A little story inspired from John Lennon's "Imagine". 

Once upon a time, on top of the Red Quiet Mountain, there was a little village where little redheaded curly people called The Happy Reds used to live.

The Red Quiet Mountain was an old mountain and he had had enough of heights and winds and chills and storms. In his youth, many have braved up on his cliffs and he had mercilessly punished them, especially the mustached and the bald ones. Well, that was because as a young and tall mountain, he used to be very adventurous and impulsive, like they all are at that age. His name was The Red Loud Mountain in the beginning, for he used to howl frighteningly each time a climber would come too high for what he liked – he was ticklish and couldn’t bear little feet too high on his neck. Rumor spread and reached the ears of all climbers and climber apprentices from the Valley and even from other valleys, valleys that belonged to other mountains, taller maybe, but not so unforgiving like The Red Loud. And just like that The Red Loud Mountain lost significant audience in only a few years. But well, this is another story.

The Red Loud Mountain grew up. So tall that one day he took a good look over his valley and did not like what he saw. Did not like it at all. He thought and thought for days, looked again and again over his Valley, looked at the folks and how easily they lied to each other. He feared it might have all happened from his fault, but couldn’t figure out exactly why. And then he thought some more but couldn’t come to any resolution. And so became more and more sad and quiet, until all the villagers from all the valleys forgot about all the dreadful things he did to their people and named him The Red Quiet Mountain.

Once in a seldom while tourists from distant valleys would come to his feet, but he would never answer. And they would all leave, not bother climbing a single smooth slope. And The Red Quiet Mountain would have remained quiet so for all eternity, had it not been for the Reds.

Mr. Reds and his recently wed beautiful wife had decided to leave the Valley and its depraved ways and come live among The Red Quiet’s cliffs. They’d packed their few belongings and on they went away from the meadowy village. When they reached the mountain’s feet, Mr. Reds softly took his sweet Emily’s hand, borrowed some valiancy and checked the agreement one more time inside her playful purple eyes.
“Heeeellooooooooo! Mister The Red Quieeeeeeeeeet?”
No answer.
“Are you here, Mister Mountain? We come in peace…”
The sleepy old mountain’s ears felt the gentle stroke of the word “peace” and he began fumbling within himself, pleasantly intrigued by this little creatures’ unexpected arrival. He slowly opened his eyes and bowed his time snowed forehead to check on his wannabe tenants. Mr. and Mrs. Reds were very much alike, body and soul he would delightfully find over the years, short and roundish, fiery curly hair and eyes sparkling of joy for life. They were holding hands and Mrs. Reds freckles blended into the sweetest blush The Old Red Quiet had ever seen in centuries, as he tried to give them a parental welcoming but managed only an intimidating growl : “Yes?”
Head to toes, The Red Quiet shivered himself as he addressed them. He’d missed the humans and their daring pinky feet. Gone were now the days of his loneliness. The Reds had come to stay, if he should so graciously agree. They would build a round wooden house and hang it from a cliff he’d offer them. And they would grow seeds and groom his waterfalls, play hide-and-seek with his trees and comfort with sweet whispers those young and naïve rocks of his that used to cause him so much trouble every now and then going into cracky depressions.

The Reds stayed. They built their house and hang it from a cliff. Once a few years, a new curly and roundish laughter would come and tickle The Red Quiet with his joy and the Reds would build a new wooden cubicle. The little Reds stayed too, and when they grew up, Mr. Reds encouraged them to take a trip to the Valley and look for spouses. Father Reds had told his children about the Valley and his old wicked ways. He had hoped it changed for better, but he wished not leave The Old Red Quiet. He’d told his little Reds that they should choose to live wherever they see fit, The Red Quiet’s cliffs or the meadows of the village. Off they went to the village and they did not like what they saw. Did not like it at all. They chose beautifully soul shaped wives and brought them to their cliff hanged home. Father and Mother Reds helped them build their own wooden round houses and wooden round cublicles for their children. The Reds family grew bigger and bigger, and bigger grew the heart inside The Old Red Quiet, yet he always breathed slowly for he knew a mere sneeze would shatter his curly children’s houses.

Years came and went and the Reds never left. They built more wooden round houses and hanged them form the mountain’s cliffs and before the Valley knew it, the Red Quiet had bred a new village among his terrifying hights. The Reds still go look for spouses to the valley when they feel the time for a new family has come and they always bring the most beautiful redheaded curly freckled girls. No Reds has ever left the hanged village to not come back and no Reds has ever lied to another. No Reds has ever hurt another fellow Reds or took possession of things not of his own belonging.
Once in a while, Father and Mother Reds climb on the highest peek, hold hands and choir some valiance to eachother
“Heeeellooooooooo! Mister The Red Quieeeeeeeeeet?”
The Red Quiet shivers and giggles and they all smile happy gazing over the wooden roundish village. They do this every full moon and they will be doing this happily ever after, for The Red Happy Mountain has blown eternity over all his children and their happiness will never end.