From Echoes Beneath Ohio (Standalone Fable)
by Esi Noire
Grumble-Grum stood tall-ish in the village square one morning, his fur a nervous shade of breadcrumb beige.
“I’ve decided to end all my relationships,” he said solemnly.
Gasps and sighs floated through the air like startled birds.
“I can’t continue like this,” he went on. “Every time I try to be close to someone, something happens. People eat my food. People ask me to think. People don’t understand how important my mother is.”
The Village Elder blinked. “So… the relationships are ending because… your mom cooks too much?”
Grumble-Grum nodded gravely. “Exactly.”
Part 2: The Real Reason
You see, Grumble-Grum’s mother, a shadowy figure with strong seasoning and stronger opinions, brought food over every day. Stewed cattails. Fried moonroots. Salted goat knees with burnt marshmallow sauce. She called it “heritage cuisine.”
Every day, she knocked and said the same thing:
“Here. I brought something.
Pray about it.”
Didn’t matter what it was. Her answer to everything – a stubbed toe, a broken fence, a crumbling marriage – was always: “Pray about it.”
Grumble-Grum’s wife, a kind and very patient villager named Ila, had finally had enough.
“I love your mother,” she told him, “but I can’t keep pretending it’s holy to ignore patterns. She’s not helping. And you bring food for one.”
The food he brought? Just enough for himself. Never two spoons. Never shared.
Even the chickens stopped clucking when they saw him coming – they knew they weren’t getting a bite.
Part 3: The “Talk”
One day, Ila did the unthinkable. She pulled Grumble-Grum’s mother aside and said gently:
“Maybe it’s time to stop bringing food. It’s causing arguments. It’s one of the reasons we’re separating.”
Grumble-Grum’s mother stared with those ancient, syrupy eyes.
“I see,” she said.
“Pray about it.”
And the next day?
Grumble-Grum brought another steaming plate of goat-knee lasagna.
One plate. One fork. One chair.
Part 4: The Argument Diet
Grumble-Grum claimed he hated conflict.
But every time Ila tried to set a boundary, he puffed up like a loaf of emotional bread. His belly swelled. His forehead bulged. The air around him filled with snorts and whataboutisms.
- “Why are you always making it about food?”
- “You know how I am.”
- “I didn’t say I’d stop bringing it – I said I’d try.”
Truth was, he didn’t want the food.
He didn’t want the marriage.
He just wanted the argument.
The debate. The feeling of power in the chaos.
It was his favorite seasoning.
Part 5: The Final Scoop
Eventually, Ila moved into a quiet cottage surrounded by fig trees and friends who actually shared. Grumble-Grum didn’t say goodbye. Just left a note:
“I see now this was never going to work. I’m going back to Mama’s. She never judged me for liking her meat pies.”
The village threw no farewell party.
But someone did carve this into a tree:
“Some monsters want connection.
Others just want control and casserole.”
Grumble-Grum returned to his mother’s house, where every day she asked nothing of him, fed him three times, and said:
“You’re such a good boy.
Pray about it.”
He lived there happily ever after – well-fed, unchallenged, and blissfully alone with his chewable engrams.
The End
Moral: Never trust a monster who only brings enough for himself.
Bonus lesson: Love without nourishment is just noise with good seasoning.
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If this story made you laugh, sigh, or heal, please like, share it. Print it. Read it out loud to someone who’s still trying to make casseroles work in chaos.
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