#dark parables

Once upon a time there was a very fearful girl.

The fearful girl felt safest in her house, but even there she didn't really feel safe. Some nights she would lie awake, wondering if the wooden beams were rotten or weak and the ceiling would cave in on her while she slept, or if the walls were strong enough to withstand the winds or the weight of the roof.

Eventually the fearful girl couldn't take it anymore, she had to know for sure. So she went room to room with her wooden mallet, knocking on all the surfaces and listening to the sound, trying to determine whether or not it sounded sturdy and safe. To be honest with herself, the girl was not sure what that sounded like, probably not hollow, but how would she know for sure?

This uncertainty gnawed at her, until she couldn't take it anymore. So she put down the mallet and picked up a sledge hammer and started knocking on all the surfaces all over again. Her theory, this time, was that she had to stress test the structures to make sure that they would not break under greater force, because sound alone would not be enough to see how solid the wood was. She tested the structural soundness in this fashion for the next few days. The house sounded quite solid, and the wooden beams seemed flexible, nothing fell on top of her and nothing broke, yet, this did not relieve her of her anxiety.

Now she feared that she might have weakened the structure of her home with all the tests and she wished she hadn't started testing to begin with. Did some of the planks creek more than it had before, was the crack in the wooden ceiling beam just a bit wider? Or was this only in her mind? Oh if only she hadn't done these stupid tests, she would probably have a sturdy house, but now she did not know if her house was actually about to crash down on her or not. It was all her fault, if only, if only, if only. Why am I like this, the girl asked herself. Why do I have to break and ruin everything.

There was only one way to know for sure if the house was still sturdy, she decided. So the girl picked up her hammer again, and started beating her house with more strength than before. And so the cycle continued until one day the house had enough.

“Look here you,” said the house, “all these years you have lived inside of me and I haven't collapsed on top of you. Does that count for nothing? Why do you have to beat and pound me with that hammer. Haven't I proven to you time and time again that I will not collapse?”

“But after all I have done,” said the girl, “What if you collapse now? I don't know if you will, I don't know if you will not, I will never know until I find out. But I don't even know how I am supposed to find out without everything going wrong. Oh how terrible.”

“You could have trusted me,” said the house.

The girl shook her head sorrowfully and picked up her sledge hammer once more. The girl believed nothing could be trusted. How could she trust after all she had done? Before the girl could take another swing, the house said, “Stop! That's it, I am done.”

So the house got up and left.

The girl stared up at the blue sky, she felt a great painful loss, but also a perverse sense of relief. There was no more roof above her that could fall on her. However, the relief didn't last. As the days passed, as the weeks passed, fear crept back in, so the girl went in search, as she had done many times before, for yet another house, in hopes, that one day, she would feel safe.

The Father Who Ate Time / The Son Who Learned to Hide It:

Cronus learned early that prophecy sounds like laughter if you close your mouth around it hard enough.

The first child cried and the sound pierced him—sharp, future-shaped—so he swallowed the sound whole.

Stone, skin, destiny: it all felt the same going down.

Silence followed. Silence always felt like order.

Rhea learned a different craft.

She learned substitution.

She learned that fathers who fear replacement can be fooled by weight and ritual.

A stone wrapped in cloth teaches a god what he wants to believe.

Zeus grew where time could not see him.

He learned patience not as virtue but as camouflage.

When he returned, he did not beg. He did not accuse.

He fed his father a medicine that made memory come back up.

The children returned in order—vomited, blinking, unfinished.

Cronus fell not because Zeus struck him,

but because time, once released, refuses to be eaten again.

This was spectacle.

This was bloodless violence.

This was the world learning that fear can rule—but only briefly.

The Father Who Knew the Sky / The Son Who Wanted It:

Daedalus built because staying still felt like dying slower.

He built the labyrinth to contain the monster,

then discovered the monster was containment itself.

The wings were careful work.

Wax measured. Feathers sorted.

Every instruction was precise because love, for Daedalus, meant control sharpened into advice.

Do not fly too low.

Do not fly too high.

Do not mistake exhilaration for permission.

Icarus heard him.

He truly did.

But hearing is not the same as believing your body will obey when joy takes the reins.

The sun did not seduce him.

It simply did what it always does—

shine without regard.

When Icarus fell, the lesson became visible.

Bodies teach more efficiently than words.

Daedalus survived, which is its own kind of punishment.

This was spectacle.

This was warning carved into air.

This was love that arrived exactly one moment too late.

The Father Who Sent the Child Away / The Son Who Walked Back Toward Him:

Oedipus left Corinth because prophecy had begun to sound personal.

He chose exile as proof of goodness,

as though distance alone could make him innocent.

The road narrowed.

Dust rose.

A cart approached, heavy with authority and impatience.

Laius had learned what happens when you hesitate.

He had learned that children become problems when you let them live long enough to ask questions.

He had learned that roads belong to those who claim them first.

Neither man recognized the other.

Recognition requires room.

This road allowed none.

Oedipus stood his ground because yielding felt like surrendering his name.

Laius raised his hand because he mistook youth for insubordination.

And in the instant before motion becomes fate,

before story becomes wound,

Oedipus sees it—

Dorian Brown from Mystery Trackers/ Detectives United

Parn from Cursery: The Crooked Man and the Crooked Cat.

2nd: with more feline-features