The Nick Klaus's Fables (3 page)

“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?”

“We were walking down the street. I turned
round and . . . they were gone,” the dog said, howling in pain. The
cat scratched its head, considering.

“What did they look like?”

“Two humans with hair, only on their heads.
Two long legs, with shoes with mangled shoelaces. Gum too stuck
below the soles.”

“Did they belong to you, these humans?” said
the cat.

“No, I belonged to them!”

“Just what I thought, you haven’t lost
anything. So why are you so sad?” said the cat tucking its paws
back below its head. The dog stopped sniffing and raised its head
for the first time. He peered around and then fled down the
street.

The Boots and The
Stairs
(#5)

Two muddy heavy boots went up an old house’s
wooden stairs.

“Not so fast,” said the left boot out of
breath. “These stairs are exhausting.”

“Yes, they’re steep,” answered the right
boot. “But we’re almost there.”

The stairs was eavesdropping. “Oh stop
whining both of you! You call me exhausting and steep?” interrupted
the stairs. “You come up and down, never stop to say hello, and I
go on working. You skip and shuffle, bounce and stomp, and even
take breaks on my steps, and you don’t hear me whinging.”

“You have no reason to complain old stairs,
at least you don’t have to wear smelly socks the whole day,” said
the boots in chorus.

“But you don’t have people partying on your
steps and dropping furniture that scrapes your back and breaks the
life out of your banister. You two get to go to all these places
and see the sun and the blue seas.”

“Oh yeah?” said the left boot. “I’d like to
see you going around the world with the same partner all the time.
I always have to turn right when my nature fancies going left.”

“Listen cantankerous fool, you don’t have to
be in the cold and be covered with mud. You get swept and washed
once a week,” added the right boot.

“You don’t understand,” said the stairs.
“I’d like to run back in the wood, smell the fresh grass, and feel
the morning rain of my youth.”

“May your wishes be granted,” said the left
boot. “We belong to an engineer, who is here to install an
elevator.”

“And soon, all these people you’ve carried
over the years, you’ll be left alone with their stories, neglected”
added the right boot.

The stairs fell silent, closed its eyes and
reflected at the news.

“Could you come back next summer?” it said,
with a shaking voice.

Two Fleas on a Rainy
Day
(#6)

A pelting rain was falling, and two fleas, a
mother and daughter, were waiting outside a hairdresser shop.

“I don’t want to mess my hair. Shall we
hitch a ride back?” said the mother.

“Your rides itch me the wrong way?” said her
daughter, without a smile. The mother grinned. First came a black
greyhound. “Cool, we’ll be home in no time,” said the daughter.

“Never ride a dog with short hair in a rain
like this. If it shakes itself dry, we’re sure to fly off and end
up walking ourselves to death,” said the mother.

The daughter rolled her eyes. They waited
and within a minute came this matted long-haired mutt lurching on a
beaten leash at the end of which was attached a hunched limping
woman. The mutt’s muzzle was vacuuming everything in sight. The
daughter pulled a face. The mother’s eyes brightened.

“Look at this coat. Thick and tangled. Must
be a jungle in there.”

“You sure? It’s slow like a snail,” the
daughter said. Before she could blink, the mother had hopped on the
little scruff ball. They landed both on the left hind leg.

A family of fleas was sitting for dinner.
They looked at their uninvited guests with unwelcome glances.
Tongue-tied, mother and daughter retreated to the other hind leg.
Groups of parents with their children waited eagerly in their
swimsuits with masks and fins by a shaved patch. The mother twisted
her lips: “Let’s go. This jungle’s too crowded.” But the daughter’s
face brightened.

Suddenly a rush of excitement came over the
group. A huge wave crashed over the shaved patch as the dog
trampled into a puddle, splashing everyone nearby. Mother and
daughter were soaked, but their hair was spared. To make the matter
worse, the Greyhound ran over, sniffed the shaved patch and licked
it, swallowing the mother alive.

“Missed me!” sneered the daughter, jumping
onto the Greyhound’s muzzle, who just at this moment shook off all
the water from his coat, sending the flea flying into the puddle of
muddy water, messing up her hair.

The Big Plastic Day
(#7)

Once upon a time there was a family of
plastic bags, living tightly in a box at a grocery store. Huddled
against each other, wrinkle-free, they keep each other company.
Junior was different. He stuck out slightly from the pile and
already had wrinkles. But the family forgave his messiness. His
humor was welcome while the family waited during the cold and damp
winter months for the big day.

The big day arrived the following week. The
family members held their breath at the end of the register’s belt.
First went the seniors, all stuffed with toilet paper and boxes of
tissues. Then the parents, with fresh vegetables and roasted
chicken and spices. And then the children, with junk food, candies,
and ice cream. Junior was among them but bloated and sweating,
trying not to burst. The family frowned at him not to cry.

Luckily, they all headed towards the same
cart. The family rejoiced at staying together, moving to their new
house and embracing a new life. Junior was last to come on board.
But as he was lifted up, one of his creased handles broke. Right
away, he was discarded. Junior looked from the floor, his family
been carted away. He called and cried, but shamed, they turned
their back on the damaged bag.

That night, the cleaners shoved Junior in
the trash. The next day, the wind blew strong and sent Junior
reeling up in the air, tumbling down a street, and getting hooked
on a pole at a market fair. A beggar found it. He tied the broken
handle with a knot and took Junior to the local dumpster to fetch
his dinner.

At the dumpster, the beggar filled Junior with
leftover vegetables and chicken. Junior was confident and strong
again. The knot was solid. The beggar threw Junior over his
shoulder, and Junior noticed his family, kicking and screaming
inside a blue bag, at the bottom of the dumpster. Still, he shed a
tear, as helpless he was carried away.

Pony
Tale
(#8)

In a crowded subway car, two ponytails stood across
each other. One was long, jet-black and silky, and looked stiff.
The other was long blond, curly and looked rather sad. The black
tail kept bouncing sideways while the blond one kept observing
quietly. After a while, the blond tail caught the black ponytail’s
attention. “Would you take my picture,” it asked.

“Why should I take your picture? I don’t know you,”
answered the black tail.

“If you take my picture, then you’ll know me.”

“What makes you think I want to get to know you?”
answered the black tail.

Morose, the blond tail reflected for a while. The
black tail just rode along, looking off in the distance, unbothered
by the blond ponytail’s begging glances.

“This is a very sad day for me,” it said after a
while. “My owner is taking me to the abattoir.”

Intrigued, the black tail looked askance. “What do
you mean?”

“I heard it last night. In an hour or so they’re
going to cut off most of me . . .” Too distraught, the blond tail
couldn’t finished its sentence.

“You mean like you’re going to end up all chopped up
on the floor.”

The blond tail looked down without swaying.

“Don’t worry, you’ll grow back long and strong,”
said the black tail sighing.

“It took a lifetime it took to get this long.”

“Still I envy you,” added the black ponytail. The
blond ponytail looked up full of curiosity for the first time. The
black ponytail continued: “I may look all pretty and silky, but I
will never grow again. You see I’m just completely fake. I don’t
get greasy, don’t need a trim. I’m a wig that should live in a
museum.”

Feeling terrible for the black wig, the blond
ponytail took a deep breath. It grabbed its camera and took a
picture of the black ponytail.

The Front Tooth’s
Journey
(#9)

The baby front tooth was unhappy when it learned
that someday it would have to go on a long journey. It was so mad
that it refused to talk to its baby sister and brother teeth for
two days. On the third day, while everyone was still half-asleep,
with nervous giggles to reassure itself, it stated: “I like milk
and candies best! No way I’m ever going to let anyone deprive me of
them.” Proud and firmly still it stood in the gum, while the other
baby teeth yawned. Upset that no one listened, the baby front tooth
repeated itself, hoping for some understanding. But breakfast came,
and all of the teeth went to work. The front baby tooth shone,
chewed twice as hard, with pride, to forget the rumor that it had
heard. Something unpleasant, however, was brewing.

Towards lunchtime, it woke up with a sore. At first
it pretended nothing was wrong. It was too afraid to fidget and
looked around as if all was well. The other teeth were chatting
away, quibbling over what was coming their way for lunch. Then the
front tooth felt something shifting down its waist. The gum was
loose. Like a carrot ill-planted, the tooth was swinging.

“Apparently, the big teeth are coming soon,” it
heard a baby upper molar state. “How do you know that?” asked a
baby lower molar.

“I can feel you crushing and pushing me,” said the
upper molar.

Terrified, the baby front tooth pretended to be
tired. It yawned and mumbled something at the remark.

By dinner the wiggling could no longer be ignored.
The baby front tooth was losing its tether. A neighbor, known for
its pranks, noticed the front tooth swaying. The baby front tooth
shrunk back in fear.

“Ah, say you what to this joggle? Lucky you to have
such a wobble.”

“Is it true I’m heading for a long journey?”
whispered the baby front tooth.

“You can’t jiggle without wriggling even less
wriggle without jiggling. Off you go to the land of fairies.”

“Of fairies?” repeated the front tooth, eyes wide
open. “But I’m a baby front tooth. What would I do there?”

“You’ll spend the night in a bed. Alone. Most likely
inside a box. Under a pillow. And then a fairy will come and scoop
you out.”

“But I’m not an ice-cream!” said the baby front
tooth feeling the scraping and digging pain. “I want to stay here,
drink my milk and munch my candies.”

“Then run before it’s too late,” suggested the
prankster.

Without waiting another second, the baby front tooth
climbed out of its gum’s socket, saying: “I’m not afraid of
fairies, but that does not mean I want to meet them.”

Too late, the front tooth fell into the mouth.

All the other baby teeth burst into laughter and
clapped away. Far from being afraid, the baby front tooth giggled,
while bouncing and bobbing and rolling on the tongue. It got pushed
to the edge of the throat. The baby tooth clung with all its might
not to fall into the stomach. Then came a cough. And without even
saying its goodbye, while seeing the light of day for the first
time, off it went on its fairy’s journey.

When We Grow Up
(#10)

Sheltered from the strong currents by a heavy ocean
rock, a group of baby lobsters were gathered in a circle around Ms.
lobster teacher. Except for Feisty who stood half way hiding below
the rock, unwilling to participate. Ms. lobster teacher noticed
Feisty and cracked a smile.

“Today, we’re going to talk about what we would like
to do when we grow up. Who would like to start?”

“I’d like to be a shipwreck cleaner,” said the first
baby lobster in the front row, fishing for praise with swift
glances towards the other baby lobsters.

“A shipwreck cleaner,” repeated Ms. lobster teacher,
clapping her claws. That is wonderful.”

“I’d like to be a bottle collector,” squeaked the
voice of a baby lobster in the back row.

“Does anyone know why one of your classmates wants
to be a bottle collector?” said Ms. lobster teacher. No one
replied. “Because there are many bottles lying at the bottom of the
ocean, and someone has to take care of them.”