An original story by Julie Wee

In a quiet village, surrounded by mountains, cut off from the rest of the world deep in a landlocked state, an age away from the ocean, lived Kashia.

Kashia had never left her little village. She helped her mother in and around the house, played in and around the village but dreamed over, up and beyond her everyday small town life.

There were few visitors to her village; it was a long hard climb up, with little reward upon arrival, nor promise of anything but cold hard mountain past it. But when Kashia was eight years old, a travelling storyteller, through bad luck, bad weather and a bad case of being lost, found himself in her village. He was a man who was as tall as he was thin, with well-worn clothes, kind eyes and a healthy appetite.

Every evening for a week, he would tell stories by the fire, in exchange for food and a bed for the night. On the first evening, Kashia sat spellbound in the light of the fire and for the rest of the week she spent the daytimes in a haze and the evenings awestruck by the side of the storyteller who weaved mesmerizing tales of the Rajas of India, the desert tribes of Africa and the great ocean adventures of nomadic traders.

For years after the storyteller had come and gone, Kashia would dream of these strange lands. But most of all she dreamed of the mysterious and vast ocean that he had told of. She imagined what waves might look like, rocking and tossing a ship at will. She imagined the colours she would see, the feeling of sand in between her toes. She imagined the sound of the waves ebbing and flowing, and the seagulls cawing high up in the sky.

Kashia made up her own stories of lonely lighthouse keepers, strong sailors and terrifying shipwrecks. Her fantasies swept from the wild excitement of pirate adventures to the quiet tranquillity of stretching out over the sand on a sunny day. But all these pictures were invented in her mind, never had she ever smelt a whiff of the salty sea breeze.

As a child, she would lead the others in violent games of ‘Shipwreck Island’, and as an adult, she spent the time meant to be working, staring off into the distance, her mind stretching over the mountainous expanse towards the ocean. But the ocean was far far away, too far away for even dreams. Getting to the ocean was too far, too treacherous, too ambitions, too frivolous.

“Get back to work!” her mother would yell. She was getting a reputation as an absent-minded young lady. “You’ll never get married, never amount to anything.”

If you hear something said often enough, it starts to take effect. So Kashia pushed her dream aside and concentrated on useful and worthwhile pursuits like shaping herself into a suitable potential wife and perfecting her domestic abilities. She stayed in her village where she belonged, and kept her dreams to herself.

Now Kashia was in her twenties, and about to get married. Her secret ocean fantasies remained secret. She thought about her dream less and less, especially now she was preparing for her wedding to a handsome and good-natured man from a neighbouring village.

The night before her wedding day, she lay alone on her single bed for the last time. Her mind started wandering back to the night the storyteller had arrived. She recalled the fire in her belly when he had spoken about the ocean and her yearning resurfaced. But she quashed the desire, reproaching herself for thinking such silly thoughts on such an important night. As she drifted into slumber, a little voice inside her whispered, “Another time, I’ll see the ocean another time.”

Now Kashia was a mother of two grown children; two boys who were about to leave home in search of work. Kashia was sad to see them go, she would miss them very much. She was also glad that they would have the chance to leave their little village and seek their fortune.

As the boys were saying their goodbyes, her eldest son declared that he would go to the city and become a carpenter. The youngest son had also made his decision. “I’m going to make my way to the ocean and become a sailor.”

Kashia felt a strange trembling in her stomach. “The ocean….” She was now middle aged, it had been a long time since she had thought earnestly about her dream. Without giving her feelings away, Kashia kissed her boys farewell and waved them off as they walked down the path and disappeared into the distance. “It’s only a daydream,” Kashia thought to herself, “ My place is here.” And she pushed all thoughts of sand and sea out of her mind.

Kashia was now a frail old lady, with a waking stick and a hunch. She had a lot to be proud of. She had a lived a happy life with a loving husband and had raised two delightful boys. Nearing the end of her life, she had many hours to sit and ponder, and many more hours to daydream. Naturally her mind would bring her to the ocean, but she knew her place, she was an old woman, too old to go chasing dreams.

Kashia’s husband fell ill and lying on his deathbed, he spoke of his love for her and how he could not have led a happier life. If he had one regret, a regret that he had kept a secret, it would have been to have to made the long journey to see the ocean.

Kashia froze. “The ocean? You dreamed of seeing the ocean?”

“Yes, but I had responsibilities. I had to stay here where I belonged.”

Silent, Kashia leaned over and kissed him.

Their sons were called back home to bid farewell to their dying father. After the quiet funeral, Kashia called her youngest son aside and asked of him the one thing she wanted most, but had never dared to ask anybody. He protested, but she protested harder. She was strong enough to make the journey, and what did it matter if she wasn’t, she felt more alive now than she had all her life. She had made the decision. She had conquered her fear of judgement, and she had no responsibilities left to worry about. She would go now or never.

Seeing the passion in his mother’s eyes surprised her son and he agreed. The next morning, after packing a small travelling bag, they began their long and arduous journey.

They began slowly, on foot, making their way down the mountainside. When they arrived at the village at the base of the mountain, they bartered Kashia’s delicious cakes for a ride through the valley. As they passed the point that would lead Kashia further than she’d ever been before, a flutter of butterflies bubbled up in her stomach. She was like a little child again, looking around in fascination with the unsuppressed desire to shout “Are we there yet?”

The whole journey took them over a week, and as they were passing the final threshold past the hills that separated them from the view of the ocean, Kashia’s son wrapped his arm around his mother’s shoulders and shared her joy as the trembling Kashia breathed deeply the salty tangy air.

The cart went over the final hill revealing the open ocean beyond. The sea was rough and violent, reflecting the clear blue and white of the sunny sky above. Waves were crashing loudly against rock and there was a ship bobbing its way out to sea. The open sky and the endless ocean stretching towards the flat line of the horizon were so new yet so familiar to Kashia. Kashia and her son sat together on the grassy hill in silent awe. Kashia in fulfilling the simple yet what had almost been an unattainable dream of a lifetime, and her son soaking in his mother’s pleasure.

After a long while, Kashia slowly stood up and made her way down the slope and onto the beach. Barefoot and loving it, Kashia wriggled her toes and dug her feet into the sand. Kashia stood just at the point where the waves recede back into the mass of water and took her first step into the cool salty ocean, then walked fully clothed into the water. She’d done it. She had seen, touched and experienced her dream. In her next life, she would not wait so long.

An Adaptation of a Nepali Folktale

Told by Sheila Wee

The old man lay in the corner and remembered.

Remembered a time when he was young and strong.

When he ran through the valleys tending his father’s goats.

But now he is here, old and weak, lying in a corner.

No more running – just a few stumbling steps.

Trembling hands, and a mind that remembers the past, better than it understands the present.

Yes, once he was young and strong and now he is old and weak.

But he has a family.

A son, son’s wife and a grandson – the light of his life.

The boy plays on the floor beside him.

Feeds him patiently with a spoon.

Makes him want to live.

Yes, once he was young and strong, able to dig and plant, to weed and harvest.

Able to take care of his family.

Life was good then and food was plentiful.

It is not so now.

Old and weak he lies on his bed and sees the weariness in his son’s eyes; working so hard for so little.

He sees despair in the eyes of the young woman, his son’s wife, as she tries to make the food feed all four of them.

He sees his grandson grow thinner, not taller.

The young wife looks at the old man lying in the corner – near the end of his life.

The old man who is eating the food that would help her son grow tall and strong.

She thinks of the lifting and carrying of that old body and how it takes her time and strength.

Time that could be spent helping her husband in the fields, growing the crops that could lift them out of poverty.

Late in the night the old man lies in the corner and listens.

Listens to fierce whispers, to tears and sighs between husband and wife.

He hears his name, then the word “temple” and he understands.

Morning comes. The old man lies in the corner and remembers. Remembers how he had placed the stones and shaped

the mud to build this house – this home. This home, which he must now leave.

His grandson laughs and chatters by his side. A sound he will hear no more.

And now comes his son carrying a basket.

The basket that his own dear wife had woven for him, years before. She had woven it strong, strong enough to carry

the heaviest of burdens, wood, rice, or even an old man.

Then came two arms gently lifting. Two eyes downcast, not meeting his. A mouth too ashamed to speak.

And he was now a burden, carried in a basket. A collection of old bones to be taken away.

But then came a voice, young and pure.

“What are you doing father?  Where are you taking grandfather?”

“To the temple my son, they will look after him there.”

“Is that a good place father?”

“Yes, my son.”

“Then bring back the basket, don’t forget. For one day I will need it to carry you to the temple too.”

A moment passed.

A glance went between husband and wife.

Then two arms again were  gently lifting and the basket was empty and the old man was once more in his rightful place.

In the corner of the house, but at the centre of the family.

© Sheila Wee 2007

Please feel free to tell this story, but if you want to publish it in any way please contact me for permission at admin@storywise.com.sg

A Japanese Folktale

Hack! Hack! Hack! The stonecutter was toiling under the burning sun driving his chisel into the stone with his heavy mallet. He led a simple life working as a stonecutter all day and returning to his wife and child in the evening.

On this sweltering day, the stonecutter was feeling particularly grumpy and his mood blackened when he saw his wealthy landlord pass by in a sheltered horse-drawn carriage.

“Oh to be a wealthy man in a cool carriage, never having to do a hard days toil in the hot sun…’ the stonecutter grumbled.

In a flash, the startled stonecutter found himself sitting in a small room. A small room that seemed to be moving! He was bouncing up and down, and up and down. Gripping his seat, he cautiously peered out the window and saw that he was indeed moving in a horse-drawn carriage.

Down below, he saw the stonecutters working in the quarry wearing their dusty grey uniforms. He looked at his own clothes and discovered that he was wearing a magnificent gown embroidered with gold thread. The stonecutter was speechless with wonder he couldn’t believe his luck!

After a while though, he began to feel uncomfortable, sweating under the heavy gown. The heat seemed even more oppressive in the enclosed carriage. The rocking became overwhelming as a sickening wave of nausea struck him.

“What’s the point of being a wealthy man with gold clothes when you can feel as terrible as this?” he asked himself as he yelled for the carriage to stop before tumbling out onto the ground.

As he lay on his back, breathing deeply, he squinted up at the blazing sun. “Oh to be the powerful sun… and not have any worries nor the weak constitution of a man.”

Instantly, the man was no longer a man, but an immaculate orb of light. Being the sun itself, he felt neither hot nor cold. Just powerful. He blazed as hard as he could over the land way below him.

Just as he was beginning to have fun watching streams dry up and the parched ground crack, a large cloud blocked his way.  No matter how hard he shined, the cloud was impenetrable. He felt useless.

“I see now that clouds are more powerful than the sun. I want to be a cloud,” the man commanded becoming used to this strange magic.

A cool, vaporous, spreading feeling washed over him. He was closer to the earth now covering every inch of it in shadow. This pleased him as he thought of the helpless sun above.  He looked at the parched land below and decided to have a bit of fun. A thunderstorm! He started to drizzle, then rain, then launched into a fabulous downpour. For a touch of theatrics, he flashed with lightning and boomed with thunder. He aimed his bolts at trees, which split dramatically down the middle.

Then he aimed at the rock on which he had toiled as a man but the effect was disappointing. A few tiny pieces broke off the surface, but the rock was otherwise unscathed.

“Obviously rock is more powerful than cloud,” he said laughing to himself. He couldn’t believe that he had thought that he’d be most powerful as a soft fluffy cloud.

“Time to become rock!” he ordered.

Suddenly he felt very still and solid. He tried to move, but he was absolutely stuck. A sharp stinging sensation, chipped away at him.

Hack! Hack! Hack! It was a stonecutter driving his chisel into him with his heavy mallet!

It suddenly dawned on him; he didn’t want to be a landlord in a carriage, nor the sun or cloud or rock. He didn’t need such power. He just wanted to be himself, the humble stonecutter, to go home every evening to his wife and child.

“Please… I’d like to be myself again.”

And in a flash, he was old self, with his chisel in one hand and his mallet in the other.

An Italian Folktale

“Giorgio! Can you please help me with these baskets, I need to get them to market before the sun rises.”

“Father, can’t you see I’m sleeping. I’ll help you when I wake up.”

“Giorgio, can you hold this ladder steady while I clean the roof?”

“Father, I’m having my breakfast, a young boy needs to build up his strength.”

“…Giorgio, can you help me now?”

“Sorry father, I can’t keep Matteo waiting, I have to go fishing now. Bye!”

Giorgio always had an excuse. He was either too tired, too hungry, too sociable, too sad, too happy, too busy.  Busy doing what?  His father could never figure that out.

Giorgio’s father was growing old. He had to  work hard on the farm to grow enough vegetables and herbs to sustain the family.  Without any help from Giorgio,  it was becoming too much for him.

One day, Antonio, a dear friend from the old father’s past came to stay. He was a large, cheerful man, who was always full of ideas, but most importantly he was perceptive.

After just a morning of observing Giorgio, he had seen how the father was at his wits end on how to get the boy to do even an ounce of work. Pleading, cajoling and even threats had no effect on the lazy Giorgio.

Antonio whispered to the father, “If you trust me, my friend, you will follow my lead.”

Antonio disappeared into his room for a while and when he came out, he held an old piece of leather in his hands.

“Giorgio, come here quick, I have the opportunity of a lifetime for you!”

“Antonio, I’m in the middle of sun tanning, why don’t you come over to me?”

“But Giorgio, this is a treasure map.”

Upon hearing the golden words, ‘treasure map’, Giorgio leapt from his deckchair and scrambled over to Antonio.  Antonio explained that he had just discovered this treasure map deep in the cupboard of his room. It was a map of one of the fields that Giorgio’s father owned, and it promised that 100 silver coins were to be found in that field. Giorgio snatched the map from Antonio, grabbed a spade and ran to the field eager to find the treasure.

Antonio and the boy’s father followed slowly behind. When they arrived at the field, they were amazed to see Giorgio digging with gusto. But he wasn’t really getting anywhere. The ground was too hard, too solid to dig up.

“Hey Giorgio!” shouted Antonio from across the field, “why don’t you water the field, then it’ll be easier for you to dig.”

Giorgio followed his advice with such haste that his father had to do a double take to check if this boy was really his son. He had never seen him working, let alone working so fast.

The next morning, despite it being a Sunday, Giorgio was up before dawn to continue his treasure hunt. When he saw the villagers passing by on their way to church, he grew protective over his field. He decided to scatter manure over the ground, to keep any busybodies away.

Later that afternoon, the two older men visited Giorgio at the treasure field. They followed behind Giorgio who was plowing hard. As they walked and talked, Antonio surreptitiously dropped what looked like tiny handfuls of dust along the way.

After Giorgio had plowed the entire field to no avail, he thrust the treasure map at Antonio and exclaimed with frustration that he had just wasted his time with this treasure-less hunt. The field was empty.

Soon Giorgio was back to his usual ways, busy doing nothing.

By this time, a few weeks had passed since Antonio’s visit, and the plan was ripe for the picking – quite literally.

“Giorgio, come look at this!”

“Father, I’m playing solitaire.”

“It’s your field, it’s full of treasure!”

In a flash, Giorgio was at his father’s side. The whole field was now covered in gleaming green leafy spinach!

“Those are vegetables father. Where’s the treasure?”

“Giorgio, Giorgio, Giorgio, you are looking at your treasure, it was in the field all the time. The spinach will earn you 100 silver coins at market.”

And so, the embarrassed Giorgio discovered the treasure of hard work rewarded.

From then on, he became a real farmer, not just a farmer’s son, busy growing his own produce and reaping the benefits of his labour.

There were once two lost frogs who couldn’t find their way back to their pond. They hopped here and they hopped there. But they were decidedly lost.

They were lost and beginning to get very thirsty.

Then, ahead of them they saw an extraordinary pond. It was as white as the clouds above. They were so parched, they hop-sprinted over to the pond and leaped into it.

As soon as they hit the sticky liquid they realized they’d made a mistake. This was not a pond at all, but a bucket of cream! Thick dense cream that was beginning to pull them under!

They tried to scramble up the sides of the bucket, but the silky cream made them slip and slide.

After thrashing around for some time, one of the frogs burst into tears. She was exhausted and thirsty and could not even begin to imagine how they would escape. She couldn’t see an end in sight. After a while she just stopped paddling, and let herself to sink to the bottom.

The other frog called after her and did his best to get her to keep her swimming, but it was no use, she had given up.

The lonely little frog kept treading cream, and treading cream and treading cream and after a while, the cream started to thicken. He kept going, and eventually, the cream hardened into butter. All the little fellow had to do then was hop out of the bucket and he was on his way.

Classroom Activity:

Making Butter

This story demonstrates the importance of perseverance and never giving up, as well as the how ones attitude to a situation can either make you or break you.

If you are telling this story to young kids, you could couple it with a butter making activity.

You’ll need:

• Heavy cream (do not use reduced fat cream, as butter is made from the fat content of milk)
• Small jars with secure lids (baby food jar size is perfect)
• Salt (for taste if you want to try your butter after)
• Crackers
• Butter knife

Fill half the jar with the cream. Secure the lid and shake. It may take as little as 10 minutes, though it may take longer depending on the vigor of the shaking.

To keep the children interested, you could play a game like musical statues while they shake their jars of cream.

Or if you just want to make one jar of butter, the children could just take turns shaking it.

Explain to the children that cream is made up of tiny globs of fat and tiny globs of protein. When you shake the cream, these globs stick together to form butter!

The solid part of the mixture is butter and the liquid on top is buttermilk.

Tip: If possible, try and keep the cream/butter cold for preservation purposes.

If you are brave and have been hygienic in your preparation, the kids can try their butter by adding a little bit of salt and spreading their butter on crackers.

On a warm afternoon, on the second floor of a splendid palace that overlooked the market place of the city, sat a king and his minister. While the king was eating some puffed rice on honey, he looked over his land with satisfaction. What a prosperous city he ruled. What a magnificent city

As he was daydreaming, a little drop if honey dripped from his puffed rice onto the window ledge.

The minister was about to call a servant to wipe up the honey, when the king waved a hand to stop him. “Don’t bother, it’s only a little drop of honey, it’s not our problem.”

The minister watched the drop of honey slowly trickle down the window ledge and land on the street below.

Soon, a buzzing fly landed on the sweet drop of honey.

A nearby lizard shot out its long tongue and caught the fly.

The lizard was taken by surprise when a cat leapt on it.

The cat was pounced on by its worst enemy the dog  that  had broken free from its chain.

Meeowing and barking erupted from the street below the King and his minister. The minister was about to call a servant to go and deal with the brawling cat and dog when the king said, ”Relax, the cat and dog belong to the market people. We shouldn’t interfere. It’s not our problem.”

The cat’s owner was horrified to see her cat being attacked by the big bully of a dog and started whacking the dog with her broom. The dog’s owner was horrified to see her dog being attacked by the big bully of a cat and started whacking the cat with her broom.

Soon, people started coming out from their stalls and houses to see what all the screaming and shouting was about. Seeing their friend’s cat being attacked, they joined in berating the dog and its owner. Others, seeing their friend’s dog being attacked by the cat, also joined in. Very quickly, the shouting became violent and a fight broke out in the street.

The worried minister turned to the King but his only comment was, “Not our problem. Here, have some more puffed rice and honey.” The king and his adviser ate as they watched the fray below.

Soon the police were called in to break up the fight, but the people were so angry, each side convinced that they were right, (right about what, they couldn’t remember). They started attacking the policemen. The fight rapidly broke out into a full scale riot.

The king eyed the minister and said, “I know what you are thinking, but the army will handle it. Besides, this is not out problem.”

The riot swiftly escalated into a civil war with looting and destruction all over the city. Buildings were set alight and by nightfall, the magnificent city was reduced to a pile of smoking ashes. The king and his minister stood spellbound, rooted to the spot where they had been watching all day. Their mouths were hanging open in horror.

“Oh…” said the king quietly, “maybe the little drop of honey WAS our problem.”

Dear Story Readers,

This could be a great story for encouraging responsible leadership, as well as taking initiative and nipping problems in the bud.

It’s quite a funny story in the way everything escalates so rapidly. A tip for telling this story is to let the stakes build in your voice with each incident topping the other, while still keeping it light and calm when you come to the sections about the king – because he really doesn’t think it’s his problem!

~ Julie

Late one night, a thief broke into Chen Shi’s house and stealthily crept around the sleeping household.  Suddenly, the thief heard a rustling sound. Someone was coming.  He looked around for a place to hide himself, but the room had little furniture in it – there was nowhere to hide.   In desperation he looked around again and this time he looked upwards, up to the roof beams.

With a running jump he scrambled up onto one of the roof beams He pressed his body along the length of the pole, and stayed as still and quiet as he could – hardly breathing , not moving a muscle.

The door below opened, and in walked an old man; Chen Shi.  Chen Shi took a few steps into the room and stopped. He seemed to be lost in thought.

Then he called out to a servant to wake his sons. He then walked over to a chair in the middle of the room, sat down, and waited.

Soon, Chen Shi’s three sleepy sons shuffled into the room.

“What’s wrong father?” asked the youngest son.

“I just wanted to ask you boys a question.” answered Chen Shi.

The oldest son was surprised, “You woke us all up in the middle of the night because you wanted to ask us a question? Couldn’t it have waited till the morning?”

“It is an important question. Now sit down all of you. My question is: If a person does bad things, is he a bad person?”

The room was silent for a while.

Then, the middle son spoke.  “I’ve heard of the phrase, ‘Hate the sin, but not the sinner’, I think that people can be good inside, but they get led astray or get driven to do bad things.”

Chen Shi nodded and replied, ”Yes, I do think that man is born good. But sometimes, people get lax, and conveniently forget what the right thing to do is, and slowly they turn bad. It’s easier to be bad and much, much harder to be good, and do what is right all the time. It takes work and perseverance not to give in.

The old man told his sons about how important working and honesty were. “You must always strive to be honest, to people you know and also people you don’t know. What do YOU think sir?” Chen Shi looked directly up at the unwelcome visitor in the beam.

The thief was so surprised, he almost fell off. Regaining his balance, he slowly climbed down, trembling. When the sons saw the loot in the thief’s bag, they closed in on him, ready to punish him, but Chen Shi stood in between the thief and his sons.

“Hate the sin and not the sinner”, he repeated, then turned to the thief and to everyone’s surprise ordered his servant to give the man a bolt of silk.

Full of shock, shame and gratitude, the thief apologised sincerely.

Chen Shi said, “I have faith in you to become good again. Use this cloth to start over, and live your life with dignity and a healthy amount of pride in yourself.” Then Chen Shi led the man out the front door.

The dismayed man sold the cloth and began a fresh by starting a small business, and never forgot about his night on the beam.

This story made its way around, with everyone amazed at Chen Shi’s wisdom and his ability to forgive. To this day in China, a thief is sometimes referred to as the ‘gentleman on the beam’

A Mullah Nasruddin Story

A troubled man went to Mullah Nasruddin for some advice.

“Mullah, I have been trying to grow a rose garden. But all the rose bushes I plant just wither and die. The only flower that does grow are common dandelions. Weeds! They’re everywhere and I just can’t get rid of them. What can I do mullah?”

The mullah thought for a while, “Why don’t you begin your garden all over again?”

“I’ve tried that. I replanted my garden from scratch, but the blooming dandelions just keep growing back again!”

Mullah Nasruddin pondered the options, “You won’t appreciate this, but my advice would be to move house, maybe even city, to where roses will grow better.”

“Oh, no, I cant move house again, I cant afford to, besides, we just moved there. Is there nothing else we can do?”

“Well,” said the Mullah gravely, “This is really the last resort then.  I don’t see what else can be done. I’m afraid you will just have to learn to love dandelions.”

Once, Mullah Nasruddin, a wise and respected man, arrived at a grand dinner. When he approached the entrance, he was gruffly turned away because he was not dressed well enough. His clothes were too shabby for such a lavish ball.

The mullah went home, and picked out a shiny fur coat, and made his way back to the hall. Dressed like a king, he was lead straight through to the main table where everyone waited on him with sickly sweet politeness.

When the first course arrived, Mullah Nasruddin took a spoonful of hot soup and poured it all down his fur coat. Scoop after scoop he poured. “Eat, fur coat. Come on, eat! It is you that they wanted as a guest, not me!”

There were once two frogs that lived so near and yet so far. One frog lived in a small pond at the bottom of a quiet garden. The other lived by a road on the edge of town. The garden frog had a peaceful life with all the clean drinking and swimming water he wanted. The town frog also had plenty of water, water from puddles and drains. But living by the road was dangerous and stressful.

The garden frog pleaded with his good friend to move in with him, to the peaceful pond, out of harms way. The town frog just shook his head and said he couldn’t imagine moving away from the place he had lived all his life. He was used to his life by the road. No, he would stay where he was, by the road at the edge of the town. The next day, the town frog was run over by a passing vehicle.

Hi StoryReaders,

This is a rather morbid ending to a story (Aesop teaches hard lessons!), but I think it’s rather hilarious in its harshness.
After I adapted this story, I read an article by corporate storyteller Sean Buvala. He said that one of his clients said she couldn’t use this story at work because of its severe ending. Sean says that you can adapt any story to suit your needs. He changed the ending of Two Frogs to the city frog being scooped up by a little girl and put in a tank as a pet. He softened the ending, but still made the point that the smooth and routine path is not always the safest one, and sometimes, risks should be taken.

~ Julie