three fables
by McKenna Wilds
The Fable of the Very Funny Toad
Each night, Toad visited his friends in a quiet meadow, always ready with a joke. No matter what he said, they burst into laughter, for the Toad was known by all to be a very funny Toad. One evening, the Toad puffed out his chest and said, “I think I shall steal all of the Grasshopper’s grain and build myself a throne of wheat!”
The Grasshopper chuckled. “What a wild thing to say!”
But the next morning, the Grasshopper’s grain was gone, and the Toad sat atop a mound of stolen wheat. Hungry, the Grasshopper left to find food and was never seen again.
The next night, the Toad grinned. “What if I pushed Mouse into the river?”
“Oh, you are too funny!” the Hare cried, clutching his sides.
But, the Mouse twitched his nose. “I’d rather not be part of your joke, Toad.”
The next day, the Toad shoved the Mouse into the rushing water. And the Mouse was never seen again.
Another night, the Toad smirked and said, “I shall lock the Fox in his den and set it aflame!”
His friends gasped—but then chuckled. “Oh, Toad, how dark your jokes have become!”
But when dawn broke, smoke could be seen rising from the Fox’s den. The Hare rushed to help his friend. Trapped, the Fox gasped, “It’s too late for me. But you…you still have time. Depart from the Toad while you can!”
“What do you mean?” asked the Hare. “The Toad speaks only in jest!” As the Hare watched the Fox burn, he shook his head. Later, he walked home and thought to himself, “I wonder what jokes the Toad will tell us tonight…”
He who laughs at everything fails to see real danger.
Jack and The Beans That Didn’t Grow
The magic beans don’t grow. They lie buried in the dirt, soaking up water and sunlight in my backyard. Day after day, nothing stirs. No sprout, no sign of life. They lie waiting, perhaps for me. The nearby pasture is empty now, the cow gone, and the void she leaves behind feels overwhelming. Yet, there’s hope in these lands, faith in my bones. I stand at the window of my tiny bedroom upstairs in our cottage, watching, waiting.
“Have faith,” the man said, a sparkle in his eye and goodwill in his grin. I trust him. And I pride myself on being a good judge of character. He said to have faith.
And yet, the magic beans don’t grow. I water them every afternoon, a little more each day. I kneel by the soil, praying over them, and when that doesn’t work, I am dancing merrily upon their burial. Night after night, I talk to them, my shy magic beans, my fickle magic beans. I tell them stories—the same ones Mother told me as a child when she tucked me into bed and promised she’d always look after me. Yes, I tell them stories, pouring my heart into every word. “Have you heard of Cinderella? She endured great hardship until her fairy godmother saved her. A testimony of perseverance! Patience!”
But it seems the magic beans do not care for stories. They do not respond to anything. Lullabies, sweet and pure, drift over the soil, becoming one with the breeze. Chants, militant and brave, send vibrations through every blade of grass in the nearby pasture until it feels like nature itself is breathing. Still, no beanstalk.
Please, magic beans! My body leans over the ground in humble submission, bowing, sobbing, my tears watering their soil. Please, we need you, your providence, we need you to save us! My chest feels heavy. The magic beans remain buried.
I return to the cottage and pace my bedroom. Anticipation curdles into dread. “Have faith,” the man said. Yes, I believed him!
Mother is in town again, pawning off whatever bowls and vases the shop will take, expecting to return home to find a good trade for our cow. She could be home any moment. What will I tell her? My mind races, every scenario worse than the last. Worry gnaws at me, and all I can do is pace the length of the room. Back and forth, back and forth, like a trapped animal. My heart sinks further with each step.
What have I done?
My hands are in the dirt now, frantically digging for the beans, searching for proof, for the bargain I’d made. My precious cow is gone, traded for beans buried somewhere in this dirt, somewhere trying to grow, surely waiting for me to have enough faith, all I need is a little more faith.
Mother is home now. I hear her calling me, but my body is frozen in time. There is dirt under my fingernails and smashed, rotten beans in my hands. As I rise to my feet, slow and unsteady, I glance at the empty pasture where our cow once grazed for hours, and my heart creeps up my throat. I don’t fear the rage in Mother’s eyes when she discovers what I’ve done. Yet, in the coming days, weeks—however long we have left—how will I ever believe in anything again?
The Parable of the King and the Silent City
There once was a king with a hardened heart. He lived in a high tower, where he would overlook the city. Every day, he saw the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak, the joyful and the downcast.
One morning, as he sat in his tower, he said to himself, “How good it is to rule over this city! Everything is just as I desire.” The words had not yet left his lips when he saw a group of people dancing in the streets. His heart burned with anger, for he hated dancing. He went down, saying to them, “You do not belong here! Leave at once!” And he ordered his guards to drive them out. The dancers wept as they passed the city gates, and the king smiled.
The next morning, the king sat in his tower and thought to himself, “How good it is to rule over this city! Everything is just as I desire.” But, then, he heard music—harps playing and voices singing. In a rage, he stormed out of his tower, for he hated music. He went to the musicians and said, “You do not belong here! Leave at once!” And he ordered his guards to drive them out. All that day and all that night, the sound of their sorrow could be heard throughout the streets.
And so he did, day after day. He removed the painters and the poets, the storytellers and the craftsmen. Then he cast out the merchants, the scholars, and the wise.
One morning, the king sat in his tower and said, “How good it is to rule over this city! Everything is just as I desire.” But when he looked out, the streets were empty.
The king said to himself, “Surely, this is good.” And he sat in silence for hours until those hours turned into days. No voices rose in song, no laughter filled the air. The city was silent. The king thought to himself, “Surely, someone will laugh, or sing, or at least speak a word.” But as he listened, he heard nothing. And so he sat in the silence he had chosen, alone.
Photo of McKenna Wilds
BIO: McKenna Wilds is a poet and storyteller whose writing often reflects her love for folklore and mythology. She lives in Colorado with her husband and their very fluffy goldendoodles. Her work can be found in Marathon Literary Review, NiftyLit, Rushing Thru the Dark, and more. Find her online at www.mckennawilds.com.