Post by Dagothkitty on May 22, 2007 15:48:24 GMT -5
Here is a fable for you. Enjoy.
There is a place, not far from here, where the leaves of autumn don’t fall for many months. Here, the snow does not flutter down to the Earth for a long, long time. Here, the birds always sing, hoping among the tree top branches, uttering their beautiful melodies. Here, all folk are kind, untouched by the corruption of media. They gather nightly under one roof, and share stories of what the day has brought, sipping their ales and cider while listening intently to one another.
In this land, their was a small farm, occupied by an old farmer. In spite of the small quantities of workers on the farm, there was a enough crop and livestock to be tended to to keep a man busy from sunrise to sunset. Though the workers did not know it, the livestock often commented on the workers, though to the humans ears, they were only ‘oinks’, and ‘moos’.
In this farm, there was a pen full of pen. They would often times stuff themselves with the farmers food, ungrateful and ignorant of what they were really doing to themselves. There, in this pen, was a pig unnamed, an outcast. To the standard of pigs living in the pen, he was none as, ‘loner’, and that had soon turned into Louis, after a strange assortment of names over the years, contorting and twisting to eventually settle on this name.
One fine morning, more beautiful then usual, Louis sat on the edge of the pen, watching the sun arise over the lush, green hills, dotted with vineyards, farms, and pastures. The sun was a comforting commodity, Louis always welcomed it’s warming beams. The light rid al of the nights cold, and all the dew evaporated into the clean, pure air. The farmers were up as usual. Louis sat and watched them run to and from, being able to name the task they were running to. He was there and observed frequently enough, to know their schedule. The other pigs may have too, less they were not always stuffing themselves.
But Louis was not like them. He watched the other gorge themselves in their food, growing fatter and fatter, until it was a task for them to move to their beds. They dines all day, but not Louis, no, not Louis. Only at night, when the other were fast asleep, reveling in their dreams of delicious grain, only then does Louis attempt to promote himself some food; only enough to get by. See, Louis was not greedy, self-centered, or any other trait others would call negative, no, he was prudent, and soon, it would pay off. Louis slept under the stars as always, basking in their sanguine light, a light to promote dreams and other great sensations one can witness only in ones sleep.
The next day, Louis woke with a start. It was early morning, and the suns light was only now starting to peak over the auburn hills around the pasture. His fellow pigs were already stuffing themselves. Louis declined his head in pity for them. Foolish. Louis was no thicker then a twig, and these other behemoths were four times his size. Some, though, were only now waking, and abruptly knocked Louis aside, his face landing in the mud. The cursed at him, and stepped on him to protect their magnificent pink coats from being molested by the mud. They took no heed directly at Louis, but when they wanted to, they stomped, cursed, spat-on, and hit the poor swine. This continued for a ling, long time…
Louis woke his eyes sharp, his senses so a tuned, that the barrel of hay gave him a jump. The others were up, and again they tried to strike down Louis in a terrible stampede to their food bin. But, he had acquired agility from all of these rushes, and he dodged the mammoths. It was fall now, and the leaves of the trees once lush and green were now contracting a color of reds, oranges, and yellows, a symptom of autumn. The simple commodity of movement made Louis’s joints scream, his muscles contract, and his bruises wail, and he fell over, eyes squinted in a futile effort to ignore the pain, the pain of the hours of torment brought to him by his once-thought-to-be friends. Once more, the farmers were up more earlier then usual today. Louis watched the farmers walk their routes, and he envied them, for their freedom, for their superiority. Louis’s thoughts ended abruptly as the pigs across the pen started to whine. Their bins were empty, torture for these swine. Louis smiled to himself.
A broad shouldered farmer wielding some strange stick opened the pen, and led the pigs into the open. They followed ignorantly, blinded by their desire for food. Thus they followed the ones who had always fed them. The farmer led them into a shed only opened annually. The doors were bolted shut. A beam of wood crossed the space between the two doors, rendering the shed secure. Louis started to grin now, as dumbly the pigs walked single file into the shed.
Hours later, the farmer opened the doors. He wore a bloodstained apron, and brought bags after bags of fresh cut meat. The sun was setting now, and Louis had grown tired. He was not as young as he once was. The farmer walked over to the pen and stared down at the helpless, frail and skinny pig before him. “You don’t have enough meat on you. We will have to save you for next year.” And, at this, Louis started to laugh.
There is a place, not far from here, where the leaves of autumn don’t fall for many months. Here, the snow does not flutter down to the Earth for a long, long time. Here, the birds always sing, hoping among the tree top branches, uttering their beautiful melodies. Here, all folk are kind, untouched by the corruption of media. They gather nightly under one roof, and share stories of what the day has brought, sipping their ales and cider while listening intently to one another.
In this land, their was a small farm, occupied by an old farmer. In spite of the small quantities of workers on the farm, there was a enough crop and livestock to be tended to to keep a man busy from sunrise to sunset. Though the workers did not know it, the livestock often commented on the workers, though to the humans ears, they were only ‘oinks’, and ‘moos’.
In this farm, there was a pen full of pen. They would often times stuff themselves with the farmers food, ungrateful and ignorant of what they were really doing to themselves. There, in this pen, was a pig unnamed, an outcast. To the standard of pigs living in the pen, he was none as, ‘loner’, and that had soon turned into Louis, after a strange assortment of names over the years, contorting and twisting to eventually settle on this name.
One fine morning, more beautiful then usual, Louis sat on the edge of the pen, watching the sun arise over the lush, green hills, dotted with vineyards, farms, and pastures. The sun was a comforting commodity, Louis always welcomed it’s warming beams. The light rid al of the nights cold, and all the dew evaporated into the clean, pure air. The farmers were up as usual. Louis sat and watched them run to and from, being able to name the task they were running to. He was there and observed frequently enough, to know their schedule. The other pigs may have too, less they were not always stuffing themselves.
But Louis was not like them. He watched the other gorge themselves in their food, growing fatter and fatter, until it was a task for them to move to their beds. They dines all day, but not Louis, no, not Louis. Only at night, when the other were fast asleep, reveling in their dreams of delicious grain, only then does Louis attempt to promote himself some food; only enough to get by. See, Louis was not greedy, self-centered, or any other trait others would call negative, no, he was prudent, and soon, it would pay off. Louis slept under the stars as always, basking in their sanguine light, a light to promote dreams and other great sensations one can witness only in ones sleep.
The next day, Louis woke with a start. It was early morning, and the suns light was only now starting to peak over the auburn hills around the pasture. His fellow pigs were already stuffing themselves. Louis declined his head in pity for them. Foolish. Louis was no thicker then a twig, and these other behemoths were four times his size. Some, though, were only now waking, and abruptly knocked Louis aside, his face landing in the mud. The cursed at him, and stepped on him to protect their magnificent pink coats from being molested by the mud. They took no heed directly at Louis, but when they wanted to, they stomped, cursed, spat-on, and hit the poor swine. This continued for a ling, long time…
Louis woke his eyes sharp, his senses so a tuned, that the barrel of hay gave him a jump. The others were up, and again they tried to strike down Louis in a terrible stampede to their food bin. But, he had acquired agility from all of these rushes, and he dodged the mammoths. It was fall now, and the leaves of the trees once lush and green were now contracting a color of reds, oranges, and yellows, a symptom of autumn. The simple commodity of movement made Louis’s joints scream, his muscles contract, and his bruises wail, and he fell over, eyes squinted in a futile effort to ignore the pain, the pain of the hours of torment brought to him by his once-thought-to-be friends. Once more, the farmers were up more earlier then usual today. Louis watched the farmers walk their routes, and he envied them, for their freedom, for their superiority. Louis’s thoughts ended abruptly as the pigs across the pen started to whine. Their bins were empty, torture for these swine. Louis smiled to himself.
A broad shouldered farmer wielding some strange stick opened the pen, and led the pigs into the open. They followed ignorantly, blinded by their desire for food. Thus they followed the ones who had always fed them. The farmer led them into a shed only opened annually. The doors were bolted shut. A beam of wood crossed the space between the two doors, rendering the shed secure. Louis started to grin now, as dumbly the pigs walked single file into the shed.
Hours later, the farmer opened the doors. He wore a bloodstained apron, and brought bags after bags of fresh cut meat. The sun was setting now, and Louis had grown tired. He was not as young as he once was. The farmer walked over to the pen and stared down at the helpless, frail and skinny pig before him. “You don’t have enough meat on you. We will have to save you for next year.” And, at this, Louis started to laugh.
The end