Tag Archives: FabulousFables

The Tree

There was a tree

It was a special tree

A sacred tree

It sat outside our chicken coop in the adjacent lot

Behind it was a desert of lush mesquites and prickly cactus

The tree was not alone

It stood with two trees to the left

And two trees to the right

The tree’s branches whispered

“Climb me. Climb me.”

So I did

I climbed the tree limb by limb until I was high up in the leaves

From up there I saw the entire world

Beginning with the chicken coop below

I saw the rooster strutting about

His hens much impressed

Lover Boy I called him

He was the meanest rooster that ever lived

I saw the graveled road that led to our house

I saw my dad drive up the road when he got home from work

I ran inside and scooped the dimes in his lunch box

My dimes, purposely left there for me

I saw my backyard where my dad killed a tarantula

Where my mother hung our just-laundered clothes to dry

I saw my neighbor’s backyard where I had suffered a run-away horse incident

The tree embraced me

I was safe

It enveloped me and breathed

Absorbing carbon dioxide and releasing sweet oxygen

I was cloaked

Nobody could see me

Nor did anyone know where I was

I moved about within the tree sometimes for hours

The tree revealed the universe to me through colorful stories

Full of adventure, heroics, danger, happiness and joy

Each limb offered a tale

I was on a ship at sea, a barrelman in a crow’s nest

I spotted land and saved the crew from dehydration

Beautiful island people swam to our ship to greet us

I was also a cowboy tracking bandits from above

Woe to the outlaw that rode below me

I was Tarzan the Ape Man living in my tree house

I was in a vessel making for the edge of space

Avoiding black holes

In that tree I could be whatever I wanted

Wherever I wanted

The tree was magic

It held the mystery of the cosmos within its leaves

Does the tree still stand?

I do not know

What kind of a tree was it?

Again, I don’t know

Nevertheless; in my mind it will always be my tree

The moral: Value the tree, for it is a giver of life

And a keeper of imagination

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2023 FabulousFables.com

Dedicated to my dad Joe Madrid on this Father’s Day, June 18, 2023. May his spirit dwell within the trees.

Where’s the punctuation? you ask. I wasn’t feeling it when I wrote this piece. Sometimes we can break the rules of writing to have a bit of fun. Learn your punctuation though. It is important for most your writing and your grades in school.

A BB to the Buttocks

“Pull down your pants and bend over,” my big brother Joe instructed me one cold winter morning.

Joe was my hero; I worshiped him as a nun worships Jesus, so when he commanded; I complied.

Five neighbor kids gathered to witness Joe’s proof that a shot in the butt with a BB didn’t hurt.

My brother and I got BB guns for Christmas, and we showed off our rifles, which led to the butt shot.

I was about 4 years old, my brother 2 1/2 years older.

I pulled my pants down to a respectable level, (upper cheek) bent over and waited to prove my sibling correct.

And then … bap! went the BB gun. Splat! went my left cheek, and the projectile stung like an angry wasp.

Ouch!

My screams were those of a crazed dying baboon, and the commotion brought our mother out of the house.

She assessed my wound, a little uplifted red splotch.

She assured me I would be OK.

I’m sure my brother got punished for his low-down dirty deed, but I don’t remember.

He insists I deserved to be plinked for being stupid enough to listen to him.

I still trusted Joe, though the Jesus glow rubbed off him, and a bit of a devil glow showed, which taught me to beware.

Now I am happy my brother shot my buttocks, because it left us with a story to tell as I have just done.

The neighborhood kids saw Joe’s claim as bogus, and no one else volunteered to be shot.

A week later, a BB I shot at a water meter — at my brother’s direction, I must add — ricocheted and plinked Joe in the eye.

He wasn’t blinded, but he was angry, and he accused me of revenge for the butt BB, which was silly, because I had no control over the ricochet.

That bouncing BB did teach us something: actions can have consequences beyond getting in trouble by your mother.

Moral: Karma: Sometimes a BB to the eye equals a BB to the butt.

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2023 FabulousFables.com

Zombies Suck

Zombies suck.

I hate them.

If zombie were a race, I would be a racist.

Call me a Zombist.

My introduction to zombies was the movie “Night of the Living Dead.”

That is George Romero’s 1968 masterpiece, considered the first modern zombie movie.

As I watched, I realized the undead suck.

Unless you are talking about vampires. I like vampires; they are cool, which is ironic, because they are also undead and they literally suck.

I guess I am a hypocrite, when it comes to zombies.

“Night of the Living Dead” is a black-and-white movie. I watched it at a drive-in.

A drive-in is an outdoor movie theater. You watch the movie from you car, big screen jutting up to the sky,

There aren’t many drive-ins left.

”Night of the Living Dead” — a young zombie (Kyra Schon) and her victim (Karl Hardman).

Don’t think black-and-white movies aren’t cool; that grainy texture lends itself to the story of the undead.

Arguably, George Romero’s movie is better without color.

The Walking Dead

The zombie genre has improved substantially with the television series “The Walking Dead,” which began in 2010.

No. I haven’t watched the series, but it is widely watched, and people, whose opinion I respect, praise the drama.

I must admit to watching another zombie movie.

It was “World War Z,” an action horror flick released in 2013 about a world overrun with zombies.

I admit I found the movie entertaining, but it doesn’t change my opinion of zombies.

Zombies are dirty, rotting, brainless corpses who are cannibals.

They have rotting skin hanging off their bones, blood splattered inside and out and around their mouths where they ate people.

They are ugly.

I assume they stink of death, the worst smell ever.

Good thing we can’t smell them through the big or little screen.

Where do zombies come from?

Legend says a zombie can create more zombies by biting humans.

Modern stories blame the undead on military experiments gone horror show. Or humans can be transformed by an alien attack.

As with many a horror story, zombies are based on fact, in Hattian voodoo, birthed by West African magic.

A sorcerer or witch called a bokor concocts a potion that includes tetrodotoxin, a deadly neurotoxin found in the pufferfish.

Administered in the correct dose, the pufferfish poison causes a coma so deep it mimics death.

There are credible reports of dead Hattians, said to be victims of voodoo, found alive.

My disgust  for zombies began with that first movie “Night of the Living Dead.”

A zombie chowed down on some human intestines, and I was revolted.

Really? Intestines? Nasty.

Zombie popularity

Who could unnasty the zombie?

Music superstar Michael Jackson; that’s who.

Jackson deserves credit for an explosion of zombie popularity; never underestimate a great work of art.

His 1982 groundbreaking 13-minute music video “Thriller” featured the undead coming out of their graves to join the superstar in a funky graveyard dance.

To this day, large crowds dress as zombies and dance to “Thriller.”

The Guiness World Record for People Dancing “Thriller” was set in Mexico City in 2009, by more than 11,000 temporary zombies shown below.

I must admit, I don’t have a problem with Michael Jackson’s zombies; such is the power of music and art.

You can see “Thriller” below. It is worth a watch.

Did I just talk myself out of the premise of my blog, that zombies suck?

Not really.

Most zombies suck.

‘The Guiness World Record for People Dancing “Thriller” was set in Mexico City in 2009, by more than 11,000 temporary zombies.

Contact: David Madrid

© 2022 FabulousFables.com

Thank you to Wikipedia for the photo of the little zombie girl and for providing clarifying information for this blog. Read all about zombies at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zombie.

Street Fighter

For my first story of 2021, I present Nano: The Pure Warrior.

It is a story about a street fighter.

This story is part of my local history in the 1960s and ’70s.

I did not write this story to glorify violence; I often post stories and blog about the days of my youth.

I write to entertain, but also to document how things were when I was growing up.

It is important to know history, and I want young people to understand how we, the Baby Boomers, were shaped.

My generation spent a lot of time outside, and while outside, you met a lot of people, and you were in the grapevine; you heard the gossip.

So you knew some kids purely by reputation.

By far the most compelling reputations were those of the street fighters.

Kids were interested in who fought who, and who beat who.

The toughest fighters reached local-legend status.

These guys liked to fight, and they were good at it, and when the toughest guys met in combat, the grapevine buzzed.

This story is about one of those legends: Nano: The Pure Warrior.

Some fighters were mean and liked to inflict pain; those were the bullies you avoided.

Some were cocky and walked around with chips on their shoulders.

They wanted to fight, unless someone tougher came along, then the chips were tucked away.

The dangerous fighters were the regular guys.

Nice guys who got along just fine not fighting, until the fight came to them, and then suddenly they were honey badgers on the attack.

Nano was one of those legends who welcomed a competitive rumble.

There were plenty opponents; a fighter’s reputation was enough to elicit challenges from testosterone-soaked toughs.

Nano was my friend.

Read Nano: The Pure Warrior, a poem dedicated to my friend.

The End

By David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2021 FabulousFables.com

A Horse’s Tale

“A Wild Ride Up 14th Street” is a true story that has been embellished for your entertainment. What is true and what is exaggerated is up to you to decide.

The setting is a simpler time, a time of no cell phones, when mothers sent kids out to play and didn’t worry about them once they were out the door.

It was a time of no pandemics, a time when freedom was a way of life, and kids were afforded the opportunity to learn freedom’s lessons.

This story isn’t so much about lessons learned — though lessons were learned — as it is about adventure and heroics on 14th Street.

Enjoy “A Wild Ride Up 14th Street“, a piece of untold history.

By David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2020 FabulousFables.com

The Jaguar King

The jaguar

King of the jungle

A cat fierce and strong

Rules the trees and land

At the apex of the food chain

With crushing bite he feeds

All is his domain

 

The anaconda

A giant more fish than reptile

Some say

Rules the Amazon shallows

The swamps, the rivers, underbrush

His creed is ambush

Squeeze, drown and swallow

 

The tapir

Grazes unworried

Thoughts are miles away

Yet danger is all around

The rotund herbivore

(So think the jaguar and the snake)

Is prey and nothing more

 

The jungle

The all-knowing great equalizer

Rules both flora and fauna

It is the domain

When the rain forest decrees

Prey becomes hunter

Hunter becomes meat

 

The anaconda

Declares himself king

The jungle sighs

And all is lost for the beast

The serpent meets its fate

Snake becomes chum

Piranhas feast

♥

By David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2020 FabulousFables.com

The “Jaguar King” is a poem about a fable titled “King of the Jungle” written in 2016. The fable’s teaches a moral that should be heeded today. Read King of the Jungle.

Monkey: Basketball Wizard

They called him Monkey.

He was short, brown, had big ears and a smile wide as the Pecos River.

He was a most interesting-looking fellow.

When I first saw him, he stepped onto the basketball court as if he owned it.

Then he owned us. All of us on the court.

He moved around the court. Smoothly.

He mesmerized us with his grace.

He flowed. Then suddenly he moved the other way.

And “Whoosh!” Basket!

Wait. What just happened?

That’s how it was when I met Monkey. I liked him immediately.

I had recently moved into the neighborhood. I now discovered I was playing on Monkey’s court.

I admired Monkey’s moves.

I emulated those moves. He helped me master them.

In the finger-freezing cold of winter.

In the blazing heat of summer.

I met Monkey there on the Eddy School court.

Dribble, dribble, feint and spin.

I learned Monkey’s secrets.

I never matched him, but I learned to be competitive.

I held my own against Monkey until he unveiled a new move, a new trick, a new shot.

Monkey’s most  dangerous weapon was his imagination, which guided his wizardry.

And defense? Forget about it.

Monkey was quick, and he stole that ball.

Although he was short, Monkey could swat your shot.

He intimidated players just by waving his arms. Pass and he steals the ball. Shoot and get blocked.

My favorite times on that court were when Monkey and I were on the same team.

We had our moves.

No-look passes. Pick-and-Roll. Feint and shoot.

A bounce pass between a defender’s legs.

Basket!

Wait. What just happened?

It was our court.

We ruled.

Kids came from far and wide to play.

Everybody played.

It didn’t matter your talent or how you shot the ball.

All that mattered was the game.

It was Monkey’s game. He decreed that everyone play.

He was the best. Those who competed against him learned.

And that, I think, is the highest compliment Monkey would accept, that he taught you something.

I wonder now.

I first assumed Monkey got his nickname because of his height, big ears and perpetual smile.

Though the name may have be given derogatorily — playground kids can be cruel — I didn’t consider it so.

The first sightings of Monkey coming down the street toward the court always elicited loud cries from the kids of “Monkey! Monkey!”

He basked in the attention.

Did the nickname bother him? I truly don’t know. He never complained.

I think of the nickname differently though. I believe it was his moves that earned him the nickname Monkey.

Imagine a monkey swinging through the trees. Effortlessly.

Vine to vine. Tree to tree.

Now picture my friend Monkey. No vines to swing on. No trees. No jungle.

Only a big concrete slab of court and a basketball that came alive in his hands.

Imagine a small boy, pure muscle and grin, flying effortlessly toward the goal and gently letting the basketball fly off his fingertips.

Basket! Nothing but net!

Wait. What just happened?

By David Madrid

This story is dedicated to Monkey, a childhood friend and basketball mentor.

Contact: David Madrid

© 2020 FabulousFables.com

A Little Split of Rainbow

It was a little split of rainbow

That peeked from behind the clouds

Where was the rest of the rainbow?

Where was that giant arc?

Legs bowed across the sky

Feet straddling shiny pots of gold

 

That rainbow, I am taught,

Is nothing but

Reflection, refraction and dispersion

of light in water drops

 

It was just a little split of rainbow

That gave promise nonetheless

That God would not

Destroy the earth with flood

Again

The rainbow is his covenant with man

Or

Is the rainbow merely

Reflection, refraction and dispersion

of light in water drops?

 

Maybe I glimpsed a mighty angel’s

radiant rainbow crown

Did an angel watch from beyond the clouds?

Wielding fiery sword?

Fighting for my soul?

 

Or

Was the rainbow only

Reflection, refraction and dispersion

of light in water drops?

And nothing more

 

Maybe it was just a split of rainbow

Sent to blink a spectrum of light

Red, orange, yellow, green

Blue, Indigo, and violet

 

Or

Did the little split of rainbow

Sneak through to wink at me?

A miracle?

A gift from God?

I believe

Indeed!

 

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2020 FabulousFables.com

Happy New Year and Peaceful New Decade

I wish you a fabulous New Year and a peaceful New Decade.

Let me be so bold as to issue a plea.

Let us keep our hearts peaceful and full of love. The only way to defeat the forces of evil, is by love, and with love, comes peace.

It will take love in each of our hearts to turn this new year and decade into the positive future we deserve.

We must recognize the humanity of those with whom we interact. It does not matter what color they are, what religion they are, what ethnicity they are, what they believe, or even how they behave.

We are all children of that force that created the universe, the all-powerful, unconditional loving force that turned us from stardust into humans. Call him God. Call him Allah. Call him the Great Spirit.

He is the same. Always.

We change.

So let us change for the better.

Let us be kind to one another. Let us love one another. With love in each of our hearts, we defeat the evil that besets this Earth, and a new day will dawn, an era of peace and goodwill.

Love and Peace

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2020 FabulousFables.com

Rastas Boodrow: Mathematical Mastermind

 

Rastas Boodrow was just like many other little boys in that he loved games. All kinds, but especially sports. He was good at sports. He loved computer games as well, but Rastas didn’t own any.

Rastas preferred to play outside anyway.

Rastas was poor. His parents earned minimum wage. His dad worked two jobs, but the family never got ahead. Financially, they were losing pace, not even running in place, one illness away from homelessness.

Rastas was different from most the neighborhood kids because he was Jamaican. He was darker than his peers; he had dreads, and he dressed in second-hand clothes and wore old beat-up sneakers.

Whereas, most children his age — Rastas was 7 — would be ostracized for their poverty by their classmates, Rastas was not.

Rastas was popular. He was an exceptional athlete. He was fast. He was strong. He had a winner’s heart. Everybody wanted to be on Rastas’ team.

Rastas was also smart. He liked to read books, and he loved the intricacies of math. Not just adding and subtracting, but now multiplying and dividing, fractions and decimals, meters and milliliters.

Oh yes, he was advanced for his age when it came to math. He was born with numbers running through his mind. He was a genius who already pondered the possibility of endless mathematical probabilities. Maybe that is why he was a bit weird.

Rastas had a compassionate heart. He loved deeply.

He loved his parents even though there were no gifts for him or his sister Amancia under the tree. Christmas was two days away, and nothing.

Rastas knew something would appear on Christmas night from his parents.

It would be clothes or shoes. The real gift would come from Santa Claus. Rastas and his sister would rely on Santa Claus for a perfect gift just like they did every year.

This year, Rastas wasn’t confident he made Santa’s nice list. He dreaded landing on the naughty list. Especially when he wanted a special gift.

He wanted a red bicycle. That wasn’t too much to ask was it?

Rastas imagined the many possibilities a bike would give. He would be mobile, go where he pleased.

No more rides to the library. Rastas didn’t own a phone, so he read books. The library was a magical place, and Rastas didn’t understand why he didn’t see more young people there. Rastas also read above his age level. That’s how he knew so much about math.

He also loved the fantasy books. He imagined he was in the worlds he read about. Leaving this world for a while was comforting.

Rastas was at the age that little boys begin to develop a strange sense of humor that can sometimes lead to cruel pranks.

Though he loved his sister Amancia with all his being, he sometimes pranked her. She didn’t hold it against him. Amancia was just as her name reflected: one who loves unconditionally. There was no doubt  Santa would be good to her.

Rastas also didn’t obey his parents as he should.

They came home tired and still made dinner and helped with homework. And how did Rastas repay them? By doing dumb stuff like hiding his clothes under his bed rather than hanging them in the closet.

Now I know that sounds stupid. Rastas didn’t know why he did it; he just did it.

So it left him no choice but to appeal to the big man himself: Santa Claus. How would he get Santa’s attention long enough to explain? He didn’t have a ride to take him to the mall, where he knew Santa hung out.

That’s when one of those mathematical possibilities presented itself to young Rastas. He would study the fireplace and its flue. Measure it, and turn his problem into an equation. Therein was the answer.

So my friends, read about Rastas’ solution to his problem in “Rastas Boodrow: A Christmas Story“.

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2019 FabulousFables.com