Nick Klaus's Fables

by Frederic Colier

large colorful fish were towards goldfish. To avoid their attacks, he spent the rest of his life hiding under a rock and dreamt about the good old days, when he could swim freely in the small fishbowl, and about his dreams, which could have become almost anything.

  The Tree in the Forest (#32)

  Once upon a time, there was a tree in the forest. No one could quite see it, because the tree lived deep in the forest, and the tree loved living deep in the forest where no one could see it.

  When the storms came, he gently bent cushioned in its sway. The other trees, growing on the edge of the forest, often fell in a whimper and a roar like bowling skittles or loose candles, snapping under the nasty gales. The tree never got too wet either. It was sheltered from the heavy rain by the sturdy trees surrounding it, which shielded its canopy intact. When the harsh winter came, the snow and the frost hit mainly the first rows of trees at the edge of the forest, sometimes killing them with its brutal ruthless cold breath. The tree could stay warm, thanks to the felled trees insulating its roots.

  During the summer of high temperatures, the sunrays barely reached its canopy or burned its branches, which never suffered from drought. The other arid trees around kept its foliage moist. The tree was sound and protected. When the worrisome trees gossiped about the fire running down the hills and rushing towards them, the tree did not worry too much either. It knew it had nothing to fear. The outer trees, the ones living at the edge of the forest will be rendered to cinder. When the mad enraged fire arrived, its flames pounced on the first rows of trees and swallowed them up alive. Even though the tree was terrified when the heat licked its branches, it survived intact, thanks to the charred trees standing before like a dam keeping the flames at bay and threatening to smother them to rest. The flames retreated and the tree deep in the forest could breathe free again. When the surviving trees shook their scorched stumpy branches and coughed black smoke in admiration at the loftiness of the tree, the tree simply said: “I shook my leaves so hard that I scared the flames off.” Every age-circle in its trunk, however, knew how lucky it was to live deep in the forest.

  Years went by, and the tree grew even stronger. One day towards the beginning of Fall, way after the snow storms had passed and the heavy spring rains had subsided, and the suffocating summer heat, leaving the soil parched and shriveled, had abated, timber men came to the forest.

  They took a look at all the damaged trees living at the edge of the forest and put a frown on their faces. The trees looked shabby, beaten down by the inclement weather and fires. Some had missing branches. Some had splintered trunks. Some grew sideways in bent shapes or had shrunken trunks and sparse canopies. None satisfied the timber men’s hunger for beautiful trees. So they walked deep in the forest, hoping to find vigorous and proud trees. And they stumbled upon the tree, which after so many years of being sheltered had grown into a beast of nature. Stronger, taller, and more imposing than any other tree around. The timber men brought their tools and cut down that tree first.

  The Anonymous Tree

  Once upon a time, there was a tree in the forest. No one could quite see it, because the tree lived deep in the forest, and the tree loved living deep in the forest where no one could see it.

  When the storms came, he gently bent cushioned in its sway. The other trees, growing on the edge of the forest, often fell in a whimper and a roar like bowling skittles or loose candles, snapping under the nasty gales. The tree never got too wet either. It was sheltered from the heavy rain by the sturdy trees surrounding it, which shielded its canopy intact. When the harsh winter came, the snow and the frost hit mainly the first rows of trees at the edge of the forest, sometimes killing them with its brutal ruthless cold breath. The tree could stay warm, thanks to the felled trees insulating its roots.

  During the summer of high temperatures, the sunrays barely reached its canopy or burned its branches, which never suffered from drought. The other arid trees around kept its foliage moist. The tree was sound and throve in the environment. When wary trees gossiped about the fire running down the hills and rushing towards them, the tree did not think much either. It knew it had nothing to dread. It would leave the outer trees, the ones living at the edge of the forest, to be smoldered and shield its foliage. But the trees talked among themselves. “We should protect each other, grow thicker branches, and thicker bark.” The tree agreed, though he never took the lead or volunteered to move in the front line. It was very happy where it was hiding deep in the forest.

  When the demented fire finally appeared, its flames leaped on the first rows of trees and devoured them. The tree was terrified. The heat licked its branches. It survived intact, thanks to the charred trees crumbling before them and beating the flames to a forced retreat. They never got to the heart the forest or to the tree hiding among the other trees.

  Years went by, and the tree grew even stronger. One day towards the beginning of Fall, way after the snow storms had passed and the heavy spring rains had subsided, and the suffocating summer heat, leaving the soil parched and shriveled, had dwindled, the tree felt something strange tickling him at the bottom of his roots. An ant farm had taken residence in such safe ground. Very quickly the tree felt its food supply shrinking. It bemoaned its soil being depleted. Not much later, in the middle of the night, it woke up with a start when it heard one of its branches collapse to the ground. Then its bark started to peel off. The tree was cold and sore, especially when birds would peck at its naked exposed trunk. It complained to the other trees, begged them to protect him. But the trees had other preoccupations to mull over. They had to get ready for the next sneaky winter and late spring and sly summer. No one responded to its calls.

  Few more years passed after the first fire and snowstorms, and the tree that once stood with pride in the middle of the forest had now grown old and weak and gaunt. One late Fall evening, gusts of wind blew stronger than usual, and the tree fell to the ground. And no one heard it crash, or noticed anything, or remarked it its disappearance, or even knew it ever existed.

  The Wary Sandbox (#34)

  A sandbox baking in the sun attracted the attention of a family of scorpions, driving around for a new place to camp.

  “Look over there,” said the father, pointing his enormous claws at the red sign saying sandbox. “Wouldn’t it be a beautiful spot to catch some sun and settle down for the rest of the summer and even beyond?” The sandbox had a tall inviting curly dune, carved by the wind, whose crest gleamed in the sun. A short brick wall protected the golden sand from the world outside. It was so inviting.

  Without wasting another moment, the family headed towards the large sandbox, babbling and dreaming of the wonderful life they would lead, delighted at the prospect to share new memories, memories they would nurture for years to come. Eager, they stood at the foot of the dune ready to explore their newfound land.

  “It’s like a return to our roots, back when our ancestors lived in the desert,” said the mother, drying the tears streaming down her face.

  “Look children at all the space you have now to wiggle and squirm about,” added the father clapping in enormous claws in pride.

  “No one will come and bug us here,” yelled the children rushing up the dune. The sandbox was so wide and the sand so high that they could not see the end or the top of it. Soon the parents joined the children and climbed what felt for them like a large mountain to better appreciate the vastness of their find.

  The view was breathtaking. The ugly smoggy town stretched for miles on the blurry horizon, and a jungle of concrete towers around chocked it with a veil of gummy smoke. The scorpions did not care. They stood on top of paradise. It was theirs to keep. “We’ll built a new life here and protect it from dangerous intruders.”

  But the oldest son heard something that made him jitter. The parents followed his frown and gaped down at the other side of the dune, and to their horror spotted a family of rattlesnakes lounging in the su
n, the young writhing around a saucepan half-full with rainwater. Tail erected in self-defense, the scorpions swore at once to defend their territory, their slice of paradise corrupted. The daughter sniveled, lamenting the snakes would swallow her up alive during the night. As the young were burying themselves in the scorching sand, and the father shook his head in disgust, the mother stepped in.

  “There’s enough space for everyone. The snakes can’t climb up. If we stay on this side of the dune . . .” She never finished her sentence but they understood.

  Wary, they watched their neighbors slithering at the bottom of the dune to the beat of loud speakers, drinking tall glasses with long colorful straws, the reflection of their shiny glistening skins blinding them at times.

  The children pointed their stingers in wrath. “Don’t they dare come near us.”

  “Put your stinger away,” ordered the father, folding his claws to set the example. The family trudged back down the dune in sorrow, only to freeze.

  “Now what?” said the father as a bus pulled outside the sandbox and a band of turtles crawled out, which took considerable times, given how slow they were.

  “There’s no way we can stay