The Boy Who Drew in the Mud and other parables Zachary Harper Published by Zachary Harper Smashwords Edition Copyright 2010 Zachary Harper Discover other titles by Zachary Harper at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/zeharper The Boy Who Drew In The Mud There once was a boy who drew in the mud. Now, this was quite an ordinary boy, and his drawings were of nothing in particular, and of no significant artistry. Nonetheless, the boy would, as often as he could escape from the various chores and homework everyone seemed to enjoy giving him, spend hours with a stick, or maybe just his fingers, or occasionally a carrot or bit of celery he had smuggled into his pocket to avoid eating, drawing and drawing in the big patch of mud on the edge of his backyard, near the garden his neighbor had. Now, this neighbor was quite an ordinary neighbor, and like all quite ordinary neighbors, was particularly nosy in matters he had no business being nosy in, and not nearly nosy enough in matters he well should have been nosy about. So this neighbor would watch the young boy drawing in the mud all afternoon long as the sky was starting to darken and the clouds were starting to build and blacken like a cloud of ash in a small room, and he would yell from his porch where he sat, “Boy! Why do you draw in the mud? It will just be washed away when the rain comes in, and you will be left with nothing!” But the boy would just look at him with those big brown child-eyes, give a half-hearted shrug, and return to his scribbling. And when the rain came, the boy would sit and watch as it washed away, and the neighbor would shout “Boy! What did I tell you! Now you must start from the beginning!” But the boy would just look at him with those big brown child-eyes, and give a big grin, and return to his watching. For as long as the neighbor could remember, this would happen every time it would rain. Yet never did the boy tire of the game; he would draw, and watch as it would wash away. And the neighbor thought, “This boy must be mad! There is no reason why he should so enjoy all his work and all his effort wasting away into the ground. Why, it is quite unnatural! Next time, I will go right up to the boy and drag him away from his mud, and I will explain to him exactly how these things should be done! With a pencil and clean sheet of paper, or maybe a scrap of charcoal from my fireplace! Yes, I will teach him how to draw properly, on proper things!” So the next time he walked out on his porch and saw the boy drawing in the mud, he marched his way to where the boy stood, puffed out his chest, and looked straight down his nose, saying “Boy! You come with me right now! This is quite unnatural. Let us go get a pencil and a clean sheet of paper, or maybe a scrap of charcoal from my fireplace, and I will teach you how to draw properly, on proper things!” But the boy just looked at him with those big brown child-eyes, and shook his head. The neighbor, being, like all ordinary neighbors, quite stubborn, stomped his little dress shoe on the grass and said, “You must be mad! There is no reason for you to enjoy all your work and effort wasting away into the ground!” But the boy just looked at him with those big brown child-eyes, and gave a big smile, and said, “Wait one moment.” The boy pointed down to the patch of mud where had been busy drawing an immense battle, with giants on one side with massive raised clubs, and knights on stick-horses with big pointed lances guarding little stick-princesses wearing pointy stick-hats. And a dragon with a long, curly neck was busy breathing fire on a bunch of little stick-peasants, while a bunch of stick-centaurs surrounded it from all sides, pointy bows and pointy arrows flying all about. As a big clap of thunder resounded about the yard, the neighbor said, “I am too late! This will be ruined, and you must start from the beginning!” Then it began to rain. The entire drawing seemed to stir to life as the water ran across it in sheets, and the trickles and streams of rain through the fluid mud breathed movement into all the figures. The knights were suddenly charging and the giants swinging their clubs down as the princesses swooned and fell to the floor. The dragons fire jetted about, and the peasants collapsed in terror, as the centaurs rode in circles, wildly shooting. Armies clashed and lovers met, and some men ran away like cowards, while others rode forth into death and fame. The scene swayed about, and, like a play, all the figures did their part. And the boy and the neighbor watched together, wordless, with big grins on their faces. The Gem There once was a man with little to love. Not that he was particularly lonely, mind you. Nor was he a bore. No, this man simply had not yet found something to set his heart and hopes aflame. For he was a picky man, and he knew your heart can only burn brightest once, and that if you let your hopes turn to ash, few men find a phoenix to rise from them. So he was a careful man, and he lived in careless times, for many men lost all that was most precious to them. So this man was a careful man. He once vacationed out on a mountain side, and though the wilderness pleased him, he vacationed there more because it made him miss the city then that the city made him miss the wilderness. He would watch a sunrise through the peaks and see the clouds roll across the deep valley like smoke from a thousand cannons, and he would smile and be content with his tiny home on a busy street. But one day, as he walked down a streambed lately dried when the clouds were empty and left too little water in this place and too much in another, he spied a beautiful gem amidst the soft dirt where once a dozen fish had made their homes. His eyes lit up and his soul stirred and stared, and he couldn't look away. He loved the gem, and it was good. The man took the gem home, and held it tight in his hand. When he was sad, he would feel it in his palm, and when he was happy he would roll it across his knuckles, and he wished to never lose it. As we said, he was a careful man, and he lived in careless times, and as he thought more and more about it, he became filled with a worry deep in his stomach, and it grew every day and terrified him, and soon he could only clench his gem hard in his fist, and never let go. Finally, he asked his neighbor, a good but careless man, what he could do to ease his worry. "Well, if you hold them gem in your hand, the ground could trip you and you could drop it. Or a man could shake your hand and steal it. Or you could fall asleep and lose it. Such things are common these days. Instead, you should keep it in your pocket, for then it would be safe, and you could ease your worry." So the man began to keep the gem in his pocket. When he was sad he would gently touch it, and when he was happy, he would roll it between his fingers, and he wished to never lose it. But after some time, he again began to worry, and always he was nervous and would sweat like it was summer, and his mind would never cease running to and fro like a small child, and soon he could only push his palm tight to his pocket, and never let go. Finally, he asked his professor, a good but careless man, what he could do to ease his worry. "Well, if you keep the gem in your pocket, a hole could form and you could drop it. Or a man could distract you and steal it. Or you could wash your pants and lose it. Such things are common these days. Indeed, you should buy a chain and keep it around your neck, for then it would be safe, and you could ease your worry." So the man bought a chain and kept it around his neck. When he was sad he would press it to his heart, and when he was happy it would beat against his chest, and he wished to never lose it. But after some time, he again began to worry, and always he was tense, and to leave his home would fill him with such terror that his muscles felt as if he had run a thousand miles, and soon all he could do was hold his hand hard to his neck and never let go. Finally, he asked his bishop, a good and careful man, what he could do to ease the worry. "Well, if you keep the gem on a chain, the rain could rust it and you could drop it. Or a man could rob you and steal it. Or you could forget to clasp it well and lose it. Such things are common these days. Indeed, you should swallow it, for then it would be safe, and you could ease your worry." "But bishop!" cried the man, "How will I be able to enjoy its beauty if I swallow it? How can I feel it when I am sad, and grasp it when I am happy? I wish to love it, not swallow it!" "Well," answered the bishop, "when you clenched it hard in your first, you were swallowing it. And when you pushed your palm tight to your pocket, you were swallowing it. And when you held your hand hard to your neck, you were swallowing it. You are right to say that you cannot love something you have swallowed, but if you do not swallow it, there is naught you can do to keep it safe from all things. Truly, one can only love something one can lose." So the man went home, and whenever he was grew terrified and grasped his gem too tightly, he remembered the bishops words, and loved it instead of swallowed it. And as he grew older, he worried less and less, for he loved it too much to lose it easily. The Star That Fell based on a story by five-year old Jenna Once upon a time, for all good stories begin as such, there was a cat, a dog, and a goose who all played together in the fields that sprawled out behind the village farms. The hills rolled and rumbled as far as their tiny eyes could see, and the cat would stretch out in the soft corn-husks while the dog bounded about digging up the black soil and the goose would flap his big wings and fly about as close to the ground as his courageous little heart would let him. One night, as the stars began to wink down at the village homes and the sun yawned and settled down in bed behind the distant mountains, the cat looked up into the fading sky and saw a single star straighten itself, take a step forward, and slowly fall into the fields where the cat daily lazed. Quite excited, the cat ran down the street to where the dog and goose were having themselves a late night drink, saying "Come with me! A star has become bored of the night sky and has fallen to our fields to play with us!" So the trio rushed out, down the dusty roads, past the little farmhouse with the leaky roof, through the thicket of wild weeds, and out into the field. In a patch of corn-husks that the cat had gathered together but a few hours earlier lay a bright little star, glowing as white as his brothers above, and as tiny as a rose-petal. The cat scooped it up in her paws, and the star was as cool as fresh mountain water. No, not like a witches brew, but cool and light and bright and beautiful as a diamond! And the dog said, "Friends! We should take the star and bury it in the black soil and grow a star-tree in this very field!" But the goose flapped his big wings and replied, "No! We should fly up to the sky and plug the star into its hole, lest the rest of the stars fall too!" The cat thought, and though she would love to grow a tree that bloomed stars, and though she didn't want all the other stars to fall as well and leave the night dark and terrifying, she said, "If this star has come such a long way, he must have a reason. No doubt someone called for him, and he fell, but was lost on his way down! Now someone is missing a star, and we should try and find them! Should we fail, then we may do what we will with this tiny gem, but let us first seek the stars owner." And because they were all three good at heart, they set out to find whoever had lost a star. They first went to the thicket of weeds and found the mole, for he had many holes where he kept many things, and perhaps he wanted a star to put in his collection. "Mr. Mole!" they cried, "Have you lost anything?" "Indeed I have," replied the mole, and the cat hurried forward, star in paw. "I have lost my glasses, and I cannot see! Have you perchance found them?" Sadly, the cat shook her head. "No, we have found only a star. But we will keep an eye out for your glasses, and will certainly bring them back if we see them." They then went to the little farmhouse with the leaky roof and found the horse, for he had a barn with two whole rooms where he kept many things, and perhaps he wanted a star to put in his collection. "Mr. Horse!" they cried, "Have you lost anything?" "Indeed I have," replied the horse, and the cat hurried forward, star in paw. "I have lost my shoes, and I cannot run! Have you perchance found them?" Sadly, the dog shook his ears. "No, we have found only a star. But we will keep an eye out for your shoes, and will certainly bring them back if we see them." They then went to the dusty road and found the squirrel, for he had many things in many places, and perhaps he wanted a star to put in his collection. "Mr. Squirrel!" they cried, "Have you lost anything?" "Indeed I have," replied the squirrel, and the cat hurried forward, star in paw. "I have lost my nutcracker, and I cannot eat! Have you perchance found it?" Sadly, the goose shook his long neck. "No, we have found only a star. But we will keep an eye out for your nutcracker, and will certainly bring it back if we see it." Unable to find who the star had been for, all three went with their heads down back towards the field where the lost star has landed. But as they passed the edge of the evergreen forest, a great dark something lumbered out into the road and let out a terrifying roar that would scare any of us who are not meant to be heroes. But the cat was brave, and the dog was brave, and the goose was hard of hearing and sight, and was also a little brave, and all three approached it. And by the light of the star in the cats paw, the great dark something was no more than a giant pumpkin-head with scary cut eyes and a jagged mouth. "Mr. Pumpkin!" they cried, "Have you lost anything?" "Indeed I have," replied the pumpkin, and the cat hurried forward, star in paw. "I have lost a star, and it cost me very much to buy it from the moon." Happily, all three friends rushed forward. "Here it is, Mr. Pumpkin! We found it in the field!" "So you have! It is so kind of you to bring it to me! I have found many things while looking for this star, and I have kept them in case I had to buy another star, but your kindness and braver have made it all unnecessary, so you may take all I have found!" The pumpkin pulled out the squirrel's nutcracker, and the horse's shoes, and the mole's glasses, and gave them to the dog to carry on his thick shoulders. And the pumpkin placed his star in his mouth and lit up as bright as the sun, and no longer looked dark and scary, but looked as any jack-o-lantern should! So they returned all the lost belongings, and the squirrel could eat, and the horse could run, and the mole could see again. Though the dog wished he had a star-tree, and though the goose always looked up afraid the sky was crumbling down, all three knew they had done the right thing, and any falling stars would safely find their owners as long as they were alive. The No-Boy a story for Jenna and Braden There once was a very naughty boy, and always his mother asked him to help around the house, or pull a few weeds from the garden, or chop some trees for the fire, and always the little boy said "No." But the mother loved him dearly, for her husband was off in a war, and she didn't want the little boy to become too sad, and so she would do much of the work. Now, the cottage where they lived was at the edge of a forest where many things live that we don't see often anymore. At their particular edge lived some very mischievous pixies, who liked nothing else than to play tricks on little boys when they were naughty. One day, as one of the pixies was pulling petals from the roses beneath the house and making hats for all his friends out of them, he heard the little boys mother talking. "Son! Winter is coming and the nights are getting cold, and we need firewood! Go and gather us some kindling so that we may stay warm, for I am too busy making dinner." But the little boy said "No" and refused to go outside, and instead stayed nice and warm in his little bed next to the window that he loved so dearly, for his bed was near to the fire. And though the flames would flicker and get very low, still he was warm and thought not about needing more kindling. Well, as night fell, and as the fire dimmed and the boys mother grew cold, the pixies called out to the Eastern Wind, and asked for a favor. So the Eastern Wind, who owed many favors to the pixies, came and blew hard into the window and down the chimney, and blew out the fire. The little boys mother called out, "Son! The Eastern Wind has put out our fire, did you gather the kindling?" And the little boy called out "No," and the mother grew stern. "You must go outside and gather kindling before it becomes too cold!" But before the little boy could don his jacket and boots, the pixies called out to the Western Wind, and asked for a favor. So the Western Wind, who owned many favors to the pixies, came and dropped much snow down onto the cottage, and the Eastern Wind blew it all about, so that no one could go outside without becoming very sick. Unable to get kindling, the mother knew that without a fire, they would surely freeze. So she looked about the house, and saw that only the little boys bed would serve to keep them warm for the storm, so she took her axe and chopped up the little boys bed. And though the little boy cried and cried and cried, and was forced to sleep on the floor next to the fire with nothing but a few blankets, the pixies rejoiced, for they knew that next time the little boy would surely help his mother out, if only to make sure he didn't lose something else that he loved so dearly. The Fable of the Pig, the Horse, and the Dog On a comfortable farm surrounded by acres of rolling hills and gently swaying trees, there lived a Pig, a Horse, and a Dog. The Dog guarded the farm, scaring off the wolves and the foxes that tried to steal into the pens in the dark of night; the Horse pulled the plows through the fields and the carts into town; the Pig ate and ate, in hopes of bringing a good price at market. Every morning, after the rooster was roused by the sun, the farmer would bring out their meals; the Dog would get a large bowl of diced lamb and carrots, the Horse a trough with sweet feed and hay, while the Pig would get a bucket of slop, filled to the brim. Now, one day, the Pig looked over at the Dogs bowl, and looked over at the Horses trough, and became jealous. “Why should they have such choice foods while I have only this slop?” So he began to plot. When a clever idea came to him, he called the Horse over. “Friend Horse, look at how wonderful the Dogs meal is. There is lamb, sweet and succulent, and carrots, which I know you have a tooth for. Every day he feasts on these, while you have only your grain and molasses and I nothing but my slop! Is it not unfair that we never get to taste such delicacies? Let us divide all of our food in three parts, and each share our food so that we do not tire of our mundane meals. You can share of the Dogs carrots, and I will take some the Lamb, and together we will grow strong!” So the Horse, who did indeed have a tooth for carrots, heartily agreed. The next morning, when the rooster greeted the sun and the farmer brought out the daily lunch, the Horse and the Pig approached the Dog and took his bowl, and each ate a portion of his food, and each left the Dog with a portion of theirs. But though the Pig could eat the lamb, and the Horse could eat the carrots, the Dog could not eat either the sweetened grains of the Horse, nor the dirty slop of the Pig. And as the days wore on, the Dog weakened, and eventually died. The next night, a Wolf crept into the farm, vicious and hungry, but the Dog was not there to alert the farmer. So the Wolf stalked into the Pigs cage and ate the Pig, and as he left, the Horse saw the Wolf and reared, so the Wolf bit the Horses leg before running off, full and satisfied. The next morning, the farmer saw the Horse could no longer work, for the bite was deep. His heart torn with sadness, the farmer took the Horse behind the barn and shot him. The Fable of the Young Turtle There once was a young turtle, his shell had just hardened and his mother, though prone to worrying, finally let him out to play with the rest of the animals. So the young turtle went first towards the trees, and in the branches sat a charm of tiny finches, singing their little hearts out. And the young turtle called out to them, “Little birds! Little birds! You sing so beautifully! Teach me how to sing!” But no matter how hard they tried, the finches could not teach the turtle to sing. The young turtle was sad, and when he left, the finches worried to each other, saying “How sweet is the young turtle, though he can’t sing. I hope he will visit us again.” The young turtle next went towards a pond, and on the lily pads were a knot of tiny frogs, jumping to and fro as high as they could. And the young turtle called out to them, “Little frogs! Little frogs! You jump so high! Teach me how to jump!” But no matter how hard they tried, the frogs could not teach the turtle to jump. The young turtle was sad, and when he left, the frogs worried to each other, saying “How sweet is the young turtle, though he can’t jump. I hope he will visit us again.” The young turtle next went towards a field, and in the grass ran a coterie of prairie dogs, digging and digging as fast as they could in the packed ground. And the young turtle called out to them, “Little dogs! Little dogs! You dig so fast! Teach me how to dig!” But no matter how hard they tried, the prairie dogs could not teach the turtle to dig in the packed ground. The young turtle was sad, and when he left, the prairie dogs worried to each other, saying “How sweet is the young turtle, though he can’t dig. I hope he will visit us again.” Home the young turtle went, face long and heart heavy, for he could do nothing the other animals could do. As he walked, he passed by an ancient, wizened tortoise who, though old and slow, knew much of what was happening in the forest. When he saw the young turtle walking so dejected, he called out “Young turtle! Young turtle! Why is your face long and your heart heavy?” The turtle replied, “I can not sing like the birds, nor jump like the frogs, nor dig like the dogs! I can do nothing but feel sorrow, so I will go home and never talk to the other animals again.” The old tortoise replied, “Early this morning, I saw a charm of finches fly by, and they were saying ‘How sweet is the young turtle, though he can’t sing. I hope he will visit us again.’ At noon, I saw a knot of frogs hop by, and they were saying ‘How sweet is the young turtle, though he can’t jump. I hope he will visit us again.’ This evening, I saw a coterie of prairie dogs walk by, and they were saying ‘How sweet is the young turtle, though he can’t dig. I hope he will visit us again.’ What need you to sing, when you have the love of the birds? What need you to jump, when you have the love of the frogs? What need you to dig, when you have the love of the dogs? Your talent is to love, and it is far greater to have love than to be able to do all the things you wish to do. If you could sing but cannot love, who would you sing to? If you could jump but cannot love, where would you jump to? If you could dig but cannot love, who would you dig with? Little turtle, little turtle, you have the greatest gift of all!” So the little turtle went home with a happy face and a light heart, and when he wished to hear a song, he went to the birds to play. And when he wished to see an acrobat, he went to the frogs to play. And when he wished to explore the earth, he went to the prairie dogs to play. The little turtle was never lonely, and grew to be as old and wizened as the ancient tortoise. The Fable of the Three Birds On the edge of a forest lived three birds: a songbird, a crow, and a mockingbird. Every morning, the songbird woke and flew to the highest branch in her tree to sing to the forest a most beautiful song – the joy of her tiny heart bubbled and fizzled and burst out through her beak, and the song would float along the wind and into the sky . But the crow, a nasty and spiteful beast, would daily land on her branch, and with the smell of carrion on his breath, lambasted the little songbird with jeers and biting words. “Who do you sing to, little bird? The wind? The sky? They hear you not, and they enjoy it not! How your little tweets and hoots are wasted on deaf ears, and how you do make such a fool of yourself to the forest!” And the mockingbird, a mis-shapen and dark-minded beast, would daily land on her branch and sing his own mocking song, but it had not the beauty or heart of the songbirds, and it’s song would fall flat to the forest floor. One day, a torrent raged upon the trees, and the branches were whipped to and fro, and the birds knew that it was only a matter of time before the tree they lived in was swept away. But the songbird worried not, and flew to the highest branch and sang, the wind crashing like waves on the tree, but her voice flying ever higher, and the rain couldn’t drown her melody out. The crow flew to her branch, and while the branch swung wildly, laughed a most hideous laugh, and said “Why sing such a beautiful song, poor wretch? Don’t you know this tree will be carried off, with us in it? This storm will end us, and no one will ever hear you sing again!” And the crow, with his chest puffed and his pride bursting, laughed and walked to the edge of the branch, where the wind picked him up and threw him off deep into the forest. And the mockingbird waddled his way to the songbird, and blasted his dissonant tune that fell even faster than the rain, stopping only to cackle at the songbird, until the wind picked him up and threw him after the crow. And as the storm grew stronger, so did the songbirds song, until she too was thrown into the forest. The next morning, the three birds, with their wings broken and nests scattered about, sat on the forest floor, yet still the songbird began to sing her most beautiful tune, and it was lifted up into the freshly cleaned forest, and seemed to wash it again with her soulful cry. And the crow grew hot with fury, yelling “What makes you sing, damned fool! Your wing is broke and nest is shattered, and there is still no one to hear you!” And the mockingbird sang his most mocking song, shaking the leaves and boiling the puddles, and the screeches burrowed into the ground like worms. But the songbird’s song was carried by the wind, and reached the ear of an elderly woman who walked the forest, and had often stopped to listen to the songbird. She knew the voice, and found the songbird with her broken wing and scattered nest, and scooped both up and brought them home. She mended the wing and rebuilt the nest in a light-fixture above her front door, and every morning the songbird would sing for the old woman, and every night the old woman would feed the songbird, and both pleased each other’s soul greatly. A Parable in Three Parts, with Lamentations Part One There once was a shepherd in a small village where wolves in wool and violent bears roamed freely. He was a faithful yet aloof man, and wanted nothing more then to bring as many sheep to pasture as he could. He thought, “If I buy as many sheep as I can and bring them to pasture, soon I will be able to buy even more sheep, and it will not matter if the wolves and bears take some of my flock, for I will be keeping even more safe!” So he bought more sheep, and expanded his flock. When the wolves snuck in with their sheep skins, he did nothing; and when the bears charged in with their vicious claws, he did nothing – for he knew that for every sheep he lost, he could simply buy two more. Part Two There once was a shepherd in a small village where wolves in wool and violent bears roamed freely. He was a meek but foolish man, and wanted nothing more then for the sheep to love him and follow him without need of staff or dog. He thought, “If I dress myself in wool and on my hands and knees lead them as if I am one of them, then they will love me and willingly follow me to safety!” So he wore thick wool, and on all fours baaed to them, and they loved him and followed him. When the wolves snuck in with their sheep skins, he could not see them; and when the bears charged in with their vicious claws, he could not see them – for his eyes were on the sheep who loved him, and he could not see far enough to keep them safe. Part Three There once was a shepherd in a small village where wolves in sheepskins and violent bears roamed freely. He was a faithful and meek man, but he was warmhearted and wise, and wanted nothing more then to keep his sheep safe from harm. He thought, “If I learn to know my sheep by sight and sound, and if I stay alert and have my sling always in my hand, than I will know when the wolves slink into my flock, and I will easily scare off the savage bears before they can cause harm!” So he tended his flock closely, and stayed on guard for danger, with sling and stone always in hand. When the wolves snuck in with their sheep skins, he knew, and chased them away; and when the bears charged in with their vicious claws, he saw them from afar, and quickly shot stones to keep them at bay – for he loved his sheep, and until his death he protected them from all danger. Lamentations Oh! fallen shepherds Who do you protect? To where do you lead? You, who are more like Wolves than Lions! You, who are more like Thieves than Princes! Why do you seek treasures soon to be rotten? Why do you seek love in mouths of such men? Gone are the Davids, with crook and sling. Lost are the Jacobs, their time is waning. Broken is Moses’ staff, tossed to the sea, The flock scattered and beat, Treated with ‘force and severity.’ Oh! forgotten Ezekiel Your words echo alone! Your chariot not to be flown! Mend these broken pastures, raise your dead. Gather these lost sheep and feed them your bread. Bring us those days, the temple restored, When shepherds will guide, their sheep each adored! A Parable in Two Parts Part One In a small village, there lived two men who, the previous season, had each bought nearly identical fields directly across the road from each other. Both swaths of land were the same size, touching the same river, and got the same rain and sun. The farmers both spent days and weeks tilling and planting and waiting for their crops to finally pierce the ground and reach out for the sky. And when they finally did, and they could wade through their seas of wheat, the first farmer noticed a strange dissonance in the farms – the second farmer had managed to grow twice the wheat he had. ‘Now’, the first farmer thought, ‘I have the same land as he, the same acreage, on the same river, catching the same rain. And I was never lazy; I got up in the morning to do the same work at the same time, we both equally sweat and bled under the bright, bright sun. Yet his field has grown double of mine.’ This farmer, so unjustfully treated, went before a judge and asked for their wheat to be added together and split, so that both received the same amount of grain for the same amount of sweat. ‘Your Honor,’ the first farmer began, ‘I am no sloth, and I have done my best, but no matter the work I have put into the ground, nature has thwarted my way. It is my right to be given a fair years wage for a fair years work, and since I, no stranger to toil, did spend as much time as my neighbor in the dirt and mud, we should end up with same reward. Punish me not for the mysteries of nature, all I ask for is the justice of fairness.’ The judge, who could find no fault in such an argument, took their wheat and combined them, and split it in half to distribute to the both of them. But the next year, when the work began, the second farmer remembered this lesson, and when it came time to plant, he planted half as much. And when, at the end of the year, the neighbor noticed that half the field lay fallow, he went before the judge. ‘Your Honor,’ the first farmer fumed, ‘my neighbor has left half his land empty, for nature has made his path easy. He has done half the work that I have done, he has sweat half the sweat, and he has bled half the blood, yet he has reaped the same crops as me. It is my right to be given a fair years wage for a fair years work, and since I, no stranger to toil, did spend twice as much time as my neighbor in the dirt and mud, why should we end up with the same reward? Punish me not for the mysteries of nature, all I ask for is the justice of fairness.’ The judge, who could find no fault in such an argument, took the fallow lands and gave them to the first farmer, so that all would be fair. Part Two In a small village, there lived two brothers who, years before, had each been born on the same day from the same womb, twins from conception. Both boys were of the same size, of the same family, and got the same teachings and beatings. The brothers both worked the fields for their neighbor and spent weeks working, lifting and running and pushing and pulling. But any who watched would notice a strange dissonance in the twins – the second brother could lift more, run faster, push further, and pull harder, and was paid more than the first. ‘Now’, the first brother thought, ‘I have the same blood as he, the same mother, and the same teachings and beatings. And I am never lazy – I lift and run and push and pull as hard as I my muscles allow, and sweat and bleed under the bright, bright sun. Yet he is stronger and faster, and his work is worth double of mine.’ So this brother, so unjustfully treated, went before a judge and asked for the pay to be added together and split, so that both received the same amount of pay for the same amount of sweat. ‘Your Honor,’ the first brother began, ‘I am no sloth, and I have done my best, but no matter the work I can do, nature has thwarted my way. It is my right to be given a fair years wage for a fair years work, and since I, no stranger to toil, did spend as much time as my brother in the dirt and mud, we should end up with the same reward. Punish me not for the mysteries of nature, all I ask for is the justice of fairness.’ The judge, who could find no fault in such an argument, took their pay and combined them, and split it in half to distribute to the both of them. But the next year, when the work began, the second brother remembered this lesson, and when it came time to lift, he lifted half as much; and when it came time to run, he ran half as fast; and when it came time to push, he pushed half as far; and when it came time to pull, he pulled half as hard… For the Child at Heart, on a Rainy Day When the rain fell, the sky split sending half itself down, found the ground and fit into puddles and pits. The moon shattered, now a thousand little discs, that dropped and pitter-pattered, in a thousand places scattered. Look! the clouds flee and where once was water now, there, heavens be! In each one, the moon’s children smile, haloed in stars, creation now an ethereal tile decorating the streets with empyrean style! Children! remember! remove your shoes, for where heaven has fallen, God’s love does effuse. For moon and stars were first a gift to tired-eyed angels in the firmament, so whenever the sky does lovingly rift your toes must show ever so swift. When the moon finally gathers her children and marshals them off as a squadron and the sky turns ‘to a fire-red cauldron and the sun peeks over the grassy fence and the waters begin to rinse the air with a scattered fog, rejoice! and remember your muddy footprints will float like a soothing incense to God’s own throne. Minnow The water slowly leaked out and away back to its home back from where it came leaving behind a puddle small in size a miniature lake where the pond had overflowed with the rain. A small minnow was left behind, he’d been carried along with the water stolen from his home in the pond away from his school to this foreign hole in the ground. As the hours passed and the sun rose the puddle began to evaporate with the minnow inside slowly watching his fate. Patiently he waited for the moment when he’d be half in and half not like a fish out of- well, you know. Then the sun was blotted, heat subsided, as a face of a small boy, chubby and smiling replaced the clouds in heaven’s lining. Now the minnow waited to be squashed as little boys were prone to do to the helpeless brother fishes who washed up on shore. The hands closed in, grabbed our minnow friend, and pulled him out of the water, to seal his fate and end his story. As minnow contemplated whether a minnow heaven existed or not, something strange happened when he was dropped. So now, minnow must slowly bake if he survived the fall, oh, woe to the little fish. But it wasn’t ground rushing to his tiny head, he hit water, the lake, instead. His savior had come, in the form of a little boy, waving from the shore with the same chubby smile. You never know which little boys squish fish and which ones save them. The Little Toy The little toy lay on the ground where he fell When the door had shut a little too fast And jarred the table, shook the room, Sending the poor little toy to his doom. Shattered, broken, beaten and bruised, The fall had left him in pieces, in parts, His left leg sliding across the floor, His right arm crumpled up by the door, His left hand barely hanging on, While his head was scratched, the paint nearly gone. What would the little boy think, what would he do, When he came home to find his favorite toy fallen, split in two? Would he cry and hold his parts up high? Would he throw his remains towards the bright blue sky? Would he grow angry, bury him far underground? Would he sullenly walk away without a sound? How could the boy love a toy no longer fit To be all he had in his expansive mind? A policeman, a cowboy, an astronaut, Courageous, romantic, humble and kind? Where once his limbs had been strong as stone, The years had wearied him down past the bone, The burden of life had grown and grown, And now, now he would be ever alone. The door creaked open, there was the patter of feet, And the sound of a young boys cry of defeat As he saw his favorite toy scattered about; “What had happened to the toy once so stout?” But the little boys father leaned over his son And soothed the child, calmed the storm, Gathered the legs, the arms, the head, While the little toy thought, “Surely, I am dead.” The son watched with tear stained cheeks As the father placed the pieces together so neat, And with a tiny tool and steady hands Put the little toy all together again. Triumphant, the son lifted the little toy For what the fall had broken his father had fixed, And what had split apart, now was even stronger stitched; Thus, the little boy loved even more The little toy that had fallen to the floor. The Beast Their cries from distant shores resound as the fathers called from yonder rougher ground “Sons! Leave your beach, cross the river, brave the waves! Lest the beast lay you in an early grave.” Alas, their fears fell on muted ears; instead the sons, with all their wood, built simple spears, bared them bravely, beat their breasts, staying far away from the waves deadly crests. “The shores of our fathers are not for us, their beaches barren, their forests fruitless. See how the colors are dull and dreary. See how the crossing made our fathers weary. What danger waits that we cannot combat? Our weapons sharp, ready to attack. Courage and bravery we do not lack.” But, at heart, the sons shook with trepidation, always anxious at the rivers constant motion; they saw men carried by its charging current to the infinite beyond, to the endless ocean. So the sons stayed on their bounteous beaches, willing to brave the beast they had never seen, but scared of the river which flowed within their very reach ’till came the day the foreboding fathers had foreseen. Their cries from distant shores resound, as the beast knocked their prideful weapons to the ground, and no son escaped, for they had built neither boat nor oar, as their fathers watched, mournfully, from the safer shore. The Six Young Sailors Under the moon, on deck they stood, saying “For change! For progress! For the greater good!” - For two long years the schooner hopped, like a bullfrog between lily pads, from island to island carrying crops ‘tween Turner Cay and Trinidad. Ne’er before had the Captain led to bad port or dangered reef, keeping stocked with rum and bread keeping trips easy and brief. But to-day, the winds had suddenly turned and becalmed the ship in open water; Oh! how the crews face did darken though they still feared the Flogger. Six young sailors gathered ’round at night as the moon shone brightly down, and the sail covered her face like a silken shroud as if she wished to hide her frown. In the dark, on deck they stood, saying “For change! For progress! For the greater good!” - “The Captain brought us to this fate, his methods have long been out of date. All but his officers he most certainly hates, the Captain has led us to this fate.” “The Navigator is his right-hand man, he is the one who writ this plan - he knew the globe would stop her fan! The Navigator is his right hand man.” “The Quartermaster has late been rather stingy - drinking with the nobles and acting fishy. He wishes not for it to be breezy, the Quartermaster has late been rather stingy.” “The Flogger has gained from our plight, he flogged ten people just last night! He’s no sailor, that’s quite right. The Flogger has gained from our plight.” Having chose who were at fault, the six young sailors planned revolt, the next night they would strike as blindly as a lightning bolt. In the shadows, on deck they stood saying “For change! For progress! For the greater good!” - When the moon returned and hid her eyes behind the mast and crossing ropes, the six young sailors called upon all the crew who’d lost their hope. “Come friends! Come friends! Listen here! The Captain has sold us all, though for what is unclear.” “He and the Navigator did plan the route, He and the Quartermaster do nightly flout, He and the Flogger with glee do clout, The four of them all have sold us out!” “To arms! To arms! It is not mutiny if they deserve all the harm when we beat them bloody!” The boys did cheer and praise the six for finding the cause of their predicament, grabbing bats and bars and guns, a little revolution did foment. Amidst the crowd, on deck they stood, saying “For change! For progress! For the greater good!” - They bagged the Captain first of all and hauled him before their fellowship, charged him with lying through his teeth ’bout the reason for this curs-ed trip. “Did your business pals back on land promise, at exorbitant price, to buy if you would take this dangerous path though all us poor sailors die?” “No! No!” the Captain cried, “We’ve actually been this way before, sometimes the sea is cruel and harsh and strands you far, far offshore!” “Off the gangplank!” said the sailors, ignoring all his desperate pleas - and with cannonball attached to foot sank the Captain into the sea. - Next was the Navigator, they caught him ‘midst trying to trace the path they took on one of the hundreds of detailed maps in one of the hundreds of dusty books. “How kind of you to trace this path into motionlessness. I’d bet the Captain paid you well to sacrifice us to richness!” “No! No!” the Navigator cried, “I don’t control the weather! I get paid exact the same whether stopped or floating like a feather!” “Off the gangplank!” said the sailors, ignoring all his desperate pleas - and with cannonball attached to foot sank the Navigator into the sea. - The poor Quartermaster was grabbed while sorting through all the rations - though the last two had been higher-up, hoarding food stirs higher passions. “We’ve seen you bringing all the best of wine and rum and bread and fish to the Captain’s quarters every day while leaving the rest of us to famish!” “No! No!” the Quartermaster cried, “I’m only showing which food got wetter! I’ve eaten the same portion as you - and the Captain only little better!” “Off the gangplank!” said the sailors, ignoring all his desperate pleas - and with cannonball attached to foot sank the Quartermaster into the sea. - By now the crowd was quite unruly, and the Flogger got the worse of it - for each man he’d flogged for flagging, thrice did he get whipped. “Oh, Taskmaster! Did the Captain give promises of name and fame if you beat all us blind in order to keep our class tame?” “No! No!” the Flogger cried, “I only do the job I’m told! I’ve never even met the Captain! I’ve never seen an ounce of gold!” “Off the gangplank!’ said the sailors, ignoring all his desperate pleas - and with cannonball attached to foot sank the Flogger into the sea. - “We’ve won! We’ve won! Their dastardly plans are foiled! For change! For progress! For the greater good we’ve toiled!” - Carrying the smell of newer places the winds picked up quite suddenly! The casks of rum were broken open, a cry was raised of victory! “Who will be our new Captain? Who will lead us home? Who will be our Navigator to guide us through the breaking foam?” But none of the sailors really knew what the Captain did really do; none of the maps in the Navigators room could give them a single clue. - All of the crew began to mutter about how they wanted more butter, so they took to the Quartermaster’s clutter and on their bread put more butter. “This can’t be allowed! We’ll run dry! We need a new Flogger to protect the supply!” But none were as strong as the one they drowned, and of the six young sailors no Flogger was found. - So six younger sailors gathered round at night as the moon shone brightly down and the sail covered her face like a silken shroud as if she wished to hide her frown. In the dark, on deck they stood, saying “For change! For progress! For the greater good!” - Six months later, by chance one day, crashed on a reef the ship was found - filled with corpses, starved or shot, but a few short miles from the ground. Scrawled on the deck, carved in the wood was a saying: “For change! For progress! For the greater good!” Father The little boy sat on a mound of grass with mud on his feet and more beneath his fingers. He wanted to turn sticks into guns, yards into countries, and pets into beasts. There were games to play, dames to save, dragons to slay, shirts to fray, but no one was around, so he sat on his mound. His father drove by, off of work, it had been far too long of day. He wanted to lay down, kiss his wife, turn on the television, and goto sleep. Yet he saw his boy, not slaying dragons or saving dames or fraying shirts so he parked the car, closed the garage, and grabbed a stick, turned it into a gun, ambushed his son, played until his little boy was done then went and finished his night. Brick He tried to breathe fire into stone, but ended up with burnt hands, and just a brick. He was still obstinate, obsessed with his design, a god to be praised, a god with whom you could drink wine. He showed it to his friends, they would understand, that a god you've built is better then one you cant. So brick turned to deity, and years passed, until all was forgotten, when time had erased the past. A builder was looking, to patch up his home, stumbled upon a brick that, unbeknownst to him, had once sat on a throne. It was placed under a window, to keep out the wind, a role it preferred far more then to be a god again. Flowers Turned Grey The vase of flowers had already withered and browned, far away from the ground where they had been picked. Thinking of home, instead of porcelain surroundings they displayed only inklings of the beauty they had once shown. They used to be the bright spot in an otherwise crowded street, decorations near peoples feet when someone snapped an impromptu picture. now, only to serve, as one old mans joy in the morn’ and to feel the unending scorn of those who didn’t understand their history. For the old man had picked them when he was but a boy as a last minute ploy to impress his only beloved. He had no ring to give, only the words and a bouquet as well as the short time he had spent to pray that she would say yes even in poverty. Which she did. Now, as they were faded far past gray, it reminded him of she who had long since passed away, things so ugly, yet pearls in his eyes, the only part of his love that did stay. if even in shadowed memories. So, while that vase was ridiculed by strangers in his home, the old man would smile, and although still alone, he knew that even dead flowers can be beautiful as long as you know where they’ve been. The Search “What is your name?” he shouted to the wind, and when the wind moved, he heard ‘god’, so spent his life following the breezes, homeless and unsatisfied. But his son, tired of the movement, chose anew. “What is your name?” he shouted to the forest, and when the birds flew out, he heard ‘god’, so spent his life amid the trees, homeless and unsatisfied. But his son, tired of leaves and soil, chose anew. “What is your name?” he shouted to a woman, and in her breathing he heard ‘god’, so spent his life chasing her pleasure, homeless and unsatisfied. But his son, tired of skin and heavy breaths, chose anew. “What is your name?” he shouted to a book, and amids its pages he read ‘god’, so spent his life in libraries, homeless and unsatisfied. But his son, tired of dust and worthless wisdom, chose anew. “Where are you?” he shouted to God, and God smiled, delighted to finally be worth more than the wind, than the forest, than a woman, than a book, and so He gave the boy a home, and the boy was satisfied. Zachary Harper attended the University of Iowa, receiving degrees in Classical Chinese and Linguistics. Having studied Greek, Hebrew, and Chinese, he immersed himself in the faery tales and folk lore that fired the imaginations of the great early writers and served as the foundation of literature for thousands of years. Now he, too, draws from the well of the muses, writing parables and fables meant to both educate and entertain, hoping for nothing more than to inspire conversation on the ideas too complex to fit into anything other than simple stories. For more works by Zachary, see http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/zeharper.