Welcome to the Muppet Central Forum!
Jim Henson Idea Man
Back to the Rock Season 2
Bear arrives on Disney+
Sam and Friends Book
RedPiggy
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Apr 9, 2008
- Messages
- 5,125
- Reaction score
- 400
The Worst Time of the Year
The skies were hidden in the dark gray clouds, with just enough light filtering through to illuminate the massive blanket of snowflakes dumping onto the ground below. High above the snow-covered fields came a disappointed sigh. Dark brown furry fingers tapped slowly on the dark gray stone pane of the open window.
Junior Gorg looked on in dismay. His garden, which took up nearly a quarter of his family’s property, was almost completely hidden in snowdrifts.
“Are you still mopin’ around up there?” came a gruff growl from the ground floor of the Gorg Castle. “Why doncha come down here an’ help your mother an’ me organize the pantry?”
“But Paaaaaaa,” Junior whined, “de snow’s killin’ all my vegetables!”
Pa groaned. “That’s what winter does, ya darn fool galoot!” he snarled. “Now get yer big brown bottom down here an’ help us organize the pantry!”
Junior stomped down the creaky wooden ladder that led to the main living space of the castle. He looked to his right and saw his mother busily humming to herself while dusting off jars and putting them on the dining table for Pa to organize.
And Pa was dutifully tending the fire in the fireplace instead. Pa noticed Junior. His voice was quiet. “Now go alphabetize those jars like yer mother wanted.”
Ma Gorg, dressed in a pink dress and a white apron, came out of the pantry with her hands on her hips. She glared at Pa. “You’re the one who should be helping me alphabetize the jars, Oh Industrious and Judicious Husband of Mine.”
Pa stood up and dusted ash off his ample blue belly, having taken off his shaggy purple robe to avoid getting it dirty, leaving just a red cloth belt around his waist. He glanced at his wife. “Junior knows his letters, Ma,” Pa complained. “I’m busy.”
Ma smirked and turned her back on her husband. “Very well, Dear Hus – since you’re by the fireplace, you can go ahead and clean it out with those brushes on the mantle.”
Pa grit his teeth and clenched his fists. “Insufferable woman,” he whispered to himself. He glanced at Junior expectantly. Junior just shrugged and went to go help his mother. “Useless dunderheaded lummox,” Pa chided under his breath.
“Make sure I can see the stone glisten,” Ma cooed loudly from the pantry.
Pa groaned and kneeled with the brushes in hand.
Ma handed Junior a jar of pickled beets and smiled at him. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all your help,” she told him.
“How come ya didn’t praise me for barely standing there?” Pa groused from the living room.
Ma glared in his direction. “Junior doesn’t spend his industriousness on finding others to do his work for him,” she informed him.
Junior, anxious to change the subject, looked sadly in his mother’s eyes. “Ma, why are you always so happy dis time of ye-uh? I mean, de snow jus’ up an’ kills de whole garden!”
Ma smiled and shrugged. “Sugar Muffin, you know the garden has to go to sleep in the winter so it can wake up nice and refreshed in the springtime.”
“Yeah, but --.”
Ma shook her head. “No, Junior – I’ve told you this story before. You may be four hundred and seventy-nine years old, you’re not too old to just toss away one of the most important stories of the Gorgs.” She dusted off an empty shelf as she began the tale for the hundredth time ….
When Pa’s father was just a tiny thing, knee high to a full-grown Gorg, he watched the dark clouds begin to cover the bright blue sky. The air was cold and the plants had begun to wither. He was terrified of the thought all of those nice fruits and vegetables dying, so he decided to keep that from happening. He waited until the still of the night and ran away from the ancestral castle, determined to find an oracle that would help him keep the garden alive all year. After a week of walking, his stomach was curving toward him, not toward the world around him like it should have been. A Gorg’s stomach was a sign of a Gorg’s mind: if he loved the world, his stomach would point to it; but if a Gorg was selfish and lazy, thinking only of himself, then his stomach would start to cave inwards until he died. Pa’s father found heaps of old food, broken pieces of wood, moth-eaten clothes of all sizes, and shattered pottery.
A skinny dark-skinned creature with turquoise hair, just an inch or two taller than the young Gorg, appeared at his side. It spoke with a soft melodious female voice, filled with compassion. “Are you lost, little one?” she asked, even though they were roughly the same size. Pa’s father nodded. He told her why he had come. She nodded. “So, you want the plants in your family’s garden to stay alive all year?” He nodded. “You realize that gardens must be thrown away before they can return.”
Pa’s father nodded. “I know,” he said, “but if they don’t die then we don’t need new ones.” He wiped his nose. “I need an oracle to keep the garden alive.”
The strangely shaped female, like a skinny nearly-hairless Gorg, shrugged and smiled. “Go back home, little one,” she told him softly. “You’ll find an oracle there.” She placed her hand on his chest. “Merely let your heart listen for her. Need her, and she will come to you.” She turned and disappeared in a hulking heap of trash.
Another week passed and Pa’s father looked almost a shadow of his former bulky self. His fur was starting to lose its sheen. He found his way finally to the ancestral home of the Gorgs. As soon as he walked past the large stone wall, he found the skies nearly clear and the air warm and humid. The plants of the garden were full and green, the flowers all abloom.
Nothing could have made Pa’s father happier. It never even occurred to him to look for the oracle. All he knew was that he had his wish and the plants were kept warm all winter long.
Come the normal time of spring, the leaves started to brown and yellow. Pa’s father panicked. He tried desperately to water the plants, but the water from the melted snow in the neighboring area just seemed to hurt the garden more. Pa’s father grabbed a shovel, and, even though it was as big as him, started to dig a hole, hoping to find some good water, or at least the source of the problem that was killing the plants. His father fortunately grabbed him by the arm and took the shovel away, for the ground gave way and revealed a large pit underneath the land’s surface. They could hear the rocks and dirt splash against a small pool of water underneath.
Pa’s father sat in his bed in the upper loft, where all Gorg children sleep in the ancestral castle so they will learn how wide the world was. He was forbidden to leave the room as punishment for nearly getting himself killed. He whimpered as he stretched to look out the window from his bed. What went wrong? Warming the plants had been the best thing he had ever done? As he pondered, he spotted his father yanking the dying plants out of the ground and throwing them onto a huge compost pile.
“At least with this heap of compost we can get some of the nutrients back,” he heard his father grumble. “I’m glad it occurred to me to make one.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Junior sighed, interrupting his mother. “Pa’s daddy wished back de wintuh an’ because de plants fell onto de gwound asleep, de seeds planted in de spwing could wake up and become all sorts of good t’ings just like it should be an’ ev’rybody had a feast ta celebwate. Dat’s why ev’ry wintuh we have a feast on all de leftovuhs.”
Ma nodded. “And we make sure to put all the scraps on that ol’ compost pile all throughout the year so that when the snow melts and gives the land water, we can return the lifeforce of the plants to awaken their offspring,” she offered.
Junior sighed, nodded, rolled his eyes, and handed her some jars.
THE END
The skies were hidden in the dark gray clouds, with just enough light filtering through to illuminate the massive blanket of snowflakes dumping onto the ground below. High above the snow-covered fields came a disappointed sigh. Dark brown furry fingers tapped slowly on the dark gray stone pane of the open window.
Junior Gorg looked on in dismay. His garden, which took up nearly a quarter of his family’s property, was almost completely hidden in snowdrifts.
“Are you still mopin’ around up there?” came a gruff growl from the ground floor of the Gorg Castle. “Why doncha come down here an’ help your mother an’ me organize the pantry?”
“But Paaaaaaa,” Junior whined, “de snow’s killin’ all my vegetables!”
Pa groaned. “That’s what winter does, ya darn fool galoot!” he snarled. “Now get yer big brown bottom down here an’ help us organize the pantry!”
Junior stomped down the creaky wooden ladder that led to the main living space of the castle. He looked to his right and saw his mother busily humming to herself while dusting off jars and putting them on the dining table for Pa to organize.
And Pa was dutifully tending the fire in the fireplace instead. Pa noticed Junior. His voice was quiet. “Now go alphabetize those jars like yer mother wanted.”
Ma Gorg, dressed in a pink dress and a white apron, came out of the pantry with her hands on her hips. She glared at Pa. “You’re the one who should be helping me alphabetize the jars, Oh Industrious and Judicious Husband of Mine.”
Pa stood up and dusted ash off his ample blue belly, having taken off his shaggy purple robe to avoid getting it dirty, leaving just a red cloth belt around his waist. He glanced at his wife. “Junior knows his letters, Ma,” Pa complained. “I’m busy.”
Ma smirked and turned her back on her husband. “Very well, Dear Hus – since you’re by the fireplace, you can go ahead and clean it out with those brushes on the mantle.”
Pa grit his teeth and clenched his fists. “Insufferable woman,” he whispered to himself. He glanced at Junior expectantly. Junior just shrugged and went to go help his mother. “Useless dunderheaded lummox,” Pa chided under his breath.
“Make sure I can see the stone glisten,” Ma cooed loudly from the pantry.
Pa groaned and kneeled with the brushes in hand.
Ma handed Junior a jar of pickled beets and smiled at him. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all your help,” she told him.
“How come ya didn’t praise me for barely standing there?” Pa groused from the living room.
Ma glared in his direction. “Junior doesn’t spend his industriousness on finding others to do his work for him,” she informed him.
Junior, anxious to change the subject, looked sadly in his mother’s eyes. “Ma, why are you always so happy dis time of ye-uh? I mean, de snow jus’ up an’ kills de whole garden!”
Ma smiled and shrugged. “Sugar Muffin, you know the garden has to go to sleep in the winter so it can wake up nice and refreshed in the springtime.”
“Yeah, but --.”
Ma shook her head. “No, Junior – I’ve told you this story before. You may be four hundred and seventy-nine years old, you’re not too old to just toss away one of the most important stories of the Gorgs.” She dusted off an empty shelf as she began the tale for the hundredth time ….
When Pa’s father was just a tiny thing, knee high to a full-grown Gorg, he watched the dark clouds begin to cover the bright blue sky. The air was cold and the plants had begun to wither. He was terrified of the thought all of those nice fruits and vegetables dying, so he decided to keep that from happening. He waited until the still of the night and ran away from the ancestral castle, determined to find an oracle that would help him keep the garden alive all year. After a week of walking, his stomach was curving toward him, not toward the world around him like it should have been. A Gorg’s stomach was a sign of a Gorg’s mind: if he loved the world, his stomach would point to it; but if a Gorg was selfish and lazy, thinking only of himself, then his stomach would start to cave inwards until he died. Pa’s father found heaps of old food, broken pieces of wood, moth-eaten clothes of all sizes, and shattered pottery.
A skinny dark-skinned creature with turquoise hair, just an inch or two taller than the young Gorg, appeared at his side. It spoke with a soft melodious female voice, filled with compassion. “Are you lost, little one?” she asked, even though they were roughly the same size. Pa’s father nodded. He told her why he had come. She nodded. “So, you want the plants in your family’s garden to stay alive all year?” He nodded. “You realize that gardens must be thrown away before they can return.”
Pa’s father nodded. “I know,” he said, “but if they don’t die then we don’t need new ones.” He wiped his nose. “I need an oracle to keep the garden alive.”
The strangely shaped female, like a skinny nearly-hairless Gorg, shrugged and smiled. “Go back home, little one,” she told him softly. “You’ll find an oracle there.” She placed her hand on his chest. “Merely let your heart listen for her. Need her, and she will come to you.” She turned and disappeared in a hulking heap of trash.
Another week passed and Pa’s father looked almost a shadow of his former bulky self. His fur was starting to lose its sheen. He found his way finally to the ancestral home of the Gorgs. As soon as he walked past the large stone wall, he found the skies nearly clear and the air warm and humid. The plants of the garden were full and green, the flowers all abloom.
Nothing could have made Pa’s father happier. It never even occurred to him to look for the oracle. All he knew was that he had his wish and the plants were kept warm all winter long.
Come the normal time of spring, the leaves started to brown and yellow. Pa’s father panicked. He tried desperately to water the plants, but the water from the melted snow in the neighboring area just seemed to hurt the garden more. Pa’s father grabbed a shovel, and, even though it was as big as him, started to dig a hole, hoping to find some good water, or at least the source of the problem that was killing the plants. His father fortunately grabbed him by the arm and took the shovel away, for the ground gave way and revealed a large pit underneath the land’s surface. They could hear the rocks and dirt splash against a small pool of water underneath.
Pa’s father sat in his bed in the upper loft, where all Gorg children sleep in the ancestral castle so they will learn how wide the world was. He was forbidden to leave the room as punishment for nearly getting himself killed. He whimpered as he stretched to look out the window from his bed. What went wrong? Warming the plants had been the best thing he had ever done? As he pondered, he spotted his father yanking the dying plants out of the ground and throwing them onto a huge compost pile.
“At least with this heap of compost we can get some of the nutrients back,” he heard his father grumble. “I’m glad it occurred to me to make one.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Junior sighed, interrupting his mother. “Pa’s daddy wished back de wintuh an’ because de plants fell onto de gwound asleep, de seeds planted in de spwing could wake up and become all sorts of good t’ings just like it should be an’ ev’rybody had a feast ta celebwate. Dat’s why ev’ry wintuh we have a feast on all de leftovuhs.”
Ma nodded. “And we make sure to put all the scraps on that ol’ compost pile all throughout the year so that when the snow melts and gives the land water, we can return the lifeforce of the plants to awaken their offspring,” she offered.
Junior sighed, nodded, rolled his eyes, and handed her some jars.
THE END
