Parable Road

Story Awards

★★★★★

★

Ratings by readers

A weaver sat with threads of grey and gold,

One dull and coarse, one vibrant to behold.

He wove them both into a cloth so fine,

"Why mix the drab," a watcher did opine,

"With that which shines with such a lovely light?"

The weaver smiled, "To truly see the bright,

The eye must know the shadow and the shade,

For contrast makes the truest beauty made."

A small stream tumbled from the mountain's side,

clear and swift.

It saw the clouds, white islands in the blue,

and longed to join them,

to float untethered, free from the earth's pull.

It rushed faster, leaping over stones,

trying to fling itself upwards.

But the rocks only broke its flow into spray,

and the earth always drew it back.

Finally, tired, it pooled in a quiet hollow,

and in its stillness,

reflected the whole sky, clouds and all.

A gardener found a stone within his plot,

Too large to move, a most unwelcome spot.

He sighed and fumed, he pushed with all his might,

The stone just sat, unyielding to the light.

At last he stopped, and planted all around,

With fragrant herbs and flowers, till the ground

Embraced the stone, now mossy, green, and fair,

A focal point, beyond compare.

A merchant came to a silent town,

carrying a bag he claimed was full of rare echoes.

"Buy an echo of laughter!" he cried, "An echo of a forgotten song!"

The townsfolk, whose lives were muted and grey,

gathered, curious.

He opened his bag, and nothing came out.

"You must listen carefully," he insisted.

Desperate for something, anything,

they strained their ears,

and in the shared silence,

one child giggled.

Another hummed a half-remembered tune.

Soon, the square was filled with their own sounds,

not echoes.

The merchant smiled and quietly slipped away, his bag still "full."

Two painters came to paint a mountain scene.

One sketched each peak, each crag, each shade of green,

With perfect detail, technically so sound,

His canvas mirrored all that could be found.

The other gazed, then with a splash of blue,

And fiery red, a feeling he put through,

Not what he saw, but how it made him feel.

The first won praise for skill, precise and real.

The second's work, though less defined and true,

Stirred hearts and souls, with something bold and new.

A seed lay on the surface of the soil,

basking in the sun,

afraid of the dark earth below.

"If I go down there," it thought,

"I will be lost, consumed by the unknown."

The wind whispered, "The dark is where growth begins."

The rain urged, "The dark will nourish you."

Still, it clung to the light, growing dry and brittle.

One day, a passing bird nudged it,

and it tumbled into a shallow crack.

Covered by soil, in the warm, moist darkness,

it finally surrendered.

And then, it began to sprout.