Leo The Leaf | Birth | First Corn
The Noisy Boodle | The Puffalump | To Be King | The Brave Peacock | The King’s Grail | The Shape Game | The Unborn Twins | The Sunset Story
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Once upon a time there was a leaf. It wasn’t a regular leaf because it could talk think feel see smell and tast. leo was happy he was alive for Spring summer and a month of fall.
one day a strange feeling went throu him he wasn’t dark green any more he was yellow then after another month he turned red then orang. It was very cold so he went to sleep when he woke up he wasnt on his tree the wind blew him away
the wind blew and blew and blew
the wind blew so mutch it blew him around the world back to his tree
leo turnd back to the color dark green. The end.
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First there is only a presence. The presence grows, identity crystallizes, curiosity, then after a few more steady moments, the cool wind on his cheeks, and the rain.
Cold drops slide down new angled contours. Soft skin breathes water and air, and for the first time he hears the trees and the pattering around him. Twigs, decaying leaves beneath his feet feel fresh feel potent. A cold surge through his ankles, his calves, to his thighs and groin, and he opens his eyes.
Trunks sturdy against a blue and black morn. He raises his head to the spindled net of naked branches and the sky. Air pours into his lungs, through his limbs. He watches his hand clench, straighten, pivot.
He breathes again and it is now familiar to him. He feels warm, and now warmer. He takes a step, another, then another and listens to the splash, its precision then resolution. He swings round. The forest remains in the shower of rain.
He feels very warm and tastes the metallic grit of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Droplets blink his wide open eyes, his pace quickens, he smiles.
His steps lift from the ground. He watches the perspective change with his movement. He runs. Now he sprints through bogs, over logs and stumps.
A new man is born into the world.
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He feels the contrast of his body warm beneath the covers to his nose and cheeks exposed. The morning light casts four blue rectangles onto the wooden floorboards then suspends the room in shadow. He watches his breath disappear in the space above. He knows his wife is still asleep and doesn’t turn to check. He doesn’t need to check on things anymore.
He places his feet on the floor. Cold shoots up his heels and calves, into the back of his thighs. Carefully he steps out the door, closes it, then walks down the hall to his son’s room. He turns the brass handle. As the door opens the hinges creak. He must remember to oil them.
“Hey Dad! You ready to go?” Joshua sits on his chair tying the first of his shoes.
“Shh. You’re mother’s still sleeping. I’ll see you downstairs.” Smiling the man closes the door then travels back to his room, his pace a little faster this time.
The man flips the bacon. It sizzles anew as steam rises up then out over the ceiling of the white kitchen.
“Dad, if I pick the best husks can we use them for Thanksgiving? I’m gonna pick the best husks out of all of them.”
“Of course, son. But they’ll have to be very good ones.” The boy holds the fork and knife tall against the table, his legs swing under the chair.
“They’ll be the best of the crop. I know how to find the best husks.” says the boy. The man watches the strips brown and curl. He remembers when he’d have to break each apart for Joshua when Joshua sat in his wooden highchair with the heart shape carved out of the back. He wonders if he would think of such a detail if he were a carpenter of highchairs.
He turns off the stove, places the pancakes on the plates, slides the eggs and bacon along side. He places a plate in front of Joshua, then sits down.
“Dad, you forgot to heat the syrup again! What kind of hotcakes have cold syrup on them?”
“Sorry, son. It slips my mind.”
“Well I don’t know what kind of hotcakes have cold syrup.” The pancakes are good though, fluffy and not burnt. He has never thought himself to be a good cook, but this meal was made well. The yolks hadn’t broken and the bacon remained chewy.
“You like the bacon?” the man asks.
“Yea, the bacon’s real good, but the syrup’s freezing.”
“Did you wear your thermals?”
“Yep, look.” The boy jerks the sleeve of his flannel then unfastens the button. He rolls back the cuff and pulls down the textured undershirt. “See, here it is. I figured it was gonna be cold this morning.”
“There are no clouds in the sky. We have a nice day ahead of us.”
“Yea, I would have hated it if it rained. Then we couldn’t go at all.”
“There won’t be any rain today.” A beam of orange light pierces the milk bottle spreading red, blue, and green streaks to the tablecloth, and cracked paint of the cubbard below.
“Dad, the other day in school Mrs. Wolcott told us that America was only two-hundred years old. But if America is only two-hundred years old, what was here two-hundred and one years ago? Was the dinosaurs here then?”
“America was founded when the English colonists signed the Declaration of Independence a little over two-hundred years ago. Before that this land belonged to England, and before that it belonged to the Indians. Dinosaurs haven’t been here for millions of years.”
“But what did The Declaration of Independence have to do with it? America was still here before people knew about The Declaration of Independence.”
“This land has been here forever, but it wasn’t named The United States of America until 1776 when the colonists decided they wanted independence from England. Before that it was just an uncharted continent called North America.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“Is Grandpa two-hundred years old?”
“He’s about seventy.”
“I wonder what America will be called when I’m seventy. Maybe it will be called North America again.” The man scoops up the last bits of yolk. He begins to feel the nourishment in his hands.
“So you ready to shuck some corn?” the man asks.
“You bet!” The man stands and carries his plate to the sink. The boy hops off the chair, lifts his plate to the wastebasket and scrapes off the remains of the pancakes. He pulls his coat off the rack and burrows his arms through the sleeves then zips it to the top. The man puts on his wool vest and the two exit the house.
The air feels cold and moist on the man’s face and in his lungs. He looks over the land to the dirt road and the pines beyond. They step from the shadow of the house into the sun. Nothing feels like the first morning sunlight, and for a long time he used to smile when it greeted him. His breath begins chapping his lips. The gravel of the driveway grinds under his paces, falling in and out of sync with the lighter, faster steps of the boy. He enjoys the sound, but because it’s the only sound, it makes him feel odd.
They reach the dirty red pickup and climb in. The slam of the doors officially starts the day. He turns the ignition then adjusts the gearshift. Cold air pours through the vents. There are many different machines on the farm, but the morning rolling out of the pickup still impresses him. Gravel spatters against the underside.
The cornfield rests a short drive down interstate ninety-five. It amuses him that this two-lane road is labeled an interstate. An oldies tune plays through static on the dashboard speakers. The man switches off the silver dial. He sometimes likes to listen to the radio, but never in the morning. Golden light strobes through the pines. The boy looks ahead with squinted eyes.
The air warms inside the car. The man’s shoulders relax, he rubs his thumb against the plastic of the steering wheel. The perspective change while driving intrigues him, how the trees slowly approach then accelerate until flying past in the final moment. He looks to the fence beyond at its slower pace, then to the hills behind. The sun and moon remain motionless no matter how fast he travels. He remembers studying relationships like these in mathematics classes at his university. The pickup rolls past a group of huddled brown cows sleeping at the edge of a wire fence away from the road. The dew is all but gone from the the wiper streaks crowning the windshield.
“Dad, Robby MacEntyre’s gonna go ice-fishing with his dad when the lake freezes over, and he said that I could go with him if I wanted to. Can I go?” A moment passes.
“Sure son. That sounds like a fun idea.”
“Ice-fishing’s really neat. First you cut a hole in the ice, then you drop in the line and bait and the fish bites it and you catch the fish.”
“I’ve never gone ice-fishing myself.”
“It’s really neat.”
“Mr. MacEntyre tests the ice when he fishes, doesn’t he?”
“Yea Dad. He does it all the time. And they eat the fish when they’re done.”
“The fish must taste good in the wintertime.”
“Yea, it really does.” They ascend a hill, and appears the dense green square of the cornfield.
“Dad, how do the fish stay alive in the freezing water in winter? Don’t they get cold?”
“The water beneath the ice is warmer than the surface, and the fishes’ bodies have adapted to the cold temperatures. The water seems cold to us, but it’s fine to the fish.”
“How come the water under the ice is warmer?”
“Because the ice acts as a blanket from the outside temperature.”
“The ice is a blanket?!”
“Yes.” The man smiles.
“I’ve never heard of an ice blanket before. Are you sure?”
“Yes. The earth beneath the lake warms the water beneath the ice. It sounds strange, but it’s true.”
“I’m going to tell Mr. Carson, my science teacher about that. I bet he doesn’t know it.”
“He’s probably a smart man.”
“Yea but who ever heard of an ice blanket before? Dad, I think you might be wrong about that. Sometimes I get things wrong on my tests. Maybe you got that wrong on your test once.”
“You can ask Mr. Carson and tell me what he says.”
“Ok, but I think he’s gonna say that there’s no such thing as an ice blanket.” The boy pauses. “Dad, what do the fish eat in the wintertime?”
“I guess what they always eat.”
“Ya mean like worms and leaves and stuff?”
“I guess.”
“Do the worms get cold?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re different than us. It’s not cold for them.” They turn onto the field. The grass cushions the wheels.
The man stops the truck at the edge of the shadows. He and the boy step out. The crests of the stalks highlight in the sun.
“The corn’s really big.” says the boy. ‘He’s right’, the man thinks. It had been a lucky summer with plenty of rain and not too much heat. The corn has grown strong and tall and will yield a fine price at the market. The man walks to the back and retrieves two utility axes and a rusted wicker pail. He gives an axe to the boy.
“This way son, the best stalks are on the south edge.” The man begins walking. The boy catches up then moves ahead of him. The soil sinks beneath their steps. A car crosses far in the distance.
They walk to the end then turn the corner into the sun. The boy breathes heavily, his arms swing from his sides. The man’s eyes don’t adjust to the light like they used to, and he’s blind for a few seconds, but he doesn’t break his stride.
He pauses a quarter of the way across and raises his head to the corn. The boy walks on, then notices and runs back.
“These look good, huh Dad?”
“They’re tall, that’s for sure. Pick one and we’ll take a look.” The boy falls silent. After some moments he slowly walks over and reaches up to a husk above his head. His coat climbs over his shoulders in the effort.
“I think this might be a good one, Dad.” The man places the axe and pail on the ground and walks to the stalk. He grips the husk and peels back the damp sheath. The kernels lay tight with a deep yellow color. He tries bending it. The cob is strong yet not too rigid.
“Well, Joshua, it looks like you found us some fine Thanksgiving corn.”
“I knew it! I’m the best at finding good corn! I told you I would!” The boy runs to fetch his father’s axe. “Dad, I’ll cut the first one down, OK?”
“It’s a deal. I’ll help you hold the stalk.” The man kneels down, braces the trunk, then points where to aim. “Give it a chop here.” The boy focuses then swings across the air and hits far above the mark. “Easy son,” the man laughs.
“Sorry. It slipped.” The boy wipes his forehead, then winds up again. He holds his breath and swings away. The blade falls much closer to the mark.
“That’s the way, son.”
“Yea, I know. It just slipped before.” The boy pulls back, furrows his brow and releases into the target again, then again, then again. Strands of severed sinew spring upright in the sun. The man feels the stalk’s resolution faltering below his hand. A final strike and it tilts to the ground.
“Good job, Joshua. That’s the way.”
“It wasn’t that hard.”
“Do you think you can chop the next one yourself?”
“Sure I can.” The man chooses a new stalk for the boy, retrieves the other axe, then starts on a third. He’s at the core of the fourth when the boy still has a few chops left. The man lowers the axe. His knees sting from the squatting. It will only be a few more seconds. He feels very warm now with his breath still grey in the morning air. Sap and dirt cake the tapered sides of the axe.
The boy’s stalk rustles to the ground. The man strikes his stalk two more times and it falls quietly. He stands and gathers the four stalks into a pile. The boy fetches the pail. The man sits down and grabs a husk in his soil-ridden hands. With a few twists it rips free. The density of the corn surprises him at the beginning of each harvest. He drops it in the pail then looks at his son tugging away. A determined yank sends the husk loose, and the boy tumbles backwards.
“Easy son.” the man laughs.
“Well this stalk’s tough work sometimes!” The boy rights himself and grabs hold of a new one.
“It can be tough, just take it easy.” says the man. The boy’s head is already lowered again. The man straightens his leg onto the earth. He remembers the first harvest. He was with his wife. He worried that her hands might callous from the work. She wore a long flower-patterned dress and didn’t care that it might get dirty. The man looks at his cracked hands. He listens to the rosin tear of the boy’s husk, its hollow thud inside the barrel.
The two drive from the cornfield. It feels strange to the man to be moving so fast so suddenly. The boy switches on the radio. A news man rapidly talks about a labor dispute at a downstate rubber factory. The program cuts to an interview of one of the workers, then back to the announcer, then begins a 1950’s song. He spots the cows still sleeping and wonders if his wife will still be asleep. No, she’ll be up with her coffee waiting at the door when they return. The idle truck had become hot under the sun. The man thinks to open the window, but lets it be. The boy speaks,
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are we ever going to move to the city like when you and Mom met?” A moment passes and the man replies,
“Those days are passed.” The pickup travels over a hill, then the two brown grooves of the driveway sharpen into view. The man looks at the plain white house with its black shingled roof. The truck slows then turns off the pavement. The stones crack under the tires, dust flies up then disappears in the blue.
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In a boy’s closet lived a little round boodle with beady eyes and two small feet that poked from its fur. Inside the closet the boodle loved hugging the stuffed animals, throwing the piles of socks through the air, burrowing under the rows of shoes, and napping in the soft shirts.
But when the boy entered the room, the boodle needed to be very quiet because whenever the boy heard a sound, he searched inside the closet. Who knows what the giant boy would do if he found the boodle.
One night while the boodle was playing he forgot to be careful and a sock thudded against the wall. The boy jumped from his bed and swung open the closet door. The boodle crouched between the stuffed animals. The giant boy shuffled through the shirts above, then rummaged through the shoes just inches away from the trembling boodle. Just when the boodle thought he would be found, the boy stood up and closed the door. The boodle let out a deep breath. He needed to find a new place to live, for next time he would be captured for sure.
The following morning after the boy left for school, the boodle pushed open the door and ran beneath the bed. The wood floor was not soft like the closet carpet, and there were no stuffed animals or socks with which to play, but there lay old toys and games stacked in piles. Maybe this new place would be OK.
The boodle was quiet for a few nights, but then one evening he bumped into a yellow dump truck. The boy switched on the light and ran crying out of the room. The boodle scurried from under the bed to beneath the boy’s desk. The boy’s mother returned with the boy, and together they knelt down and searched under the bed through all the games and puzzles looking for the boodle. Soon the boy stopped sobbing, and the mother tucked him in and turned out the light. Huddled beneath the desk, the boodle missed his closet with the stuffed animals and the socks and shirts. Now he was stuck under this desk with nothing but a garbage can. Why was the boy crying, the boodle wondered. The boodle had only made a sound. He didn’t take the boy’s toys or call him bad names. Why did the boy dislike him so much?
With each new day the boodle felt more sad because the space beneath the desk was very lonely. He thought a lot about the boy. The boy didn’t seem very mean. When he played with his blocks he was gentle and imaginative. When his friends visited him they laughed and jumped on the bed. The boodle thought of a frightening idea. If he talked to the boy, maybe the boy would let him live in the closet. The boy was so big and strong, but because he seemed kind the boodle decided he would try it.
In the afternoon as the boy sat on his bed reading a book, the boodle gathered his courage and tiptoed into the light.
“Hello giant boy.” Upon seeing the boodle the boy shot from the bed to the corner of the room. The boodle scurried underneath the desk.
“Who are you!” yelled the boy.
“I’m just a boodle, and I wanted to ask you if I could live in your closet because I don’t like living under this desk because there are no toys here and the floor’s too cold at night.”
“Come out from the desk!” demanded the boy.
“Are you going to hurt me?” asked the boodle.
“No.” The boy said more calmly. “I just want to see you.” Trembling the boodle crept out from his hiding place. “Are you the one who makes noise at night in the closet and under the bed?”
“Well I try to keep quiet, but sometimes I make a noise when I don’t mean to. I’m sorry that I wake you sometimes.” replied the boodle.
“You sure scare me with those noises.”
“I scare you?” gasped the boodle. “You’re the big giant boy. All day and all night I’m scared of you. How could you be scared of me?”
“Well,” the boy smiled, “If I knew it was just you making noises, I guess I wouldn’t have been so scared.”
“Boy, If I was a big as you I don’t think I would be scared of anything. So do you think maybe I can live back in your closet if I promise not to make too much noise? I love your closet because it’s warm and fun in there.”
“You can live in my closet little boodle. I’m sorry I scared you by looking for you. I won’t be scared of you anymore. If you want, sometimes we can play together with my toys.”
“I’d like that. I think you have very nice toys mister boy.” The boy pulled out his box of cars, and he and the boodle raced them across the floor.
From that day on the boy never again worried about the thuds and scratches in the night. Now they made him happy because they reminded him that in his closet played his little boodle friend.
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A boy felt sad but didn’t know why. He played with his toys, but they just weren’t fun. He rode his bike to his friend’s house and they played on the swings, but it still wasn’t fun. He just wasn’t having fun anymore.
He rode home and plopped on his bed. He sat and sat with his legs crossed and his hands on his chin. The boy’s daddy passed his room and saw the big frown on his face. His dad entered and sat next to him.
“What’s wrong son?”
“I don’t know.” said the boy.
“We’ll, what do you think it is?” the man continued.
“I’m sad.” responded the boy.
“Why are you sad?”
“Nothing’s fun anymore.”
“Not even your toys?”
“Nope.”
“Not even playing with Robby Jenkins?”
“Not even playing with Robby Jenkins.” the boy responded. The man thought for a moment, then slapped the boy’s knee and smiled.
“I know what you need, son.” The boy looked up at him.
“Really? What do I need, Dad?”
“You need a puffalump!” The boy didn’t understand.
“What’s a puffalump, Dad?”
“A puffalump is a furry creature that lives only in the hidden puffalump forest and hatches from an egg in a nest.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Well, how do I get there and find a puffalump?”
“You have to go to the hidden puffalump forest. It’s a magical forest where everything glows and sparkles.”
“How do I know where it is?”
“No one knows where it is for sure, but there is a way to find it, do you want to know how?”
“Yea.” The boy stood up and stretched his legs, then sat on the rug.
“The glittering puffalump forest is hidden deep in the wilderness, but its magical glow extends out and touches everything in the world at all times.”
“Really?”
“Yep, and you can’t see the glow outside the forest, but it’s there, and you can feel it.”
“How can you feel it?”
“You can feel it in your heart.”
“In your heart? I don’t think I can feel it with my heart.” said the boy.
“Sure you can.” the man smiled. “It just takes practice. And I know you’ll be very good at feeling with your heart if you try.”
“How do you know, Dad?”
“Because I’m your dad and I know these things.”
“But if I go I’ll miss you and Mommy.”
“Well you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. If you’re happy then everything’s fine. But there comes a time in everyone’s life when nothing’s fun anymore. When that happens the only thing that will make you happy is finding a puffalump– a furry smiling puffalump that’s warm and cuddly and has pink pawpads.”
“Did you ever go to the puffalump forest?” the boy asked.
“Yes I did, son.”
“And did you find a puffalump?”
“Yes I did.” the man smiled.
“Did you go with someone else?”
“You can only find the puffalump forest alone. That’s just the way it works.”
“Weren’t you scared to go alone?”
“Yes I was. I was scared but I went anyway. Everyone is scared at the beginning.”
“Well, where is the puffalump you found?” The man smiled again, stood and kissed the boy. The man walked to the door, then turned,
“Son, you need to go out and find a puffalump. Then you’ll be the happiest boy in the world.” The man turned and left down the hallway.
The next day the boy prepared for his great journey to find the puffalump forest. He packed his napsack with sandwiches and a sleeping bag, then walked to his front door, took a deep breath and walked outside. He didn’t know where to go. He said to himself,
“I gotta just feel my heart. I gotta just listen to my heart.” The boy closed his eyes and took some slow steps. He didn’t know if he was going the right way. He said again, “I gotta just follow my heart. I gotta just follow my heart.” He walked out the driveway and followed the road.
After a while he looked back to his home. It looked like a little pea. The sky was growing dark and he became frightened. He thought,
“I don’t like this anymore. I want to go home.” He thought more. “But if I go home I’ll just be sad again. I’m scared now, but Dad said I’d be scared. I think I’m gonna go on and find that puffalump!” The boy continued into the night, and soon set down his napsack and went to sleep.
The next day the boy arrived at a split in the road. The boy didn’t know which way to go. He worried that he might take the wrong path and never find the puffalump forest. Maybe he had been walking the wrong way all along.
“Why can’t there just be a sign to tell me where to go?!” the boy thought. But there was no sign. He stood sad and scared. “I want to go home!” The boy sat down and started crying. He cried and cried until he couldn’t cry anymore, and then everything remained quiet. Because there was no noise, he began feeling his heart again. He had forgotten about his heart. Now he listened to it. It was telling him where to go. It wasn’t telling him in words, but it was just telling him.
The boy rose and ventured down one of the paths. He didn’t know why he chose this path, but he just chose it. He continued walking. Soon he realized he was not feeling so sad anymore. He was feeling OK. He was far away from his home and his friends and his toys and his family, but he was feeling OK.
“I must be getting near the puffalump forest!” he thought.
The boy walked for many days and many nights. He watched the butterflies in the fields and how the breeze blew the dandelions off their stems. He looked at the different trees and watched how some were tall and some were small. Some had pine needles and others had flat leaves. Some had smooth brown trunks while others had grey bumpy trunks. Trees grew all around his house and his school, but until now he never noticed that trees could be so different.
He continued walking and walking and passing many different roads. He soon became quite weary.
“I’m tired of walking!” he shouted. He threw his napsack on the ground and dropped on the grass. “I’m tired of looking for the puffalump forest! I’m tired of this dusty road! I’m tired of missing my mommy and daddy! I’m tired of missing my friends and my toys and my bed! And most of all, I’m tired of trying to listen to my heart! I think my heart is stupid! I think Dad was wrong about my heart and the puffalump forest!” The boy felt so angry he stopped thinking and lied back and stared at the sky.
After a very long time everything became quiet again and he felt his heart again, but this time he wasn’t going to listen.
“Now you listen here heart! I’m sick of listening to you! All you do is make me walk on dusty roads and make me sad and lonely, and I miss my parents! And I’m not going to listen to you anymore!” The boy rolled on his belly and started to cry. He cried and cried and cried, and when he couldn’t cry anymore he became silent and just stayed silent. He lied silently the whole afternoon, and into the twilight.
Now something strange happened. The boy stood up and grabbed his napsack. He walked away from the road and entered the forest. He didn’t know what he was doing or why, but he didn’t care anymore about it. He wasn’t trying to listen to his heart or his father or the road or anything. There was only silence in his head. A log lay in front of him so he walked over it. A brook trickled before him so he tip-toed across the stones. Through the moonlight he just walked and walked with the silence in his head.
After a long while he looked up. In the distance he saw glowing! He jumped in the air and shouted,
“Whoopee! It’s the puffalump forest! It’s the puffalump forest!” The boy ran as fast as he could towards the glow. It grew brighter and brighter, and specks of glitter first sprinkled the ground, then the trees and logs and rocks and stumps all sparkled, and shined yellow-green glow. The boy stopped and looked around and high above. Out of breath he stood in amazement, “Wow! I guess I was feeling my heart all along.” His heart had led him to the center of the secret puffalump forest.
After a brief rest he said,
“OK, now that I’m in the puffalump forest, where are these puffalumps?” Next to trees and rocks lay nests sprinkled with pink eggshells. “Wow. These must be puffalump eggs! I can’t wait to find a real live puffalump!” He peeked from trees but didn’t find one. He crept up then quickly lifted a rock. No puffalump was to be found. He climbed a tree and hid for a long time hoping a puffalump would come out. Nothing stirred. The forest sparkled in silence. The boy became frustrated. “Now you listen here, puffalumps!” he shouted from the tree, “I came all the way from my house very far away to find me a puffalump, so one of you should come out and come home with me right now.” Suddenly giggling sounded from all directions.
“Is that you puffalumps?” The forest did not respond. The boy raced down the tree. He ran to the bushes, he tumbled rocks, he poked his head in the holes of trees. There wasn’t a puffalump to be found. Finally he sat on a stump. “Puffalumps, come out now!” He shouted. There was still no response. “Won’t you please come out?” he pleaded. Only the empty pink shells kept him company.
The boy put his head on his sleeve and started to cry. Without warning, out from the bushes emerged a furry white creature with yellow and pink spots, big brown eyes, and a nose that looked like a button. It was a puffalump! The boy didn’t see it because he was crying. The puffalump spoke.
“Hello little boy.” The boy’s head sprung up.
“Wow! You’re a puffalump!” he gasped.
“Please don’t cry, little boy.” The boy lunged to catch the puffalump, and poof! The puffalump disappeared into the air. The boy thumped to the ground and bumped his head on a log.
“Why did you disappear?!” the boy said to the forest. The forest remained silent. Then responded a voice,
“Puffalumps don’t like to be caught!”
“But why not?” the boy asked.
“Because we just don’t like it.”
“Well, I’m sorry.” The boy paused, then spoke again. “What would you like me to say?”
“You can say whatever you want.” said the voice.
“I have great toys! If you came back with me I’d let you play with all of my toys whenever you wanted.”
“Puffalumps don’t need toys.” The boy sat and thought.
“I have a neat neighborhood with lots of trails and places, and a bunch of friends that you’d like a lot and they’d like you a lot.”
“That’s nice, but I’m a happy puffalump. I have nice friends right here.” The boy didn’t know what else to say, but he spoke anyway.
“Oh puffalump, I don’t know what I have to give you. I just wanted to be with you because I was sad at home and my daddy told me that I needed a puffalump. And I didn’t even know why I needed a puffalump, but now I know that my daddy was right, and I just need a puffalump so badly.” The puffalump peeked from behind the tree.
“Why do you need a puffalump so badly?” The boy saw the puffalump. She was just a few feet away but he didn’t feel like jumping at her again. He just wanted to be himself. The puffalump asked again, “Why do you want to be with me so badly?” The boy looked up at her and felt very embarrassed, but he just said it,
“Because I love you, puffalump, I love you!”
“Oh boy!” shouted the puffalump. Suddenly she ran and jumped right into the boy’s arms.
“I love you too!” she said. The boy and the puffalump hugged so tightly, and the magical forest glowed brighter than ever.
The boy and the puffalump left the puffalump forest and held hands the whole journey back. He arrived at his house and rang the doorbell. Both his mom and dad opened the door smiling.
“Hello son.”
“Hi Dad, Mom! Look! I did just what you said Dad! I walked so far away and cried and just when I thought I would never find it I found the puffalump forest, and it was magic and glowing, and then I found this puffalump and I told her, ‘I love you, puffalump!’ and she said, ‘I love you, too!’ so we left the forest and came back home.”
“That’s wonderful son. We’re very happy for you.” The father calmly replied.
“But Dad, weren’t you worried about me?”
“I was never worried about you son.”
“But don’t you love me?”
“Of course I love you son, I love you with all my heart.”
“Then why weren’t you worried about me?”
“Because you were never in danger. You were just finding your puffalump. All boys one day leave to find their puffalumps. Now you’ve found yours.” The boy stood confused.
“What happened to your puffalump, Daddy?” The man laughed, then hugged and kissed his wife.
“Son, who do you think this is right here?”
“Mom?! But she’s not a puffalump, she’s a girl!”
“And what do you think is by your side?”
“What?!” The boy turned, and to his amazement he saw not the furry animal from the forest, but a beautiful girl with bright rosy cheeks and long blonde hair and a big bright smile. The boy exclaimed to the girl, “When did you change to a girl?”
“I was a girl all along.” she said.
“But I only say a puffalump before!”
“I know.” she smiled.
“But why did I only see a puffalump before and now I see a beautiful girl?” The girl giggled.
“That’s the magic of the puffalump forest.”
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Once upon a time there lived a king with three sons. The king had grown old and grey, and the time had come for him to select one of his sons to take his place on the throne.
At dawn he summoned his sons before him.
“My dear boys, you are all strong and brave, and I love you very much, but only one of you can be the new ruler of the kingdom. For this selection I present you with a challenge. Outside the castle walls lie three cottages, one for each of you. Your task is to fill your room as best you can with whatever you wish. When the first star shows in the evening sky I will inspect your progress. The prince that most completely fills his room will be crowned king.”
The three princes arrived at the cottages and pondered how best to fill their rooms. Before long the first prince sprung up and walked towards the quarry. The second prince thought a bit more, then turned and set off towards the river bank.
The third prince, however, did not move for a long time. He sat on the hill staring at his cottage, then at the forest and the sky beyond. He was the youngest of the three, and behaved differently than his brothers. He wore simple clothes, did not boast, and during festivals he did not compete in the jousting competitions but instead cheered for the success of his brothers.
The sun descended behind the hills. The North Star hung silently in the blue above. Followed by all the people in the court, the king walked up the hill to the three cottages where waited his three sons.
The king paused at the first cottage, then approached the door. He pressed down its lever, but the weight inside prevented his entrance. He walked to the window and saw a dense pool of rocks. When the rocks had reached the door the prince piled them through the windows. The only space left were the jagged crevices between the rocks.
The king then walked to the second cottage. He could open neither the door nor the windows. The second prince led him up a ladder upon which he saw that the house was filled with sand. The prince had removed the roof and poured in sand right up to the brim of the walls.
Now the king walked to the third cottage. The youngest prince stood by the door.
“Are you ready, my son?”
“I love you very much father, and I am ready.” The father opened the door. The room lay bare. The son followed, closed the door and walked to the center. From his pocket he retrieved a candle, placed it on the floor and lit it. Suddenly the cold dark space bathed in golden light. Every corner and crack shimmered in the quiet glow. The boy gazed at the candle. The father looked at the boy, then at the walls and door, then finally into the steady white flame.
In the years to come peace and prosperity continued to grace the kingdom. The elder sons journeyed to far off lands, and many stories returned depicting their courage and valor. But no tale was more repeated than that of the young price who was now their king, and his room of golden light.
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Because one peacock’s feathers are not as beautiful as the next, the peacocks of a village covered themselves in brown robes.
In this village lived a young peacock who gained unusual joy from everything around him. He paused at the scent of the morning porridge cooking atop the wood burning stove. On rainy afternoons he sat by his window and watched the droplets splatter against the trunks of the trees and drip down the drooping boughs and branches. Before bed he strolled beneath the stars as the summer or winter winds blew through the feathers of his head and face.
The years passed and the peacock’s plumage bounded with brilliant color. But with each new feather the peacock grew more sad that his robe prevented him from sharing his special plumage with the members of the village. He wanted to tell the others these feelings, but the villagers had been wearing the robes since before he was born. He feared that if he told them that he didn’t like the robes, they would no longer be his friends.
One spring day as the young peacock walked through town, a strong breeze blew the white blossoms from the trees. They glided around him like warm snow from the clear sky. This sight filled him with such feeling that without warning he threw off the brown robe revealing his radiant feather fan. His purples, yellows, greens, oranges, blues sparkled sharply in the sun. The townspeople froze in astonishment. Fear filled the young peacock. Not knowing what to do he resumed walking. With all his hope he wished that the others would join him. None did. They remained motionless on the steps and at the windows.
The peacock returned home in sadness. It seemed his friends did not like his plumage, and thought him disrespectful and strange. Alone in his bed he decided that he would return tomorrow covered in his robe, and apologize to everyone. Maybe then they would like him again.
The next day he returned to town, but his robe he left at home. He walked through the street very afraid but filled with the hope that another would tell him he was not bad, and his feathers were beautiful. The surrounding peacocks stared silently. Suddenly someone shouted,
“Put on your robe!” Oh how that hurt his feelings! He lowered his head and turned back towards his house.
Curled up on his bed he cried and cried. It was a stupid idea to show his feathers to the others. Now no one liked him. Tomorrow he would pack his things and leave the village forever.
The morning sun rose over the trees. The peacock left his house, but his napsack remained in his closet. Once more he walked to the town with his magnificent feathers flowing in the breeze. This time he was no longer afraid. He expected the friends he loved to tease him. He didn’t even know why he was walking back to town. He only knew that he finally felt peace in his heart. Again he paced past the other peacocks, and again they silently stared.
Suddenly a different peacock thrust away his cloak and released himself from the surrounding sea of sullen shrouds to walk along side the young peacock. As the remaining peacocks gasped, joy surged through the young peacock. With the widest of smiles, the two marched across the square with their tails towering in the sun. Before long a third peacock shed his brown robe to join them. Another followed, then another until every peacock’s fantastic feathers transformed the dreary village into a fountain of swirling colors and patterns.
All the members of the town showered the young peacock with apology, thanks, and love. Each peacock’s unique beauty was forever released for all to celebrate.
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In a distant land lived a king who possessed a special grail. This grail was passed down from king to king, and brought peace and prosperity to the people of the kingdom for as long as anyone could remember.
One day the king no longer felt satisfied with his good fortune, so he gathered his army and set off to expand his realm by conquering distant lands. The villagers were happy to see him return after a few weeks, but he soon left again. This time he did not return for many months. The moment the people saw his horse approaching the gate, they dropped their chores and danced in the streets at his return. But in only a few days he left again. An entire year passed. When the king finally came back he saw that the crops had wilted. The streams had dried to sand. His people huddled starving in their homes. The king dismounted his horse and walked to his chamber. As he feared, the grail was not in its place. He scoured the room but it did not turn up. He commanded his servants to search the castle. They looked high and low but the silver cup was nowhere to be found. The magical grail was gone.
The king fell ill. As the days passed his face grew pale and his beard turned grey. One morning he summoned the bravest knights to his chamber. He said,
“You valiant warriors are the kingdom’s last hope. Travel over the mountains and through the forests to the farthest reaches of the earth in the quest for the grail. Bring it back so our people may flourish once more.” At once the knights mounted their horses and rode off for the horizon.
The months passed yet not a knight returned. Many wondered if the knights were even still alive. The king lay dying by the fireplace beneath the blankets of his bed. Suddenly the court jester appeared at the door. With his hat in hand he approached the king and knelt beside him. He said,
“My king, I regret that I am a lowly fool with nothing to offer, but please tell me if there is anything I may do for you.” The king raised his tired eyes to the fool.
“Kind jester, I am a bit thirsty. Perhaps you can fetch me some water.” The fool left for the well. He returned and placed a full cup to the king’s parched lips. The king drank and felt the cool water flow deeply inside him. He opened his eyes. There before him shined his cherished grail.
“My grail! You have found my precious grail!” exclaimed the king, “How did you find what my mightiest could not?”
“I do not know.” replied the fool, “I only knew that you were thirsty.”
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Deep in a forest lived a man and his son. In the morning they fetched water from the stream and gathered wood from the forest. In the afternoon they tended their garden that provided tomatoes, carrots, turnips, and lettuce. Then at night when dinner was eaten and the chores were done, the father and son sat down at the board in front of the fireplace, set the pieces, then played the shape game.
With their pieces they mounted grand battles in which the most clever and imaginative player gained victory. With each new game the boy tried new ideas and learned how to better unlock the power of the pieces. The evening shape game was the boy’s favorite activity, and during each day he dreamed of the possibilities of that night’s contest.
The boy grew into a strong young man, and the time had come for him to leave the cabin and journey into the world beyond. He hugged his father then set off into the forest. Over the mountains and through the valleys he walked. He climbed the last peak, and in the distance he saw a giant city of glass and steel stretching high into the sky. With tremendous excitement he descended the mountain and crossed the plain. Finally he reached the hard black pavement of the streets, and was soon surrounded by square buildings and people in grey suits rushing everywhere like there was a great emergency. Why didn’t his father live here, or tell him that there was much more to the world than trees and streams?
Then the young man arrived at a park where a large crowd was watching two people sitting across from eachother immersed in thought. He approached, and to his surprise the two were playing the shape game! He quickly observed that the players were masters that moved the pieces with wondrous skill. One of them won and the crowd cheered. A man in a blue suit stepped forward and handed the winner money and a shiny trophy. The spectators so admired the winner, that only with much difficulty did he bustle through them to his waiting car. It was at this moment that the young man knew he wanted to be the best shape game player in the land.
The next morning the young man visited the city library and retrieved every shape game book he could find. He had no idea there was so much to know about the game. With his father he had always played without worry, letting the pieces dance beneath his fingers. But the champions played from these books. Night after night he studied the many moves and tricks.
The young man entered his first contest. He played very hard, then with a final move he emerged as the winner! As the spectators applauded, happiness surged through him. He had taken his first step to becoming the best player in the land.
From this victory followed great success. With each new win more people remembered him. He bought beautiful new clothes, and a bright red car that drove very fast. He now lived on the top floor of a tall building with many rooms and windows through which he could see the whole city sparkling below.
Many years passed. The final championship game lay only a few months away, yet something strange was happening with the man. He didn’t know why, but he no longer felt happy. From the admirers at the contests to his beautiful home, his success surrounded him but it was no longer giving him joy as it did so abundantly before. He tried buying more things, a big new TV set, new pictures for his walls, he even bought a glimmering glass case for all his trophies, yet these things did not bring back the simple happy feeling that filled him long ago.
The man began to lose games. He felt that he was playing correctly, but the pieces seemed to have lost their ability to dance.
One night instead of returning to his apartment the man began walking through the streets. For hours he paced along the pavement. He reached the edge of the city, yet he did not stop. His body no longer seemed to be listening to his mind. Deep into the night the man walked. The cold wind blew through his shirt, but with his head tucked down and his arms folded tight he continued. The fields blended to the forest. The man felt very tired but he did not pause to sleep. The black sky turned to blue, then green, then pink, then the first light of dawn beamed through the pines upon his face. He watched his breath cloud then disappear in front of him. Tired and aching he strangely began feeling better than he felt in a very long time. He walked over the mountains and through the valleys. Finally in the distance he glimpsed his father’s tiny cabin.
He arrived at the steps and opened the door. There sat his kind father eating breakfast. Without knowing what to say, the son uttered,
“I’m tired Father.” His father did not question him, but with the calm he had always possessed he simply replied,
“Then you must rest.” The man peeled off his clothes, crawled beneath the covers of his old wooden bed, and instantly fell asleep. His father placed an extra blanket around his shoulders, then lit a fire. For two straight days the young man slept like never before.
On the third morning the father woke his son with a cup of tea. The man sat up and breathed the mountain air into his lungs. He put the warm tea to his lips. He felt so happy and sad at the same time. For some reason the cabin, forest, everything seemed new to him, as if he was there for the first time.
In time the day arrived for the city’s shape game championship. The crowd at the contest had not seen the man for months, so they believed the man would not show. Suddenly a gasp rippled through the room. The crowd parted to reveal the lost man approaching the table. He was not dressed in his usual suit, but in his simple forest clothes. He sat down, shook his opponent’s hand, then played the first move. The opponent responded. The dreamed of championship game had commenced.
To the astonishment of the crowd the young man was not playing the way he had before. No longer following the way of the books, he played the old way, the way he had played as a boy in front of the night fires. In this most important game he did not force the pieces, but let them dance freely across the board. They flowed like the stream across the rocks, like the wind through the forest. They remained firm like the trees in a storm, they struck like the lightning across the sky.
With a final move the crowd cheered wildly. The young man raised from his chair as the new champion. The director presented him with the towering gold championship trophy. He shook the director’s hand, but left the trophy on the table and exited the room. He walked from the building, through the streets, then back into the mountains.
The champion never again returned to the massive city of glass and steel. He chopped the morning wood. He fetched water from the stream. He gathered the vegetables from the garden. Then at night in front of the glowing embers the man and his father danced their pieces across the board of the great shape game.
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The spark of life touched two twins inside their mother’s belly. As the soft warm womb provided nourishment and shelter, the twins thrived with joy and contentment.
Many months passed and the twins saw that their bodies were changing. Birth was drawing near, and they feared it very much.
“I love our wonderful world. I never want to leave it.” declared the younger twin.
“I don’t want to leave either,” replied the older twin, “but Mother’s waiting for us beyond this world.”
“How do you really know that Mother exists? Didn’t we just pretend there was a Mother so that we wouldn’t be scared?”
“I don’t know for sure that Mom exists, but I think I feel her with me at all times. Besides, why would we be in this world if there wasn’t life after birth?”
“Well if Mom is real, where is she?”
“I believe she’s all around us at all times.”
“How can that be possible?”
“I don’t know. I just feel it in my heart to be true.”
“If there is life after birth, why has no one ever returned to tell us about it?” asked the younger twin.
“I don’t know. I don’t know the answer to any of these questions.” The older calmly replied. The younger twin sat up and continued,
“I’m so scared of birth that I can’t feel happy anymore.”
“I’m scared too, but I still can be happy because I just believe that Mom’s gonna be waiting. I don’t know for sure, but I believe she will be waiting for us.”
In the remaining days the younger twin tossed with panic while the older twin peacefully placed his trust in the mother.
Finally the birthday arrived. The twins departed from the womb into a blinding light. Their eyes opened wide and they gasped in awe. From above appeared the smiling face of their loving mother cradling them in her arms.
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Mother Sun wanted a world of friends so she created the creatures of the Earth. Gazelles galloped atop the golden planes. Singing swallows swooped through the jungle canopies. Sinuey stallions churned grassland streams sending mist to cast rainbows in the sky.
Giant turtles stroked across the deep seas. Prickly porcupines followed the furrows of the forest floor. Grey wolves howled at the moon yellow and full in the winter sky. All the beasts both great and small shared the land, and together thrived through the sleepy summers and stormy winters.
But Mother Sun worried about her children. She feared that they might too often go hungry, or perish in the mighty wind and rain and snow and cold. She worried that they would lose their way in the dark of night and never return to their waiting families.
So Mother Sun gave her children a shepherd, and this shepherd was man. This shepherd watched over the beasts, protected them and nurtured them in times of need. He found them water when rain had not fallen for weeks and the ponds and streams were dry. He built shelters for them when the days were short and cold and the ground froze beneath their feet. And when certain animals became so few in number that they might never again walk the earth, man took special care of them, fed them the best fruits and grains, spread wool blankets over them at night, and lead them to safety when great floods and fires shook the land.
For all this man needed to be very smart, so Mother Sun made him so. But she knew that man might grow too proud of his gift of intelligence. He might spend his days foolishly showing himself how high he could build his shelters, how much corn he could harvest, or how well he could map the canyons. Mother Sun knew that if man became lost in such silly games, his flock would fall to the temper of the elements.
So she ensured that man would never forget his place in the world. Her last task of each day reminded man anew that no matter what he accomplished he was still just a creature no more or less worthy than the rest of her children.
To remind him she painted the sky. Each evening before setting beneath the hills she blanketed her children with a fresh new canvas. She composed fields of pink and blue rolling through the endless heavens. She constructed cathedrals of orange and red billowing over the horizon. She conjured silent scapes of gold blending to the blue of the waiting night. As all the animals gazed at the dancing shapes, colors, and patterns in the canopy above, they knew man would never abandon them, and they were not afraid.
Curious deer wandered deeper into the hidden pockets of the forest. Lazy crocodiles rolled round and round in the cool mud. Rabbits played hide and seek with mischievous squirrels. And none feared the rain or cold or dark of night because there would always be man and great Mother Sun to protect them.
