Harold the frog hopped down the rainy lane. In his lil froggy satchel he carried a large stack of papers, bound loosely with twine. This was Harold's most prized possession: The Manuscript, he called it, and in it was the great tale of Harold's life.
As he hopped he caught sight of an old signboard placed outside a busy cafe.
FROG STORIES WANTED
Could this be the place Harold wished for, to share his great life's work?
"No", thought Harold
"There are too few people in the cafe. Besides, I wouldn't want to share my story in a place that forces their customers to buy something. I want my story to be free for all."
So he hopped past the cafe.
Soon, he espied another sign out front of a club for members of high society.
FROG STORIES WANTED
Could this be the place for Harold to share his great life's work?
"No", thought Harold
"They are all too old in these clubs, and need to come from rich families. I want my story to be free for all."
So Harold continued hopping, as the rain began to increase.
Eventually, Harold passed by a Library with a sign posted that read:
FROG STORIES WANTED
Could this finally be the place?
"No", thought Harold
"I don't want my story to be thrown in a great pile with a thousand others. I want it to be unique and to consume with interest all who hear it. The Library is not for me."
So he hopped along.
After quite some time, Harold went past a covered amphibitheater, filled with a cheerful crowd, of all ages and backgrounds, and free to enter. Outside there was a sign posted that read:
FROG STORIES WANTED
Could this be the place at long last?
Harold decided that, while not perfect, this would have to do for a venue. Anyway he was tired and cold from hopping in the rain so long.
Before going up to share his magnum opus, Harold the frog reached into his lil froggy satchel to retrieve his greate Manuscript.
But to his horror, his hand came up with only a fistful of watery pulp between his webbed fingers. The rain had ruined his Manuscript!
"No-!" thought Harold
Fin
In search of fun, you set out sunward. Trying to define to yourself how you will identify it when you stumble through its path. What of fun can you detect? Will you recognise by sight or smell the trace odours of fun as it sweeps across the streets, the sight of a barbecue or the scent of bowling pins toppled. As you pass the hunched and hurried Others on the street you imagine whither they are whisked to for their own fun. Which stranger would lead you towards Fun like a salted monkey to his hidden watering-hole?
The sun climbs to noon-height as you make your way in vain. Others rushing by, none have the time, where are they headed? You pass them by, you pass them by, searching frantically all the while. What makes up its constituent parts? Does the Fun hang in the air with laughter, and fade away with the sound? Can it be caught as it falls, or trapped with some kind of net over the ears of the amused?
You search harder still. A floating balloon piques some interest - could you take out the helium within to keep for yourself? A streetside chef with arms outstretched launches ketchup with the accuracy of an Archerfish, an elegant zigzag appearing across the hotdog from a seemingly impossible distance, then he hands it off and wipes his fingers on his apron before he takes the smiling cash to his box. Should you catch his ketchup midair, to take home and enjoy?
A peal of laughter sends you sprinting across the street. "WAIT FOR ME" you try to call, but the sound is gone long before you even make the curbside, the laughter died, the fun is gone, so you move on. How do they do it so effortlessly while you search in vain/ Always at the last moment you arrive, a second too late, none left for you, please leave us alone we're just trying to have a good time. Me too pal you think to yourself.
The crash of a wave on the beach nearby stirs your ambitious mind to hope once more. You see the sunshine glitter and the irregular crash, the swell, the retreat and rally again, wave after wave. Footprints fade away between the sounds of the crashing. Rocks that are pushed forth to the beach are only dragged back again. You scoop at the water with a cup or a bottle, but it's not the same. There is no glitter of waves, no crash and sweep, no footprints to wash away.
Angrily you begin to run. Away from water and the afternoon sun. Why is it so hard for you to just have fun? But nothing good in this life comes easy, is what you were told, so you redouble your efforts and rally like the waves. HEY WAIT FOR ME you say in vain again as you catch a group of smiling friends. But the heads turn and the smiles are gone, so you move on, move on.
The sun gets low as you get back home. You empty your pockets by the door - all the fun things you saw and tried to capture. But nothing you collect brings you the joy you thought you saw. Why can't you just have fun?
You lay down in your bed and rest your head on your pillow. You close your eyes and fall asleep. You dream a dream of the sweetest thing, a passerby who stops and smiles, hand outstretched. Hey fella, wanna come with me?
So there was the Baron on the mountaintop: His horse rearing beneath him, fist clenched skyward and cape blowing in the wind, silhouetted against the lightning strikes that raged behind. With a whinny and a neigh echoing down the valleys he shot off down the swirling switchback road, back towards his castle home.
The great oaken doors creaked open menacingly at his arrival. The porters hurried to remove the Baron's cloak and clean his boots before scuttling away with heads bowed. The Baron's footsteps echoed through the halls like a war-drum, and as he entered his Great Hall the huddled crowd within was spurred into nervous frenzy like bellows blowing coals back into flame. At the center of the Hall was a giant table, set with a great map, a three-dimensional carving to look like the lands around the Baron's home in exquisite detail. The scaled-down landscape was mostly grey, with here and there patches of green covered in tiny "trees" modelled from moss and twigs. One such section of greenery was being removed hurriedly by the Baron's servants as he entered, the small trees stripped away with care and the green lands painted grey with precision.
"HOW GOES THE WORK." The voice of the Baron boomed, causing the servants to jump despite themselves.
"Excellent my lord, everything as you planned and with nothing but success!" An eager porter replies.
"GOOD. DO CARRY ON. THE WORK MUST CONTINUE."
"Yes, my lord" answered the assembly.
"RIGHTEOUSNESS DOES NOT SLEEP. THE WORLD SHALL BE PERFECTED."
"Yes, my lord."
The Baron left the Great Hall and ascended to the top of his highest Tower. Peering through the door, he beheld the Baroness, woeful amongst her bedsheets, a dramatic arm draped over her forehead, sleeping fitfully if she were sleeping at all. The Baron closed the door as quitely as he could and descended down the tower.
The Baron set out again on his horse.
In the land of Qwiderlilk
There lives a people made of milk
And all their friends and all their ilk
Sleep in beds of spider's silk
And deep in valley Qwiderdill
They build their houses on the hill
And pick sweet herbs of mint and dill
Then dry them on the windowsill
Ill they till 'til oil they toil
They then fill and spill and spoil
And them that will still fill and foil
Make spilt milk silk lilt tic tac toil!