The Nick Klaus’s Fables
by Frederic Colier
The Nick Klaus’s Fables
By Frederic Colier
Book Case Engine, New York, NY
The Nick Klaus’s Fables Copyright © 2013 by Frederic Colier
Library of Congress Number:
ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-62848-Pending
ISBN: Softcover 978-1-62848-Pending
ISBN: MOBI 978-1-62848-022-1
ISBN: EPUB 978-1-62848-023-8
Published by Book Case Engine, NY, publishing at SmashWords
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Cover Design: by the author
File under: Young Adult Fiction. Fables, Mythology, Fairy Tales.
To Juliet, Gretchen and Nancy
Note to the Reader:
I am offering a sample of these fables as a sounding board in the hope to hear your reaction and get your feedback. Read them to your kid(s) before bedtime or with your family around the kitchen table, or later at night in front of the fireplace. Like all fables, those pieces are short and can be read under five minutes. Preferably they should be read in groups. To this end, and in order to make your task more inviting to coaxing guests, I set up the book like a game. In this game, you have to come up with your own moral. At the end of each fable, you will be asked to find the lesson you think the characters should learn or should have learned. Don’t be fooled. It is not an easy task. I am always amazed at how many different opinions and responses there can be for a single fable. Indeed my own tests have led on many occasions to heated debates. When it was not the children disagreeing with each other, most often were the parents. You have been warned. Do not think for a second that reading fables is a passive hobby. It takes and requires lots of concentration, respect, fairness, and judgment.
My goal, however, is not to stir trouble: see children storm out of the room, witness friendships ending or divorce taking place, but rather to generate a dialogue. This is why the morals (what I think the fables meant when I wrote them) are grouped at the end of the book in a separate chapter. When in doubt consult them. There will be plenty more opportunities to prove your rightness.
I’m already more than halfway through this volume. My goal is to bring the entire number of fables to ninety-nine, maybe one hundred if inspiration has not abandoned me by then. Be that as it may, it is guaranteed to entertain you, your friends and family, for a while.
Let me know about your children and your family members’ reactions. You can reach me via email at Feedback . Thank you for your time and thoughts.
Frederic Colier
Table of Contents
Foreword
The Fabulist’s Fable (#1)
The Girl and the Tree (#2)
The Lion and The Monkey (#3)
The Dog Too Close To The Ground (#4)
The Boots and The Stairs (#5)
Two Fleas on a Rainy Day (#6)
The Big Plastic Day (#7)
Pony Tale (#8)
The Front Tooth’s Journey (#9)
When We Grow Up (#10)
The Martians in Times Square (#11)
The Girl, the Echo, and the Trampoline (#12)
Two Crabs in a Boxing Ring (#13)
The Conch Shell Goes To The Courthouse (#14)
The Toad in the Snakes’ Bathroom (#15)
The Plough Horseplay (#16)
The Blueberry Dad (#17)
Worm Pumpkin Pie (#18)
The Monkey and the Donkey (#19)
The Horse with Three legs (#20)
The Lost Little Girl (#21)
The Doorman Bear (#22)
Three Elephants on Tricycles (#23)
The Prophet and the Snails (#24)
The Wolf Must Run to the Market (#25)
The Morals
Other Titles by Same Author
About the Author
Connect with the Author
Foreword
I first met Nick Klaus in 1993. Back then he was already a strapping boy of maybe 9 or 10 years of age, full of life and smiles, eager to learn and satisfy his endless curiosity. But he was also terribly mischievous and, as a result, had gotten himself into a tricky situation. From what I understand, he had managed to get stuck inside a photo album, where, to free himself, he had to discover the Outmoded Landscape, where the children of the ruthless Mr. Crutchfield had gone missing. The slip, as he called it and told me, started after he came across a forgotten camera in Mr. Crutchfield’s stable. What happened then? The picture becomes blurred. If I understand it clearly though, he was supposed to discover the Outmoded Landscape to free . . . Hold on a minute. I’ve just written that . . . Now you can see for yourself what sorts of mind pranks I have to deal with when I deal with Nick Klaus.
Anyway, since getting stuck in the photo album, I don’t believe Nick has grown older. How do I know this? For a start, I don’t believe anyone has ever gotten older by having his or her picture taken. For a second start, I do believe that once the picture is taken, whoever has been photographed remains the age he or she is in that picture—forever. And for a finishing start, I’ve noticed over the years, especially as the end of the year draws near, how Nick Klaus seems to grow restless. His increased activities consist of writing me numerous letters. They are always hand-written with the same noticeably shaky bubbly letters of a young writer. Now if that is not the most irrevocable evidence of someone not getting older, I don’t know what is.
You may ask too, why does he write to me towards the end of the year? I haven’t been able to figure that one out, yet. Maybe it is because Nick Klaus rhymes with Santa Claus?
Be that as it may, when I wake up in the morning, I find his letters on my desk. His letters are really stories, even though they arrive in envelopes with my address on them. There are all types of stories. Some are funny. Some are absurd. Some are baffling, some discomforting or outrageous, and some even really truly sad. But they share certain undeniable features. To begin with, all the stories are one page long. No more and no less. Actually, let me rephrase that. Most are. Some do stretch beyond the single page. But never more than two. And all the stories end with the same question: “And the moral of this story is?” So I’m tempted to call Nick’s stories fables, because even though they only take a few minutes to read, I often find myself reclining in my chair for hours, wondering and pondering over their meanings, what Nick Klaus wanted to say and me to learn.
If I recall from my years as a student of literature, the goal of a fable is always to make a statement and to teach a moral, another word for a code of behavior. Now I don’t know if you fancy learning how to be, but if you don’t mind, I can’t wait for you to tell me what you think of them, because I’ve noticed that morals are just like fish. Just when you think you hold them tight,
they slip through your fingers. This happens especially when someone says something you had never thought of before.
Before we go further, we have to clear something. You may ask why would he choose to contact me rather than you. This is a valid concern. I can tell you in all certainty that his choice was not random. I have grown over the years used to deciphering children’s writing, not only the challenging shape of the letters but also all the dubious spelling of words. When you come across words such as jimnastix iz speshel, you know that you need a genuine decoding specialist to transcribe them back into a more mundane idiom. My job has been to rewrite these fables so that you could understand and fully appreciate them. Nick Klaus knew I could tackle such a monumental task.
Still the question readers ask me the most, apart from the ones tackled above is: Where is Nick Klaus now?” No one knows for sure. I certainly don’t know. But he must be on his way to solving his problems. He has to be. His parents have been waiting for him ever since he slipped, and I’m sure that he can’t wait to see them again. Who wants to remain stuck in an album of photos forever, without getting old and forced to deal with eccentric creatures? For the moment, all I know for certain is that one day (and I don’t mean two this time) he will come back . . . Though, I have heard some unpleasant rumors too. Nick Klaus may have been turned into a frog. I personally remain skeptical. Do frogs write fables? I never heard of one who does. Mind you, I’ve been told that in the land of fables spotting a frog writing fables would not be unusual. So if you do come across a frog writing fables you may have found Nick. I beg you to inform me at once.
Before turning my attention to Nick Klaus’s writing, I have to make a confession. This collection of fables is not entirely all from him. I could not resist the temptation to try my hand at writing one. So I have inserted “The Fabulist’s Fable,” as a way to introduce you to the delicate tightrope walk that fabulists expose themselves to. The fable’s merit (and it does have some) is to explain the effective ways that fabulists use fables and to what end. I hope that you will indulge me this little detour.
But I must stop here. The editor of this book is hitting my desk with her ruler. I’ve gone on too long. My Foreword is already more than two pages long, which was my limit.
However, finally I would just like to add . . . Ouch! Ouch!
Frederic Colier
The Fabulist’s Fable (#1)
Once upon a time, a happy King woke up in the safe tower of his castle. The sun was bright, high in the sky. “What a beautiful day for a promenade,” the King said (that’s the French word for a walk). Eager, he opened his window, only to turn quickly pale. He held his breath for a long time, unable to utter a word. When he could breathe again, he summoned all his counselors at once. They came rushing down in a large cavernous hall, some still slipping their boots on, others buttoning up their shirts.
“Something grave just happened. My royal life has been threatened,” he said with rage. Now all the counselors were holding their breath. “The wild animals from the zoo have escaped!” The King cupped his hands around his head. “They are running around town, roaming across the country.”
The counselors scratched their foreheads in disbelief. “What must we do? What must we do?” they ask each other.
“What good is a King who is not free to go on a promenade?” said the King.
“This matter is truly serious, your Majesty,” said one counselor. “These beasts could overthrow you and bite your head off,” said a bearded counselor.
“They could tear you to pieces and then eat you alive,” added another, watching the King roll his head on the table.
“I suggest we take pictures of those wild creatures, put them on posters, and shame them to death,” said with great authority the first counselor.
“I suggest that we put them on skewers and roast them like marshmallows,” said the second counselor.
“Whoever deprives me of my promenade will pay dearly,” added the King raising his fists at the ceiling.
A little girl, who had been listening, and who happened to visit the castle because she thought it was a museum, tugged at the King’s regal gown.
“Your Highness, all you need is a fabulist,” she said.
“A fabulist?” repeated the first counselor. “What kind of weapon is that?”
“Fabulists know how to talk to wild animals. It’s written in my nursery rhyme book,” she said with a preaching voice.
The counselors groaned, grumbled and groused for a while. So the King lost patience and hammered the table with his fists. “Find me a fabulist now! My promenade is awaiting me!”
The army searched the kingdom inside out, while the wild beasts slept. They searched every house and stable, galloped through every hill and waded across every valley. But no one knew of a fabulist. No one had even heard of one. Defeated, the army was bringing the king the bad news, when a general spotted a strange man under a bridge, whispering into a dog’s ear. At first the foot soldiers thought he was just a wild beast from another kingdom. His hair was long and matted, his beard dropping below his navel. He only wore rags for pants, and his body looked as bony as the starving dog he was talking to. The foot soldiers captured the man and, in a cage, brought him back to the King.
The King looked pale and sleep deprived. “Can you help me with my promenade, all these wild beasts are ruining my health? I’ll give you your own castle and food for life.” The King opened the cage. The fabulist looked around lost and said slowly: “These beasts, you’re afraid of, are trying to tell you something. But since you live too high in your tower, you cannot heed their cry.”
The King’s eyes brightened for the first time in months. “I have been ill-advised, asked to live in the clouds.” He sat next to the fabulist. “Tell me the truths you’ve learned in the wilderness.” The fabulist rose and opened the front door: “Why not just go for a walk?” he said. So the King rose and walked out.
The Girl and the Tree (#2)
In a land not so far away, a frail stalk was sprouting from the ground. It was hot, and the ground was dry, cracking in places.
“Give me some water, I’m so thirsty,” the stalk said imploring a little girl skipping by.
The little girl took a look at the drying stalk and ran away to the river to fetch water, and then with the water she watered the stalk.
“Thank you and thank you,” said the stalk, relishing the moist soil. The little girl sat by the stalk and watched it grow. The stalk grew big and became a small tree. But the weather was cold and often cloudy, and the tree was unhappy.
“Could you chase those clouds away for me, so that the sun can reach my branches and my leaves, and I can grow really tall and strong,” asked the tree.
The little girl who had grown tall too built a giant fan, and with her fan, she whisked the clouds away. She then sat back down and watched with wide eyes the tree grow tall and strong, with branches lush with leaves.
Years passed, and the little girl became an old woman, who could barely walk. The weather was windy and damp, tough on her bones, while the tree was tall and strong.
“Can I take shelter under your branches, tree?” she asked. “I wish I was tall and strong like you, but the rain is too much for my old back.”
“Of course you can,” answered the tree. “But I wish you hadn’t spent your life watching me grow and instead had become yourself a tree.”
The old ailing woman nodded with a little girl’s smile for a minute, and then she poured a jug of water over herself.
The Lion and The Monkey (#3)
A starving monkey came across a well-dressed lion eating a sandwich on a street corner, near a train station.
“Give me my sandwich,” shouted the monkey abruptly.
“No way,” answered the lion. “It’s mine. Go and get your own.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” replied the monkey with rage. Surprised, the lion glanced around and seeing no one stared at his sandwich.
“Good
try, but my sandwich doesn’t have a sandwich,” said the lion.
“Surrender now. I promise I’ll eat you without a fuss, with a fork and a knife.”
The lion chuckled and took another bite.
“Well it isn’t complaining at the moment that I’m chewing it,” said the lion with a mouth full.
“How can it complain? You just bit its head off, and it can’t hear me,” said the monkey clasping his hat with both hands.
“Excuse me but have we met before?” asked the lion perplexed.
At that moment, the monkey burst into tears. Shocked by the monkey’s effusions, the lion took once more a grave look at the rest of his sandwich.
“Forgive me,” said the monkey. My train’s leaving in ten minutes. I’m moving back to the jungle. I’m not sure how I’ll survive there.
“Why not? You look strong and healthy.”
“Maybe, maybe,” said the monkey, crouching on a doorstep. “I don’t know how to hunt anymore. I can’t even prey on a sandwich. And no one uses money in the jungle.”
The lion sat next to the monkey, deeply troubled by what the monkey had said. Lost in reflection, he offered the monkey the rest of his sandwich.
The Dog Too Close To The Ground (#4)
A sniffing and panting dog approached a dozing cat in a back alley.
“Help me please. I’ve lost my owners.”
“Lost your owners,” said the cat yawning. “How is that possible?”
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