Tag Archives: antifable

The Boy Who Ate a Bus

When he was only four years old he ate a box, and then went around sorting everything. His mother didn’t like it, and told him to eat his vegetables.

When he was ten, he ate a bicycle. It tasted good. At night he had dreams of going fast.

When he was fourteen, his mother took him into her bedroom and made him eat an improvised explosive device. She swore him to tell no one. He told no one.

When he was sixteen he ate a school bus. It was empty; it took a while. Afterward he thought about a career helping people.

When he was twenty-one his father made him eat a squirrel. After that he was prone to spite, very much like his father.

Then both of his parents died, of cancer. He inherited money, and a house.

When he was twenty-eight, he completed a Masters degree in sociology.

At thirty he was engaged to be married. It fell apart; he broke it off. Then he made several bad financial decisions and lost all of the money he had inherited from his father.

At thirty-two, with not prospects in sight for family or career, he concluded that he was a failure. He was angry, lost, alone.

He struggle along doing this and that, and then at thirty-five, unexpectedly, he found a bight star in the morning sky, and ate it.

After that, he immediately started a nonprofit for children. The vision, the theme, the driver — it was children helping children. He was good at this, at establishing vision, at setting up the infrastructure of the nonprofit, at putting the pieces in place, not at relationships, but he was smart enough to hire people for that. It went well. Children were helped.

Then at forty-one, stuggling with lonliness, he went to therapy and tried to make sense of everything that had happened to him.

He wasn’t able to actually figure it out, but one thing stood out, one moment with the therapist. It was just after he told her about his mom, about the IED, and his dad, about the squirrel, when she looked at him incredulously and said, “Amazing. You are amazing.”

“Why,” he asked.

“Because you” she said looking him intensely in the eyes, “You ate a bus!”


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The Lioness

When the lioness first became an marriage and family therapist, she set up her practice in a game reserve to serve the myriad of traumatized animals there. She rented an office and invited all the species in the reserve to come see her for therapy.

She had gone to a good school, and she was naturally gifted with insight. Her first clients observed this, and benefitting from their time with her, quickly spread the word about her skills.

By the end if the first day, several different kinds of animals — water buffalo, deer, wart hogs and rhinos — had come to see the lioness, and many others had made appointments.

That evening, being hungry from a hard days work, she went outside the game park and attempted to run down an antelope for dinner, that being her way , as a lioness. She was unsuccessful, and the terrified antelope got away.

The next day she was startled to find that many of her counseling appointments called on the phone and canceled.

In fact it was the case that no antelope, nor for that matter any of the animals in the area, besides the other lions, ever came to her for therapy again, and eventually her career failed, and she went into another line of work.

She became a safari guide for big game hunters.

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The Greatest

Once all the animals of the earth met for a great conclave. Their intention was to answer the much argued question: Which is the greatest species?

“We are the greatest!” trumpeted the elephants!

“No, said the blue whales, surfacing in the sea, “We are!”

The giraffes loped gracefully across a field and sang out “Look how we move!”

“But compare us!” called the swimming swans, holding their long, curved necks so proudly.as they swam on the lake.

The peregrine falcons flew up into the sky and cried out, “Watch how we dive!”

“No,” said the ostriches running, “See us!”

“Look at us; see us!” cried out all the creatures hungrily.

Then the humans spoke up. “You can all quit showing off and stop all the yelling,” they said, “Obviously we are the superior species. We have the best brains, and brains trump size, grace and speed every time!”

“How can we be sure you are smarter than us?” asked the other animals.

“The proof is easy,” said the humans. “We invented guns and bombs, and we can blow the mangy hide off the rest of you anytime we want.”

Then all the other animals cried out in fear, “Why would you do that?”

“Because we are the smartest and the greatest!” responded the humans, “and we rule you!”

Not long after that the humans got into a massive conflict with each other, as they were so want to do, and with a vicious war cry, the big-brained species pressed their bomb buttons and incinerated the planet, vaporized all the great creatures, including themselves.

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The Song of the Soil

Once upon a time there was a parcel of unhappy dirt.

“I hate myself!” It said. “I’m dirt! I live in a stupid, dead, empty lot. I grow weeds. It’s nothing!”

But one day with a clunk and a crunch the dirt was ploughed under, amended, opened back up to the sun, trellised, planted with small grape vines, fed and watered.

“I love you,” said the soaking water to the dry dirt, and ancient waters fallen from the stars soaked into the molten fires risen from the core. The soil blushed.

Then this little dirt fringe, this tattered tent of clod and dust, this corner junk yard of the earth — past home of lost leg, corroded coin, seed, shard, bone, spoon, butterfly wing, broken toy — this life-maker and death-eater, this nursery-morgue, seed bag and graveyard, this odd compounded, mingled, magic mix kissed the new grape vines planted in it. Tiny grape roots threaded the dark, welcoming soil pores below them, and small green stalks pierced the bright air above.

And all the elements of the soil danced and praised. Nitrogen shouted, phosphorus hooted, calcium clapped. Magnesium and sulphur began to waltz, and oxygen and hydrogen and all the other elemental voices of the earth sang the song of the soil.

“We love you!” sang the elements, “We love, love you, love you!”

“I love too!” sang the soil to all the budding vines. ” I love you too!”

The elements danced with the soil, the soil with the roots, the roots with the stalks, the stalks with leaves and the new leaves danced with the tiny green chalices of life ascending from the applauding soil to the singing sky above.

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Once there was a puffer who was skilled at smuff, huff and various sniffity stuff, and because of this, it was orduffed to lead a snuff.

Things went along swimmingly, and as time and space ran at its pace, the snuffers hired a team of puffers. This was good stuff, and resulted in lots of added fluff at the snuff, which fluffed and fluffed and fluffed.

However, there was one missed must. When the puffers were bemuffed, they kept it in their cuffs — sniff, sniff and sniffity snuff — except for an occasional, secret chuff-a-puff-a-muff-a-luff.

As is often the case, in such situcuffs, there was a notable lack of sniff-a-diff and no sift-a-lift.

Then came the much feared and most ominous puff of dust, and when it settled, one of the puffers was cuffed, one buffed, one huffed and one reduffed. Left was the first puffer, its wuff of fluff-a-tuffs and a much reduced snuff.

Everyone was bemuffed!


“What the huff?”

Various and curious were the respond-a-fluffs, but as it is written in the Schmuff, in 2nd Zuff, chapter juff, verse kuff:

“Chuff your stuff, don’t sniffity snuff.”

And in 1st Puff, chapter xuff, verse quff:

“Love your snuff as your own duff.”

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