’ll do what I can for you, sir."

He stood up and waved his hand. I pushed up and followed him to the far wall. He pulled down a detailed map of the Double G and pointed to a road leading up the slope of the Bighorns.

"Vittles is putting together two insulated containers. I want you to deliver them to Teller and Nate," and he pointed out a squiggly line. "Load up the Cherokee with those containers, add a case a beer and take this road. Teller and Nate are holed up at the Number Two Line Shack.

They’ll be a three-way fork about five miles up the road. Take the middle fork, Number Two is built into the escarpment at the mouth of a pocket canyon up yonder. That's where we hold the high meadow stuff until spring. Any questions, Jack?"

"Pretty straightforward, sir. I’ll head on out."

The boss offered his hand. "We finished the roads with a fresh grade after the last big rain, so there shouldn't be problems. When you get back, you’re welcome at our Christmas Eve dinner table. Vittles and the rest of our Double G family will join us."

I blushed like a schoolgirl at the invitation and mumbled a thank you. Mr. Gravanski shook my hand and I hurried out of his office.


I stopped off at the grub shack looking for the keys to the Cherokee. Vittles motioned me into the kitchen.

"You’d best take the big Jeep," said he and handed me a set of keys. "It's the one with the snow plow on the front."

"Boss said take the Cherokee," said I.
"I’m the only boss you need worry about on this range." Vittles threw me a frown. "I know what’s what round here, take the big Jeep."

"No offense, Vittles, but what the heck is what?"

"You got five mile to the fork. You got another eight to Number Two. Don’t sound like much and the road’s been graded, but I’ll tell you this and you can take it for truth. I’ve seen rocks come off that slope and kill a full-growed steer where she stood. Sometimes they’s all over the road, graded or not. Besides which, there’s a storm coming. Sky’s clear right now, I know. But I’m here to tell you it won’t be for long. You don’t take the plow, you may not make it to Number Two, let alone getback. You’re new so I’ll tell you once, do like I say and get back here so’s I can load up the containers."

The sun lay over my left shoulder when I bumped my way up the slope. I saw no rocks, steer-size or smaller. I felt pretty cocky by the time I hit the fork. Cocky until I saw a boulder the size of a Saint Bernard’s doghouse right in the middle of the road.

I got out of the Jeep to take stock of my problem. The road was graded wide enough to allow for a big wagon or vehicle and was bordered on each side with deep drainage ditches. Up the road sixty yards, give or take, was a culvert and cattle gate. That would be the gateway to the northeast pasture, I figured.

The wind started up and blew like the dickens. To the north I saw big thunderheads brush the peaks of the Bighorns and roll my way. I put my hat in the Jeep and slipped on my heavy coat. I looked again at the sign attached to a stanchion reaching a good two feet above the top of my head. The main road and its three branches had eight-foot stanchions marking the left and right shoulders. The metal posts marched in a staggered line, left and right, as far as I could see up the slope. The top twelve inches of each was painted bright red. There was one reason for the tall posts; the road boundaries had to be marked. Snow, when it came, drifted deep on the slope.

Best get that boulder up the road and off on the culvert, I thought. It would be easier to push it into the deep trench at the side of the road, but plugging the drainage ditch would cause bigger problems come the spring thaw. I fooled with the hydraulics until I could raise and lower the plow blade with confidence. I eased the Jeep forward and came against the boulder nice and easy.

"Okay, Jack," I mumbled, "push her on up the road."

Out of nowhere a slashing rain hit like the slap of a riled woman. It pelted the windshield with fat, icy drops of rain. Rain was my enemy. Rain meant mud and mud meant the boulder wasn’t going anywhere. I bulled it forward, but the blade hit too hard. The boulder rolled to the side and stopped cold. I heard an awful screech. A pop, pop, pop like the sound a small caliber gun makes and the big Jeep tilted up on its back axle. As if that weren't enough, something let loose with an awful squealing sound.

Dang you for a fool, Jack Zagerro," I hollered.

Backing away, the Jeep’s front axle slammed down, the plow blade cutting hrough the fresh gravel roadbed. I rolled back about half-a-turn of the wheels. A loud groan brought the big Jeep to a stop. The torrent outside turned to sleet and the wind gusted pushing it sideways. Ice slammed the side of the Jeep sounding like shotgun pellets. I had to get out and look at the damage. I'd seen a small toolbox in the back. It caught my eye as I loaded the insulated containers.

Maybe, I thought, I can remove the blade and use the bumper to push the rock to the side.

I closed my coat to the collar and my gloves came next. I pushed on the door. It opened, but only after a struggle. Sleet hit my face, stinging like a dose of poison oak. The force of the front axle coming down shoved the plow’s blade inward and up. Bolts holding the struts and hydraulics had snapped. Everything twisted and bent up toward the front differential.

Cold crept under my coat making me shiver. A cloak of white began to hinder my view of the wreckage. Snow. I squinted up at a dark gray sky. The flakes I saw coming at me were as big as the fake silver dollars they give out at them gambling places. I crawled back in the Jeep and turned the key. The engine caught, but a loud click soon turned to a more insistent clunk-clunkity-clunk. A strut or part of the hydraulic system was interfering with the crankshaft pulley. The engine gave a final shudder and died.

Despite the heat of the engine snow began to cover the hood of the Jeep. It wouldn’t be long before it spread its blanket over my refuge like a shroud. I shook with cold, unable to run the engine. It wouldn't be long before what heat remained in the driver's compartment would be gone, too. Would Vittles or Mr. Gravanski wonder about my whereabouts? I tried the CB radio time and again with no luck. At last the battery ran down to nothing. I watched with dread and fascination as the windshield soon covered with snow. I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer or maybe it was more of a plea. "I turned away from You, Lord. I’m a sorry man for that mistake. I pray you’ll see me outta this mess. Amen."
My head dropped on the headrest and I stared at the windshield with its coat of white blowing away and filling back up. It was an hypnotic sight when coupled with the chilling cold seeping into my bones. I stared until my eyes turned heavy. The last sesation I remember was my body shaking ... then even that stopped ....


"C’mon ... c’mon ... hey ... you hear me, boy?" Someone shouted through the fog that clouded my brain. I rocked back and forth like I’d been on a three day toot. Strong fingers dug into my shoulder. "Wake up ... c’mon, sonny, time to wake up."

"Hey, Nate. Come look what’s back here."

A different voice joined the first and a brightness filtered through my eyelids and into the fog of my brain ... I blinked and was blinded by the brilliance shining through the pristine windshield. My shaking had stopped, I felt warm, even with the cold air from the open back of the Jeep slipped past my upturned collar. I thought about going back to sleep, but my legs and arms were electrified, as if I’d been touched by a hot wire. I groaned as the vise squeezing my shoulder vanished.

"Well, dang my hide," the first voice said. "Will you look at that? Vittles and the boss rigged up a right nice Christmas supper for us."

Needles of pain speared my eyes as I opened them. Sunlight bouncing off the sparkling snow pack hit me like the flash of an arc welder.

"He’s finally woke up, Teller. Why you suppose he slept in the dang Jeep all night?"

"What the heck’s the matter with you, Nate? Can’t you see this here turkey and all them fixings is piping hot? He just got here, you dumb ox."

"Well, if that’s the case, Mister Smarty Pants, where’s his track? Where’d he plow? I don’t see nothing but snow packed up to an elephant’s eyeballs."

Silence. I looked to my left and saw a narrow path shoveled from the door of the Number Two Line Shack to the side of the Jeep. I sat up, swiveled and dropped my feet to the ground. I squinted at a tall, rangy man of seventy or I missed my guess. Beside him, staring at me like I’d dropped my pants, was a stooped, gnarly fella with long arms and hands the size of basketballs.

"You must be Teller and Nate," said I.

"You mean Nate and Teller," said the gnarly fella.

"The boy knows what he means," the rangy man said.

"Before you boys go at each other, I’m the new man since October. Name’s Jack Zagerro and I’d appreciate you telling me how the devil I got here."

"Suppose we get these vittles inside where it’s a little warmer," said Teller.

"Fine idea," said Nate, "I was about to say the same thing. By the by, sonny, I don’t think old man Satan had anything to do with getting you here." He picked up a container and walked up the path.

Teller passed me with the second container in his arms. "You get what’s left, boy," he said.

I moved to the rear of the Jeep, warmth from the open cargo door bathed my face. The drifted snow lay untouched and layered from the rear bumper of the Jeep as far as my eye could see. I shuddered. The warmth of the cargo’s interior was nothing short of a surprise to me.

Grabbing the case of beer, I looked up. Above me the sky shimmered a deep, vibrant blue. The air around me nipped at my fingers and nose with icy teeth. I reached up and closed the Jeep's cargo door and walked to the front for a look at the plow’s blade. It rested hood high, the struts and hydraulics glistening with sparkles of sunlight. They looked brand spanking new.

The cold began to leach through my boots and the case of beer in my arms grew heavy. I smiled at the luminous expanse of wonder we call the sky and murmured. "Happy birthday, Jesus. I promise I won’t ever forget You again."

Halfway up the shoveled path, I noticed the beer in my arms was icy cold. I remembered the waves of warmth coming from the interior of the Jeep and this miraculous day's experience helped my smile all but break my jaw.

Approaching the door of Number Two, I heard Teller’s gruff voice. "Ding-bust-it, Nate. Wash those big mitts a yours before you go fondling that fine turkey."

"You wash your own hands, yahoo. Who voted you boss man of this here shindig?"

"I heard tell you boys don’t speak to one another. I think someone's been pulling my tail. You folks sound like an old married couple to me," said I.

Nate and Teller stopped stock-still and looked at me with blood in their eye.

I smiled and set the beer on the drain board. "It’s icy cold," I popped the top on a can and cold foam ran over my fingers. I laughed and raised it on high.

"Merry Christmas, men. No roughhouse today if you’ve a mind. Let’s remember whose birthday we’re about to celebrate."
Words provide definition, but interpretation is the soul of language.

Last edited by captflash; 06-09-2015 at 12:53 PM..
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Old 07-18-2015, 05:23 PM
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Lady Blue and Fat Daddy


Lady Blue Jay flew from her nest singing her song while floating on the light breeze in the air. Lady Blue Jay flew eagerly in search of a meal for her hungry chicks. As Lady Blue Jay flew around she spotted a worm crawling out of the ground and thought, “That is a fat daddy of a worm and would feed my babies and fill their bellies.” Lady Blue Jay swooped down to grab Fat Daddy Worm and as she was about to grab him with her beak Fat Daddy Worm quickly turned and slid back down in to the ground. Lady Blue Jay flew up and landed on a tree branch just above where the worm had gone into the dirt.

Lady Blue Jay waited only but a few minutes when Fat Daddy Worm stuck his head out to see if it was safe to return to the outside in search of fresh dirt to burrow. Fat Daddy Worm started to slither out and Lady Blue Jay swept down snapping her beak at him and missing once again as he sucked himself back down in the ground.

After a few minutes Fat Daddy Worm stuck his head out and saw Lady Blue Jay sitting on the tree branch. He yelled up, “You might as well go find another hole to perch over for I am fat and have been successful at avoiding birds like yourself. Go find your food somewhere else.”

Lady Blue Jay stared down at Fat Daddy Worm and said, “You may be right about that but it looks like rain and I know how worms like to wallow in the water in search of softer ground.”

Fat Daddy Worm looked up and saw nothing but blue sky and sunshine. “Pish-posh it’s not going to rain, you see all the sunshine, it is going to be a hot day and I will be nice and cool down in my hole. Now move along, you will never get me. Your claws can’t dig deep enough to find me.”

Lady Blue Jay stayed perched on the tree branch and waited. The day grew warm and she shook her feathers to keep cool. After some time the sky became dark and the rain started to come down. At first a few drops and Lady Blue Jay remained still and stared down at the dirt. Within moments the ground was wet and puddles were forming. Lady Blue Jay shook the rain from her feathers and waited. Other smaller worms started rising to the top, floating in the water. Lady Blue Jay stayed on the tree branch and waited. Sure enough Fat Daddy Worm came slithering out of the ground relishing in the fresh water that had soaked the ground and crawled towards some fresh dirt moist and easy to burrow in. Lady Blue Jay soared down, scooped up Fat Daddy Worm, and flew off with him screaming, “Where did you come from, were you waiting all this time?” Lady Blue Jay flew to her nest and allowed her chicks to feast on one big Fat Daddy Worm.

It’s not the early bird that catches the worm it’s the patient one.
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Old 07-24-2015, 01:05 PM
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Default A Fairy Tale

A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a beautiful fairy with wings of delicate golden gossamer, and all who saw her were mesmerized.

She frolicked among the lanes and byways, and all of the knights, heroes and swordsmen pined for her, and longed for her as she drifted along the paths as if by unseen currents in the air.

But one maiden was jealous of the fairy, and tripped her. And as the fairy tripped to the floor of the exhibition hall, and the fairy's golden wig tangled in her golden wings, which then ripped her bodice, and her custom-made falsies rolled under a table piled high with moldy old comic books.

And although the movie studios and television networks brought lots of clips and celebrities to the ComicCon, it was a video of the poor little fairy tripping up and losing his false titties that got the most hits on YouTube that year.

The moral of the story is: all that seems certain in the first sentence may be overturned completely by the end of the tale.
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Old 08-01-2015, 03:28 PM
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As there are only three entries so far I have decided to extend the Contest by another month. Hopefully some more members find inspiration in the Theme of Fable and that there will be more great entries.

A great Thank you to captflash, Schmoo, and John. For their entries.
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

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Old 08-20-2015, 04:34 AM
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Default It's all in the head, said the tiger

It’s all in the head, said the tiger
Marc Haertjens

M. was not feeling very well. This would not have worried him so much – M. was not a worrier by nature – if it hadn’t been going on for way too long now.

It started last December, in this lost week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Lost, that is, if you’re not spending it on skis in an exclusive resort, near a palm-lined beach snorkeling in crystal water or entertaining the extended family/a bunch of close friends in a forest-enclosed chalet. M. was doing none of these.
He was home, alone, just the two of them, M. and T., his wife. They had made plans to just hop in the car and drive somewhere for a couple of days, maybe Paris. Or London. But M. didn’t feel up to it when the moment arrived. Which of course irritated, even border-infuriated T.

“What’s wrong with you?” she had asked him.
Rather shortly. He could not make out if she was informing on his physical health or doubting his mental one.
“I don’t know. I’m just not feeling very well.”
And that was the exact truth. He had no pains, no runny nose, no fever, not even what you might call signs of an emerging depression. He was just not feeling very well.

They spent the week at home, T. not happy at all. On New Year’s Eve a couple of friends came over – it was M. and T.’s turn to invite this year and M. had not dared cancel, even if he had been feeling very much inclined to do so – and M. burned most of the dishes he normally prepared so passionately whenever he had the occasion. By 12:30 AM all the guests had gone, trying to hide their disappointment.

The second week of January, M. was still not feeling any better. So T. sent him to see the doctor, who could find nothing wrong. Just as M. had predicted. There was nothing wrong with him, only not feeling very well. The doctor prescribed some more tests and some purple pills, just in case.

Winter ended, spring arrived and nothing changed. M. still felt the same: not very well.

One sunny morning in the beginning of May, on the same morning he had sat there worrying, while he was not a natural-born worrier, M. got on a train and got off again in Antwerp. He had no idea what he was going to do, no plan. Just walk around, maybe the change of air-pollution from one city to another would change his feeling for the better. Getting out of the station, he saw the Zoo entrance next to it. M. hadn’t been in there since he was thirteen or fourteen, many decades ago. He stopped visiting the Zoo around that age, when he developed a pubescent dislike to so much animal captivity. He might as well give it another try. He went over and bought a ticket.

Kharlan – Siberian Tiger – born 1999’ read the enameled metal plaque on the concrete parapet. M. remembered the steel-barred cage they had when he was a kid. Now the tiger had a spacious patch of fake Tundra, separated from the public by a deep ditch of murky water and aforementioned parapet.
Kharlan was not strolling around, he was stretched out on the ground, resting his head on his forepaws, watching the handful of humans watching him. M. stared at the tiger, the tiger stared at him.

“It’s all in the head,” said the tiger.
“I beg your pardon?” replied a nearly dumbstruck M.
“I mean, I can tell just by looking at you that you are not feeling very well. And - trust my experience, I’m an old beast - I’m sure there is something in your head causing it.”
“Oh, but you must be mistaking. I went to the doctor’s, they did all sorts of tests – brain scan and psychological screening included – and there was nothing they could find wrong with me.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying there is something inside your head, really physically inside, that is making you feel less well than you should. In my opinion, it must be some kind of animal.”
“You mean there is someone like you, like a tiger inside my head? I’m not a tank!”
“Of course not. Have a look at me. Think about the size of your head. Not even the tiniest tiger cub would fit in. It has to be a small animal.”
“OK, suppose you’re right, how do I get him out?”
“I guess the only way is to find out why he decided to nestle inside your head and then convince him to get out again. Talking to some animals - remember, small animals - might help you discover why a certain species could feel attracted to you. Now I’m going to have another nap. Like I said, I’m an old beast, I need my sleep.”
Kharlan rested his head on his paws again and closed his eyes, indicating the interview was over.

The bird cages were his first stop. A small animal attracted to him, that had to be an owl, the wisest of birds. At first sight, though, the owl was quite an impressive piece of living wisdom. He would never fit inside his head. Maybe a young owl?
“Hello, mister owl, sorry to disturb you.”
The owl did this awful trick of opening an eye that was clearly already open.
“How can I help you, young man?”
“I think there might be an owl inside my head. The tiger told me so.”
“Interesting. Very interesting. You’ve been to the doctor’s?”
“Yes, I have. But no, I did not tell him I thought I had an owl inside my head. That was before I met the tiger.”
“Lucky you,” chuckled the owl, “you would not have been walking around the Zoo if you had told him so. But tell me, why do you think it’s an owl? It’s not unheard of, humans having an animal inside their heads, but why an owl?”
“Well, I just felt, like, an owl is a very wise animal. I’m not dumb myself, false modesty apart, so I thought, maybe an owl chose me for intellectual companionship. A small owl, of course, a big one wouldn’t fit.”
“Knowing that he would make you feel not really well? That does not seem particularly wise to me, does it?”
He had M. there. Sensing another word would be superfluous, the owl closed his eye without closing it.

So M. had to look for a small, less scrupulous animal. The reptile park was right next to the bird cages. He knew snakes are pretty long, but they coil up, don’t they? He would not choose a boa constrictor, but maybe a viper?
“Hi there, viper, how you doing?”
“Look who’s talking. Not doing so well yourself, are you?”
“You might be right there. Anyhow, the tiger said there is this possibility of me having a viper inside my head.”
“Did he, now? And do you believe talking tigers?”
Tricky, he’d have to watch his back with this one. “Well, he did not exactly tell me it was a viper, but some kind of small animal.”
“And like always, it’s the viper they put the blame on. You, humans will never learn. Blame, blame, blame. Never a look into the inside, see if you yourself may be carrying some responsibility.”
“I have seen the owl before, but he made clear owls are much too compassionate to risk interfering with the well-being of somebody else.”
“Did you talk to some mice, recently? Anyway, why do you think a viper would even consider taking up refuge inside your head?”
“Well, I imagined, maybe, snakes being like very cunning and always ready to strike… I mean, me, too, I’m a bit that way, always awaiting the right opportunity. So, I thought, a viper might want to join forces.”
“And lock himself up inside your head, where it would take him an eternity to get out? Be reasonable, man. We’re no idiots.”
The viper recoiled on himself, leaving M. no alternative but to continue on his quest.

Which brought him to the darkened corridor with the desert animals. Working through the night if need arose. Always making the best of scarce resources. He did recognize himself. Not a coyote, of course. But maybe a gerbil?
“Hello, Mrs. gerbil. Hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“You do see I’m busy, don’t you? What do you want from me?”
“In fact, I’m trying to find out if I might have a gerbil inside my head.”
He did not know gerbils could laugh. Now he knew. M. hoped she would recover unharmed. After some final laughing fits, she squinted her eyes and looked into his.
“Are you serious? A gerbil? You do realize we’re not the most solitary species on earth, do you? Hey, husband, show up. And bring the kids.”
Before M. had the time to blink twice, about 25 gerbils were pressing their snouts to the thick glass partition.
“Imagine them running around in your poor head. Would give you kind of a headache, wouldn’t it?”

A spider, that’s it. One of these cruel little creatures patiently awaiting a prey to wander into their expertly hidden webs. A tarantula!
“Sorry, dude, we don’t do webs.”

A piranha, a humming bird, a tortoise, a falcon, a squirrel?
No, no, no, no, no!

M. was exhausted and hot. His wristwatch told him Zoo-closing time was approaching fast. The sun was slowly sinking, but still warm. He sat down on a bench on a small patch of grass, pulling his sweat-soaked T-shirt over his head. He was passed caring what people might think. He was still not feeling very well.

“You don’t look very blooming, sir.” A little, ugly thing at his feet. This one not locked away behind bars or partitions or parapets. It was a hedgehog.
“That, my dear friend, is an understatement. Though, maybe not. I guess I’m just a bit tired. And not feeling very well.”
“Ever thought about giving up your defenses?”
“What defenses?”
“I don’t know, you look all crisped up. Turning into yourself and showing your sharpest needles to the outside world. Like we, hedgehogs, do when we’re not one hundred percent sure all is safe.”
“You think so?”
“I can feel it. And, believe me, I’m an expert. You’re afraid to show your inner self to the world, to undertake actions if you can’t oversee all of the consequences, to run even the most insignificant of risks. And this gives you a constant nagging sense of not-feeling-so-well. Am I right?”

M. had to think this one over, but not for very long. What the heck? Why didn’t he speak up any more when he wanted to be heard? Why didn’t he sit down at his PC and start to write this book he’d been pondering over for ages? And if the world did not like it, he would write another one, and another one, and ...”

He felt tiny feet tripling over his neck, a soft belly caressing his bare shoulder, saw something hurry down his left arm. Then there were two hedgehogs looking up at him, just one heartbeat, and they were off into the undergrowth.
Suddenly he felt very well, indeed. He felt … free!

Late that night, back home, he told T. everything, as he always did.
“All this talking animals. Sounds like one of these childish fables we used to read at school when I was a little girl.” She looked relieved for him feeling better, but a bit worried, too, as if she suspected him of having taken one or two or three of these tiny purple pills on top of the prescribed dose, which he had not. “Anyhow, shouldn’t there be a Moral in the end, then?”
“Nah, I guess not,” M. wondered, “or maybe, there is one.”

“It’s the artist’s responsibility to balance mystical communication and the labor of creation.” Patti Smith, Just Kids

Last edited by Tau; 08-21-2015 at 01:22 PM..
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Old 08-26-2015, 02:43 AM
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Default the beyond where nature belongs

the cat run away
to the wild
for a while

although the bird said to stay
it may even let it play
it still did not
nature made of rays
to follow not dismay
the beyond
the essence
of any presence
is temptation pleasant
no cat with naissance
would dismiss
or lessen

and there it would
care for sure
make up pair
with good so to spare
forever may it let
it air
a lesson in
life is a pound
in sound
it reminds us
it is expensive a fine
so bear one
in mind

Last edited by Tau; 08-28-2015 at 02:15 PM..
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