About the Author
Default Group
Location:Texas, USA Naturalized US Citizen of Irish extract -   Fixed Wing and Helo trucker.Interests: "The Absurdity of Man". I am a proud supporter of Blarney, Nonsense, and Hooey. I enjoy being a chopper jockey, and trying to figure the world, people and belief systems out. I'm just not very good at it, so it keeps me real busy. I scribble, blog, run this website, mess with rental houses, ride motorbikes, and read as much as I can. I went solo 44 years ago, and I like to say I'm gonna get me a real job one day. When I grow up. ("but not just yet, Lord, not just yet") For my aviation scribbles see enjoy! I wish you Peace in your Life. May you always walk with the sun on your face, and a breeze ruffling your hair. And may you cherish a quiet wonder for our awesome Universe. Life isn't always good. But it is always fascinating. Never quit.
 (0 votes)

Click on an image below to link to other sections...
Visitor Number:
  • Chopper Stories
  • Writers Harbor
  • Writers Harbor
  • God-in-a-Box
  • Steps On My Road
Follow us on:
View Work
Be the first person to like this story !!
The Chattering Brook

The Chattering Brook

An allegory

     The chattering brook had been cascading down from the high, high mountains for aeons.
Since Time Immemorial, since the Very Early Days, before the Dark Times, the white, foaming, swirling waters had followed the creek bed down, thundering and roaring, past rocks and boulders, fallen tree stumps, slowing past open meadows, and speeding crazily through narrow gorges.  The waters struck everything they encountered. Sometimes the force was awesome. Nothing standing in its way could remain unaffected.  You could see the impact of the constant flow, over such a long time, everywhere you looked. Needless to say, some of the rocks were polished smooth.  The endless rush of testing waters had worn them, and polished them. The sharp, craggy edges were long gone.  In their place was a smooth surface.  Other rocks however remained jagged, and sharp. Some were large, and hard as granite. Some were small, powdery, and inclined to shatter and break. Others were smaller still, like pebbles, sometimes like sand almost, endlessly tossed and played with, re-arranged and then deposited once again.

     Surprisingly, they all argued with each other. The hard, granite rocks, attributed their seeming durability to  their superior pedigree, their skill, and their intellect. The softer rocks, prone to shattering and divisions, claimed that theirs was the more logical way. The pebbles, not to be outdone, claimed their superiority based on numbers. And the sands, laughing at that line of logic, delighted in mischievously covering the pebbles with fine silt, whenever they got the chance. The arguments often got very noisy and heated. Everybody wanted to boast to everybody else about their superiority. Many claimed to know everything that was worth knowing, including the story of how they themselves (be they rock, pebble, a grain of sand, or a sunken log) had arrived at their present position. All claimed to be special, with superior knowledge granted only to them.  

*              *               *                *                  *

Only the swirling, foaming water, almost universally ignored by the contestants, never took part in these arguments. The water, everywhere, kindly inclined, ever present, spirited and pure, always merely listened patiently.  The fierce debates amongst the rocks and the pebbles, the gravel and the sand, about wisdom and about who possessed superior knowledge, seemed to pass the waters by. It would have been easy for a casual observer to assume an aloofness, a cold indifference, a random game of chance, and a total absence of guidance.   
But to have drawn this conclusion would have been to miss completely a certain quiet, hidden amusement. And a gentle wondering.

     Why did so few stop to consider the presence of life giving water?  The forming, shaping, ever present, infinitely patient, sculpting hands of the Great Designer?

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 17, 2013, 1:39 pm
We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
comments powered by Disqus
Copyright © 2007-2015 Writers Harbor
Visitor Number: