Fairy Tales, Fables & Yarns For All Ages

Fairy tales are escapes into wondrous worlds. It is only our inflexible adult reasoning that tells us that they are just for children. Fables, too, are disdainfully disregarded by grown-ups, in spite of the valuable life lessons that they often provide. It is only yarns and tall tales that are permitted to dwell in the structured world of the adult. I have compiled this collection of silly, inconsequential stories and poems to satisfy the child in any of us that has been handicapped by active imagination, and has been unable to fully embrace the responsible, pedantic adult world.

A few of these little stories were written for my children, as they journeyed from childhood, to adolescence to adulthood. I hope that the tales have allowed them to avoid becoming staid grownups. A few of these yarns were written for staid adults. I am glad to say that they, for a few moments anyway, were able to become irresponsible children again. A couple – specifically, the romantic poems – were written for my wife, who I hope will not be terribly upset that I have shared private thoughts with the world. Many were written just for me. No reason, other than that I like being a perpetual child.

For those of you who dare to explore wondrous worlds, even if you do so in the secrecy of your own hidden sanctums, I welcome you to my haven. Please enjoy, and thank you.

But I would like to extend a huge thank you to those people around me who have enabled me to dream up this collection of foolishness: Claude & Ginette, George and Marlene – great friends who have just a little of the young child in their hearts; my truly youthful wife, Janice and my children and bonus children – Jason, Cheryl, Donna, Corinne, Amanda, Garett, Jason and Melissa. May they all be granted the handicap of eternal childhood!

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Pickin Cotton

Train Of Life Manifest

Life’s Quest

Lies Of The Blue Bottle Fly

Called Home

Love’s Caresses

Wapiti

Subservient God

Wild Rosie

Erotica

Of Fleas ‘n Stuff

Rationale

Cloak Of Love

Death Of An Anabolic Friendship

Dream Master

A Different Perspective

Lover’s Jewel

Welcome The Prodigal Home

Nature’s Way

Old Goat

Wolf Pack

The Marquis Holds Court

Inchworm

Self-made God

Just Dandy

Don’t Forget To Duck

Gnarly Neighbours

Empty Nest

The Pond

Even High Fliers Must Eat A Little Garbage

The Green Doesn’t Last Forever

Thistledown

Imagine

Bitter End

Breakup

Good Times And Bad Times

The Pull Of The Great Ocean

Brambles & Tangles

Fool’s Gold

Love Steps

Feast And Famine

My Woodland Cinderella

Impressions

False Love’s Metamorphosis

About The Author

Pickin’ Cotton

He was born Mose Henry Cotton, but, being the first son of Henry Willie Cotton, his parents just took to calling him Sonny. Sonny was born to be unique. By the age of six, he had made himself a guitar, sort of, from the top and bottom of an old detergent barrel and a length of hard wood. His playing days had begun. Unlike the sons of the Deep South, Mose never blew into a harmonica, never found a love for the brass horns as he grew older. Sure, he did occasionally pluck the banjo, even fiddled with the violin some, but Sonny Mose Cotton just preferred to be picking away on his guitar. So, it was inevitable that his friends took to calling him Pickin’ Cotton. It was an almost clever play on words. But that Mose Cotton sure could play!

By the 1960s, Pickin’ had become one of the most loved blues players in North America. His own brand of blues could lift the spirits of the most disheartened listener. Not Delta, Jump, Chicago, Country, Rhythm or any other genre of blues, Mose played a style that bore more resemblance to the wail of a Louisiana swamp bird, or the trill of a southern warbler, or the sweet notes of the meadowlark, oriole or whippoorwill than it did to the nasal and mournful twang of a blues guitar. Indeed, the sounds that swelled from Cotton’s guitar were akin to the most beautiful sounds of nature. They were uplifting, while he sang of deep sadness, beguiling and happy when the lyrics talked of oppression and personal loss.

There was no other artist, in any field of music that could elicit the sounds from a simple string instrument in the way that Pickin’ Cotton could do. Yet, he revealed the secrets of his technique to no one. In spite of the popularity of his unique sounds, Mose remained relatively obscure. Few radio stations, beyond the reach of black radio, carried his work. And, it seemed, that satisfied Mose. As time passed, he did venture further afield from his beloved Louisiana, to play in nightclubs, bars and many back yards across the mid-south and into Chicago, but Mose preferred to be at home, in the swamps, isolated from the human world.

Sonny Pickin’ Mose Cotton had a secret, and it was a secret that was best kept where it originated: in the swamps and backwoods of Louisiana. No, it was not one of THOSE secrets. But it was huge, nonetheless. Sonny had a secret relationship, one that none of his friends knew of, and, certainly, one that no woman knew anything about. Clandestine, it had been Mose’s intimate liaison for three decades, since he was less than six.

Deep in the woods and waters, Sonny met daily, even hourly with his intimate muses, for there was more than one. There were tanagers and vireos, flycatchers and phoebes, doves and kingfishers, parakeets and kisadees. They all sang to him, cooed with him, and played their unique mating calls for his enjoyment. They were his friends, and his inspiration. More, they were his teachers.

As a child, Sonny had developed a special bond with nature, so much so that nature adopted him. When he should have been sleeping, he was listening and talking with the whippoorwills or nightjars. When he should have been at school, he was curled up at the foot of a tree, learning his lessons from the songsters in the branches. When he should have been doing chores, he was digging up worms and catching insects for his feathered friends. In turn, the terns taught him how to whistle, the gulls taught him how to wail, the orioles taught him how to chirp and pluck notes in smooth succession from the air and the doves taught him how to coo. He was one of them.

But there were provisos placed on his furtive friendships. The birds, as one, required that he keep to himself the secret of his repertoire of notes, lest others invade the swamps and dark woodlands, driving the birds from their ancestral homes. Mose was glad to agree.

And he did so, for thirty years. But, fame is an evil siren, and, as Pickin’s popularity grew, so did the pressure to reveal his secrets. Record labels came calling, and, in advance of the army of producers, would-be managers arrived on his doorstep daily.

Just imagine the money you could have.

Mose was disinterested.

Imagine the wonderful things you could buy.

Mose could care less. He had all he needed.

Think of the fame, and the millions of adoring fans. Think of the women who would fawn over you.

Mose reconsidered. He had never had a true woman in his life. It was part of the power of his blues wailings – the cry for companionship.

You could have your choice of female company.

Mose thought hard. In the swamps and bayous, every bird had a mate, someone special in his and her lives. Certainly, his winged friends could not deny him the same prerogative! He considered the consequences.

Yes, he would do it. But first, he would make the music company swear to secrecy. Then, he could tell his aviarian friends that he had mostly kept his promise. And so, drawn by the promise of personal satiation, Sonny Mose Pickin’ Cotton exposed to the world the secret of the wondrous notes that emanated from his guitar. To the world, because, in spite of the producer’s promise, the music label had fantastic lawyers, and they knew, better than a backwoods blues man, how to manipulate a deal.

At first, Mose’s music soared to incredible heights. Women, indeed, did fall in love with him, around the world. He was joyous.

But soon, too, fans flocked to the bayous, eager to soak up their own measure of swamp delight. The birds’ homes were decimated, with thousand of winged songsters netted into captivity, where eager and selfish captors tried to goad the birds into relinquishing their secret warbles. All failed.

The whistlers and warblers of the woods knew that they had erred in trusting any human, Mose included. No longer did they commune with him, except for a few conniving ones. The gulls, the vultures, the crows and jays all offered to teach Mose new songs and melodies. And Mose listened, ravenously. But the notes that they taught had none of the magic of the others, and, overnight, Pickin’ Cotton disappeared from the public eye, ostracized by the birds, disregarded by humans.

Sonny Pickin’ Cotton has not stopped making music, though. Today, an old man, he sits alone under his own warped and mangled tree, plucking his guitar. The sounds? Pure, sad, stomach-wrenching blues. Like every other blues song. Except these come from his heart, because Mose now knows true blues. And he wishes he didn’t.

Train of Life Manifest

"Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one. 51 boxcars, daddy. The little girl smiled at her father, so proud to show him that she could count that high.

Her father smiled back at his little girl, seated in the car beside him, at the railway crossing. She was growing up, all right. Barely five, and able to take pride in what she was becoming.

I wish I could ride on that train, now, daddy. It was a wish she wished, out loud, every time the two of them saw a train. I wish I could go with that train to all the places it visits.

And, every time her father would say Some day, little one. Some day.

Predictably, on the next occasion, she would wish, and he would reply, Some day, little one. Some day.

So, it was with some bewilderment, on this occasion, that the little girl waited for the customary response. Then, she fleshed her thought out for her father. Some day, right, daddy?

Her father smiled again. No, little one. Not some day. Right now. Right now you are going on a train. Just close your eyes, and listen to me.

Being five, the little one never thought to question, or disbelieve. Her eyes closed.

Hear the train whistle, pint sized?

Whether it was her imagination, or the recently passed train, in the distance, she heard, and nodded vigourously.

Good. Good. Now this is a special train, a magic train, so you must keep your eyes shut tightly for the whole trip if you wish to see exciting, and magic things. Ready? Let’s be off.

The girl could feel the vibration and swaying of the train immediately.

Now, remember, your eyes must be closed to see. See where we are? See the conductor? See all the dials and buttons up here in the engine car?

She could. She really could see it all! And with her eyes closed!

The conductor pulled a few levers, pushed a few buttons, tapped a few dials and lights, and the train lurched forward. Ever so slowly, it began to rumble down the track.

Faster, daddy. I want it to go faster.

Be patient, little one. It takes a lot of work to get things going, and there’s a lot of work this engine has to do.

How well she knew that! Many times she had counted twenty, or thirty, or even forty cars being pulled by one engine, or two. Why, sometimes she even counted fifty or so, and then had to start all over (because she couldn’t find the next numbers after 50), and had got to twenty or forty more. That was, for sure, a lot of work for an engine to do. Still, she was in a hurry.

Don’t hurry the journey along, my child. The end of the track will get there soon enough. And we have to stop along the way, many times yet. This is a very, very long trip we are on.

The little girl listened, and believed. The train rolled on, for what seemed like forever. As each wheel clacked and clicked over the rail gaps, she saw new and exciting wonders.

What is that, daddy?

Why, it’s a mother robin teaching her baby to fly.

And again she would ask, What is that, daddy?

Why, it’s two little creeks holding hands, and growing bigger and stronger together.

Again, What is that, daddy?

It’s a bull elk, protecting its friends against the wolf.

The trip lasted, and lasted, and lasted. Perhaps years, perhaps seconds. And still, the little girl asked, and listened, and learned. "What is that, daddy?’

Sometimes her father had to tell her things that were not so pleasant.

Why, that’s a weasel, stealing eggs. Or, Why, that’s a fox, destroying the rabbit’s burrow. Even harsher truths often had to be told. That’s a dead deer, killed by a careless man, or That’s a lovebird, that died of a broken heart because no one was around for her to love.

But most often the experiences were joyous, the journey a pleasure. And still, it continued.

The little girl seemed to be not so little, now. Sometimes, dreams came to her, as she scrunched her eyes tightly shut like her father told her to do. Dreams that she was going to school, meeting friends, doing lots of other novel things. She even dreamed she was growing taller, getting bigger, and the world around her was changing. But the train ride continued onward.

One day, her curiosity got the better of her. She had been, it seemed, in that engine room with her father for what seemed like years, and she was growing restless.

I want to see the rest of the train.

With that, she looked to the rear.

Her father sighed the sigh of a father with a teenage child. OK, let’s go, then.

The first few cars were crammed to the ceiling with what appeared to be nothing but rulers, and measuring sticks, and measuring cups of all sizes and shapes.

Daddy, why are we hauling these things on the train? They’re useless. Already, it seemed, she spoke like a teenager.

They are important, very important, was all he would say. They moved backward to the next series of cars.

These cars were equally puzzling to the girl. "But Daddy. All that’s in here are dozens, even hundreds of safes, and cash boxes, and money belts. And they’re all empty except for little scraps in each one. What possible value could they have?

Believe me, those are not scraps. Those are the rarest of possible belongings. And they moved backward in the train.

The next few cars were crammed full of people. Strangers, for the most part. All milling around. All getting in the way. The young lady was growing frustrated. Absolutely useless, she steamed.

Absolutely essential, her father corrected.

They had passed through perhaps thirty-five or more cars by now, and the young woman was tiring of the exploration, and of the trip.

What could the engineer of this train possibly have been thinking! This entire train is a waste of time, and a waste of energy! It’s going nowhere of importance, and it’s carrying no cargo of any value!

She only proceeded to the next series of cars at her father’s urging. Each car contained greater and greater junk, in her view. In her father’s opinion, there was greater and greater treasure in each trip to the rear of the train. But the end of the train seemed to be getting further and further away, as the unit magically grew more and more cars. The woman peered out the window of one unit, perhaps fifty cars into the train, and could still see no end in sight. But she was in less of a hurry now. And sometimes, the next car held a familiar surprise. Perhaps a familiar face appeared, or a pleasurable experience would occur to make the trip seem more enjoyable. In fact, as she moved from car to car, she was finding that she would open the cabin door eagerly in anticipation of a new or familiar experience. The train ride was a delight, once again.

Somewhere between the sixtieth and sixty-fifth car, though, she came to a stark realization. Her father was no longer by her side. An incredible sadness overwhelmed her, and for what seemed like months, she could summon no strength, to either move forward, or go back.

At long last, a voice within beckoned her. Move on,’ it bellowed. Move on to the rear."

The old lady picked herself up, and trekked onward. But each car now revealed both new and old to her.

Why, there’s that ruler – that rule that I learned about in the third car, she would say to herself. Or, "Why, that’s the value that was in