The Boy Who Drew In The Mud and other parables

by Zachary Harper

  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 -

  fo
r 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.