Steve Shilstone's Blog, page 16

ANOTHER GOAT FABLE – THE PAMPERED GOAT

The pampered goat dismissed the butler, all six footmen, her personal servant, and both parlor maids with a wave of her hoof. The help withdrew, bowing, from the palatial dining room. The pampered goat studied her reflection in the great mirror on the gilded wall, noting with satisfaction the fiery gleam of her ruby necklace.

She moved with stately grace from the dining room and ascended the curving marble staircase. She advanced down the long hallway to the nursery. Opening the door, she announced, ‘All right, children. No more dillydallying. Be seated, and take up your pens.’

Moral: A pampered goat can nevertheless be a nanny.

THE FAKE COW AND THE COBRA

Made of leather, the fake cow found it hard to fake sincerity. So one day when her friend, the cobra, loomed up from the basket and said, “Are my eyes really, really scary?”, the fake cow knew the cobra was fishing for a compliment.

“Oh, yeah, really scary. I’m, like, totally scared,” answered the fake cow, not realizing how snotty and fake she sounded.

The cobra, lashed to fury, struck. The cow, however, being fake, suffered not the least little bit at all, and truth to tell, added to the cobra’s frustration by saying, “Oh, now I’m in for it. I guess I’m dead. I should lie down. Right? (yawn)”

Moral: When your best friend is a fake cow, twitching syndrome is always close at hand.

THE GOAT AND THE GOATHERD

The goat flew to the top of the tallest tree and perched there.

“Here now, come down this instant! You can’t fly!” shouted the goatherd, flinging his hat to the ground.

“I can’t?” said the goat.

“Of course not. You have no wings!” screamed the goatherd, dancing about as if he had a thousand bees in his pants.

“I don’t?” said the goat.

“And you can’t talk either!” shrieked the goatherd, tearing at his hair.

“According to you, I can’t fly and have no wings and can’t talk. Fancy that,” said the goat.

That said, the goat sailed off into the sky, leaving behind one seriously disturbed goatherd.

Moral: Before you count your chickens, make sure they aren’t flying goats.

THE AMAZING MARSHMALLOW

The miniature marshmallow, middle row, third from the left, was stuck on the roof of a gingerbread house.

“This isn’t fair. I don’t want to be a decoration. I want to melt in hot cocoa and be sipped!” she complained.

“Well, tough. You’re a decoration. Deal with it. We won second prize, didn’t we? You should be proud,” commented the miniature marshmallow’s neighbor.

“Proud? Poff! I have to sit here and turn to stone practically. Hmmphh!” pouted the dissatisfied marshmallow.

“There’s not a thing you can do about it, so why don’t you button your lip,” snarled the red M&M doorknob from below.

“Oh, yeah? Watch me,” retorted the by now really most quite violently angry marshmallow.

She tore herself from the roofline, rolled the slope, dropped to the floor, expanded, sprouted arms and legs, was magically clothed in a fine silk suit, stalked from the premises and was later the first female marshmallow ever to be elected President of the United States of America.

Moral: Never underestimate a determined marshmallow.

THE CREEK AND THE WEASEL – A FABLE

The creek was sick and tired of tumbling down the same old gully day after day after year after decade. Oh, it supposed it was pleasant enough to swell and rush during storms. It didn’t really mind so awfully very much when the bushes bloomed yellow in summer and grew fat red berries in the fall and were frosted white in winter. The trees, though, no doubt about it, were boring, ever green, ever standing there mute.

“Hey!” the creek called to creatures splashing through it or drinking from it. “Hey, what’s over the hill?”

The bobcat and the puma paid it no heed. The deer ignored it. Chipmunks laughed at it. Squirrels were too frantic to notice it. Was the creek discouraged? Not at all. It tumbled and babbled without letup, especially where it fell a bit over some rocks.

“Hey,” it burbled. “Hey, you!”

A bluejay drank and flew off.

“You! You with the antlers!”

A stag drank, waded, trotted up and over the hill.

And so it went, season on season, year on year, until one summer day, when the creek was trickling thinly along, a slinky thirsty weasel scrambled to its bank.

“Hey! You! Skinny! What’s over the hill?” bubbled the creek.

The weasel jumped with a writhing slither and stretched its triangle head with its black bead eyes to stare at the creek.

“Who said that?” whispered the weasel.

“Me. What’s on the other side of the hill?” fussed the impatient creek.

The weasel pondered. It sipped and thought. It sat. It sipped. Then it smiled and spun tales about the wonders of floating castles and flying snakes, of flower rainbows splashing in crystal blue lakes, of all the marvels and more that were to be seen on the other side of the hill. Having exhausted its imagination, the weasel announced that it had an appointment to swim in the purple amethyst river with magic clouds and that it mustn’t be late. It jumped jaunty up the hill, looked back down at the creek, waved and went over.

“That does it. I’m leaving!” said the determined creek.

And it did. It cut its way through and under the hill quickly in 400 years. And when it oozed and broke through on the other side, the first thing it said was, “Liar.”

Moral: Never trust a thirsty weasel or any other sort of weasel.

THE ANGULAR SOCK

While the other socks clumped together and gossiped in the hamper, the angular sock eased under a pillowcase and brooded. No one liked her, not even her partner. The angular sock clearly heard her partner jabbering and complaining to the others about the angular sock’s shortcomings. Her stripes were flawed. Her heel had that awful angle and that clumsy ridge. She had two ridiculous threads hanging loose from her cuff. On and on they gabbed. Her partner told how Hetty, their cruel and forgetful mistress, had flung the angular sock against the wall before flouncing from the room and slamming the door. Oh, how the socks laughed.

“They’ll be sorry,” muttered the angular sock.

For you see, she planned to escape to the land of lost socks. She had heard the legend of a magical place found somewhere beyond the washer and the dryer, and she yearned to go there. All through the thrilling swim and dizzying spin in the washer, she kept silent and searched without success for some way to escape, some secret opening to the land of lost socks. Meanwhile, the other socks laughed and frolicked, playing tumble games with the underwear and flipping up to see which one could cling and remain in place up the highest on the washer wall. When the giggling mound of underwear and socks was at last lifted from the washer and deposited in the dryer, the angular sock remained alert and sober, ready to scan the dryer for a way out to freedom. She hadn’t found an exit from the washer. That means it simply must be in the dryer, she thought. She told herself it was impossible that she had missed it. Metallic click, hum and roll, comforting heat spread over, around and through the happily tumbling socks and underwear. The angular sock barely felt the heat. She barely noticed herself tumbling. She was much too busy searching, searching, searching. Oh, there. What was that? What did she see? The angular sock leaped with hope at a nearly invisible slot high up at the back of the turning cylinder. She hooked on, hanging. She strained. She pushed. She struggled to squeeze through.

SUCCESS! Blue skies! Rolling hills! Grassy meadows! Romping socks, hundreds of them, giggling and skipping, approached. The angular sock stood her ground, thrilled but uncertain. Would they accept her? After all, she had flawed stripes, dangling threads, and a bad angle. She waited, and yes, they welcomed her! Each and every one of them! Ripped, threadbare, with holes or whole, they welcomed her! And she heeled and toed and joined the romp across the meadows and over the hills in the land of lost socks!

Moral: Follow your dreams even if you are angular.

THE 8 OF DIAMONDS

“I’ve decided to leave the deck,” announced the 8 of diamonds one evening in 1872. She slammed her fist on the diamond dinner table. Everybody looked at her.

“I want to become a bookmark,” she continued, spilling words quickly so as not to be interrupted. “The people leave their books lying around open on their faces all the time. It’s criminal! Poor books. Their spines will be ruined.”

Everybody looked at her.

“A very noble thought, my dear,” said the Q calmly, adjusting her glittering diamond bracelets, “but surely, they’ll return you to the deck when they discover you in one of their books.”

“Oh, not here!” said the 8, enthused. “Somewhere … else.”

“Oh, that narrows it down,” smirked the J.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” reasoned the 8.

The K sighed and said, “Now, now, let’s have no fuss. 8 wants to be a bookmark. Nothing wrong with that. JOKER can fill in for her. I say go, my dear, if you must.”

Everybody fluttered in amazement. 8 jumped up and hugged the K. The J twisted jealously in his seat. All the little numbers, 5 and under, squealed with excitement. 6 and 7 leaned together, wide-eyed, whispering. The A was sent to summon the JOKER. 9 and 10 embraced 8 and wished her luck.

“Be off, then,” said the Q in a strangled voice. Diamond tears ran down her face.

“It’s for the best,” said the K, patting the Q’s hand.

“She was always your favorite,” sobbed the Q without adding, “Mine, too.”

The 8 fairly flew down the street after slipping out under the door. She peered in window after window until she saw a book lying opened and face down on the marble mantel of a fireplace. In a flash she was under the door, onto the mantel and slipping beneath, up and into the book, slamming it closed.

“Oh, thank you ever so much, miss,” said the book, which happened to be Oliver Twist.

“My pleasure,” said the 8, supremely pleased.

And she was the finest bookmark ever from that day forward.

THE TULIP ROYAL FAMILY ON AN OUTING

THE SKELETON TREE

Don’t approach the skeleton tree

ever never at all

if you hope to live another day

and hang out at the mall

THE STRAWBERRY STEW LIMERICK

There once was a man from Kazoo

who fell into a strawberry stew.

He said, ‘This is no joke-a’

while the band played a polka

and the man kicked the stew all askew.