Stellar Appellations

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by

Karls (Karlene Jacobson) at Voices...

Head over for links to inspirational fiction.

Stellar Appellations

by Beth LaBuff

An aging brick façade, sat decomposing on the lane,

Held a rusty pock-marked door that was weather-beaten, stained.

Inside, a single dangling bulb launched shadows in a hall

That pointed to a doorway, set mid-center on the wall.

Inside the room, Sir Abram toiled while fifty years accrued,

His livelihood for fifty more if wishing stars held true.

Sparse furnishings—a single desk presided o’er the space.

“Twas daily here, Sir Abram’s methodology took place.

The walls and ceiling of this room were painted midnight blue

With tiny starlight pinpoints plotted—prompting easy view.

Beside each tiny stellar point, in pristine script of white,

The name he’d chosen to bestow upon that distant light.

A list each morn, with newest stars was tacked up in the hall,

And by day’s end, each star was named and charted on his wall.

He’d satisfaction in the fact that each star known to man

Had carefully received a name by his own thoughtful plan.

Each working day Sir Abram rambled down that shambled lane,

Regenerated once again inside his starred domain.

As father with his children, he recited starry names,

Then when at rest, sat at his desk, a job well-done—acclaimed.

At mid-point of the fifty-second year of his employment,

A shadow loomed that dimmed his light and halted his enjoyment.

It seemed a ruthless act, to slide a pink slip ‘neath his door,

But there it lay, a bearer of bad tidings on the floor.

“The Appellator, Bureau Office, Stellar Appellations,

We hereby give you notice of our budget lacerations.

For due to lack of funding, we inform you to our sorrow,

We’re shutting down this office; it’s effective on the morrow.”

So voila! Unemployment, his reward for fifty years!

This pink slip proclamation predicated life to veer,

At workday’s end, he offed the lights— symbolic— darkened-day.

But satisfied each star was named, he sadly trod away.

Despite his melancholiness— new stars that offer light,

Though still unnamed, regardless, go on shining just as bright.

And if uncharted nor assessed—the distance from our sun,

These unnamed stars, unfathomed lights—still have been named by One.

***

He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name.

Psalm 147:4

Look up at the heavens and count the stars...So shall your offspring be.

Genesis 15:5

© Beth LaBuff -- January 2012

The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street

The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street

by Beth LaBuff

'Twas the eve 'fore Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street,

Our cottage was brimming with victuals and sweets.

The pumpkin pies cooled, as had marshmallowed yams,

And raisin bread slices awaited plum jam.

The turkey was nestled all snug in its pan,

A five a.m. stuffing— accorded the plan.

The lists on the counter would free-up my head.

With tasks for each hour, I climbed into bed.

When out on the porch I heard clunkings and bams.

I ran out the doorway, then tripped on canned Spam!

Now what kind of prank had entangled my feet?

What lunacy lurked here on Cranberry Street?

For hundreds of cans lay in haphazard heaps,

Who sent this fool Spam? Am I still fast asleep?

Did Cranberry Street have a luncheon meat war?

I entered my cottage, securing the door.

Befuddled, I sat in my swivel desk chair,

I pondered the front porch; I whispered a prayer.

I switched on my laptop, my brain in a stew;

I thought to read emails for something to do.

Then what to my listening ears was THAT sound?

My inbox was flooding with emails— inbound.

More rapid than vultures, from whom and from where,

Converged on my inbox, left messages there.

Prolific as rabbits, more forthcoming mail

Assaulted my thinking—I feared to exhale.

These emails could cause such outlandish fixations—

Proposing that Spam be the pride of our nation!

Suggestions: That canned Spam would pair well with tea break,

At Christmas time— canned Spam in lieu of a fruitcake.

Have roasted stuffed Spam served on Thanksgiving Day,

Tie ribbons on Spam and attach to bouquets.

Then flanking my email were ads from cafés.

Each advertised dishes like Spam Fudge Parfaits,

And touted the flavor of Simmered Spam Stew,

Or boasted the glories of Cubed Spam Fondue.

While haunted by roasts of our Thanksgivings past,

Now, luncheon meat cans on my porch had amassed.

I feared for tomorrow, for our turkey meat.

Such strange things had happened on Cranberry Street.

I may eat Spam pudding and suffer this scheme,

I may add some Spam to my coffee with cream.

I may grill Spam steaks on the Fourth of July,

But don't dump your Spam in my sweet pumpkin pie.

I swiveled my swivel chair, lost deep in thought.

This whole Spam fiasco had left me distraught.

It rested on me, so I must find a way—

I couldn't let Spam be the rule of the day.

And there, a solution for streets out-of-kilter,

Alleging a swift comprehensive spam filter.

I added my addresses—email and house,

Then dispatched it posthaste with a click of my mouse.

I'll never know how that this task was completed—

But all the Spam cans on my porch were deleted.

The filter-fix helped purge our porch of Spam meat—

Put life back to normal on Cranberry Street.

***

—with apologies to Clement C. Moore, Dr. Seuss, and Hormel—

***

Spam © Hormel Foods LLC

© Beth LaBuff -- 2011

***

If you enjoyed reading this

you will find more great reading

by clicking the following link.

Friday Fiction is hosted this week

by Vonnie at My Back Door

The Hermit Crab's New Shell

Friday Fiction is hosted by

Sara over at Fiction Fusion.

Head that way for more inspirational fiction,

or add a link to your own.

***

The Hermit Crab's New Shell

--with a nod to "The Emperor..."--

By cutting out her plankton snacks

An urban legend states,

A hermit crab, by dieting

Had scaled down her weight.

Her toned-up exoskeleton

With dwindled fatty cells,

Necessitated acquisition

Of a slimmer shell.

The shop she chose to patronize

Was Decapod Boutique.

She'd clams to barter for a shell

To show off her physique.

Inside the shop, all eyes on her,

That gave them pause from work.

At once she was converged upon

By two aggressive clerks.

They sized her up from cheliped

To abdomen to claw,

Then grabbed some shells suspended from

The hangers on the wall.

The first shell for perusal was

A modest a-line shell,

Her thoughts—Improper dry-cleaning

Had left a briny smell!

The next shell was a bit risqué,

Très scant –décolleté.

When "scandalous" escaped her mouth,

They whisked the shell away.

The third shell's prior owner had

A heart with "MOM" tattoo

Emblazoned 'cross the backside that

Could not be hid from view.

The next one, a bit worse for wear—

For wrinkles lined the shell,

Apparently 'twas slumbered in

By former clientele.

'Twas then that one clerk winked an eye

As she began to tell

The attributes and glories of

"The shell to end all shells."

"A shell that was exquisite,

'Twas of antiquated fame.

A shell that sensed its wearer's mood

And warranted acclaim."

But there was one disclaimer,

"Though an ancient work of art,

The only crabs that see this shell

Are crabs with cheerful hearts."

They sashayed as they hauled it in,

'Twas plastic-wrap encased.

With pageantry and circumstance,

The clerks were stoic-faced.

Then hanging ties, unknotted by

The sales clerk entourage,

But was this just a shell game

Or an optical mirage?

She squinted thrice then scrunched her eyes

And dread began to swell,

Was not her crab heart cheerful?

For she couldn't see the shell!

Then they commenced to help her—

Incredulity dispelled.

They pulled and tugged and shoved on her

To wedge her in the shell.

Not sure if it was fitted straight,

She tried to shift the shell,

Not only could it not be seen—

It couldn't be felt, as well!

She could not let them ascertain

Her crabby heart lacked cheer,

Though obviously the reason—

That much was pretty clear.

She paid the price in clamshells

Then departed the boutique.

But breezes filtered through the shell,

'Twas felt by her physique!

She scanned the eyes of passersby,

In shock, they turned away.

And mothers shielded children's eyes.

They quickly went their way.

She thought, They harbor malice!

No cheer, their heart's possess!

It's clear my shell can not be seen.

It left her in distress.

Oh, somewhere hearts were cheerful,

Though here, they were appalled!

'Twas vocalized by one young crab,

"She wears no shell at all!"

***

© Beth LaBuff --May 2011

***

The woman Folly is rowdy;

she is gullible and knows nothing.

Proverbs 9:13 HCSB

The Brigadier and the Merchant's Daughter

Friday (slightly delayed) Fiction is hosted by
Rick over at Pod Tales and Ponderings

The Brigadier and the Merchant's Daughter
by Beth LaBuff – June 2011

The sun was a fierce inferno that blistered the barren way.
The wind was a dervish dancer that mesmerized her prey.
The sagebrush clung to the parched sand, atop the desert floor.
And the brigadier came drifting—
Like a tumbleweed roamed—drifting—
The brigadier came drifting, up to the merchant's door.

His mount was a roan that carried the faded Johnny Reb.
The gray forage cap of a soldier was slouched upon his head.
A minié ball from a musket of a blue-coat Yankee squad
Had shredded his arm at Shiloh—
It shattered his soul at Shiloh—
When they buried his arm at Shiloh, beneath the sullied sod.

His eyes were occluded windows and his thoughts lodged faraway.
The dust caked beneath his kerchief, sweat stained his worn chambray.
He passed through the door then halted, for stocking the shelves with lace
Was the merchant's comely daughter—
Rose, the merchant's daughter—
The merchant's only daughter, coal wisps enwreathed her face.

His heart met its Appomattox, was besotted at first sight.
It was reveille to his spirit and cessation of soul blight.
The battle smoke that had haunted, now wafted from his life.
He'd entered to purchase coffee—
He bought hardtack and coffee—
Then clutching hardtack and coffee, he beseeched her to be his wife.

She noticed his faded gray cap and his sweat-stained chambray weave.
She examined his dust-caked kerchief and queried his empty sleeve.
His eyes sought hers while they pleaded, she sensed the sorrow there.
Then the merchant's comely daughter—
Rose, the merchant's daughter—
With a nod, the merchant's daughter—she tossed her coal-black hair.

The drifter added a purchase, a lace-trimmed wedding gown.
Then he married the merchant's daughter while the parson was in town.
In the shadow of a mesa, they picnicked at high noon.
They ate hardtack with coffee—
On their makeshift honeymoon—
And the wind was a dervish dancer for the bride and the one-armed groom.

Her pledge of love to the drifter emancipated his heart,
Held sway by the wind-blown dancer, they saw a serpent dart.
It struck with the speed of a bullet in the heel of his comely bride.
Its fangs were laden with venom—
As the bridegroom eyed the puncture—
Like a bayonet to his own soul, his heart within him died.

He reached for his muzzle-loader, with one arm loaded lead.
He aimed then he pulled the trigger, He shot the rattler—dead.
The sand of the wind-blown desert seeped through the bridal lace
Of the gown of the merchant's daughter—
Rose, the merchant's daughter—
And the wind danced with coal-black tresses across her ashen face.

He made one final purchase, as the sun was ebbing down.
Then he carried the merchant's daughter to the plot at the edge of town.
The strike from the deadly viper had stilled her coal-black locks.
He buried his love at sunset—
Entombed his heart at sunset—
He buried the merchant's daughter in a rough-hewn pinewood box.

They say on a summer's noonday, on the blistered barren way.
When the wind is a dervish dancer that mesmerizes prey.
When the sagebrush clings on the parched sand, atop the desert floor,
That the brigadier comes drifting—
Drifting—drifting—
The brigadier comes drifting, up to the merchants door.

His mount is a roan that carries the faded Johnny Reb.
The gray forage cap of a soldier is slouched upon his head.
He walks through the door then he stops short, for stocking the shelves with lace
Is the merchant's comely daughter—
Rose, the merchant's daughter—
The merchant's only daughter, coal wisps enwreathe her face.
***
—with apologies to Alfred Noyes – The Highwayman—

© Beth LaBuff - June 2011

eBook review of "Light Farm Works"

Shelley Ledfors has so graciously reviewed my eBook, Light Farm Works on her blog "Indi-eQuality."
She has just launced her blog to "be a helpful site for those who read, write, edit, design, format and enjoy top quality, clean fiction e-books!"

Please visit Shelley's site [click the button above] and let her know what you think.

Third and Main

Fiction Friday is hosted by

Sara Harricharan at Fiction Fusion.

Click the titles there for links to great
inspirational fiction.

Third and Main
By Beth LaBuff

My friend and I hastened our steps,
The sky was threatening rain.
The intersection, dimmed by clouds
At downtown — Third and Main.
We passed a granite monument,
Inscribed to mark the plot,
“This town burned down in ’33
When lightning struck this spot.”

Concealed by the monument,
A peddler lay in wait.
He sized us up as gullible
And hoped we’d take his bait.
His cheekbone gripped a monocle
That amplified his eye,
His spine was stooped and ‘round his neck
He wore a black bowtie.

His monocle examined us.
My neck raised prickled hairs.
His trenchcoat lined with eyeglasses
He rasped to hawk his wares.
His odd array of sunglass frames
In darkish gray-toned hues,
And crescent-shaped moonglasses for
“Night-gazing lunar views.”

“For sportsmen hunting rhino we
Have camo-horn-rimmed frames.
And opera glasses that viewed ‘Faust’,”
Another of his claims.
He flashed night vision goggles
“On murky nights, you’ll see.”
His terms were “cash or barter and
Your credit’s good with me.”

My friend and I were spellbound,
He’s a shyster! screamed my mind,
A counterfeit, his glasses—fake.
I’m sure he thinks we’re blind.
His bowtie bobbed. He babbled on,
A smugness on his face.
With pomp and ceremony
He drew out an ancient case —

With ornamental sequins
And brocade upon the sides,
It’s clasp, no longer functional,
Was make-shift ribbon-tied.
I held my breath expectantly
To see what was enshrined,
He slowly eased the sequined lid,
The inner case — silk-lined.

Inside, exotic glasses,
A scarab bridged the nose,
And it appeared that hieroglyphs
Were stenciled on the bows.
“Though optics and illusions,”
The peddler-man had said,
“A future view, ten seconds worth—
To see what lies ahead.”

My friend picked up the glasses
And set them on her nose.
She gazed around at Third and Main
And then her features froze.
She ripped the glasses from her face
And hurled them at the man.
She grabbed my arm and propelled me,
So then, of course, we ran!

Again, the hair prickled my neck,
Stopped dead amidst our dash
When almost simultaneously
We heard a lightning crash.
We turned to see what happened—
A fire-bolt from the sky.
A monocle— all that remained—
That and a black bowtie.

It’s said that “Lightning won’t strike twice!”
I don’t believe that claim.
We saw it strike the second time
That day at Third and Main.

***
Job 37:15 (NIV)
Do you know how God controls the clouds
and makes his lightning flash?

***
written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge
© Beth LaBuff -- July 2010

Voice of the Maker

Fiction Friday is hosted by Vonnie @ Polliwog Pages
Stroll on over for more inspirational fiction.

Voice of the Maker
by Beth LaBuff

A car door slammed, then with a lope
Scampered a carefree lad,
The little guy with skinned-up knees
Was visiting Granddad.
The days ahead held promise with
Adventures to unfold,
You can’t just sit and wait on life
When you’re six years old.


The farmhouse sprang to action,
‘Twas fair-weather for the day,
They packed a lunch, then out the door
And they were on their way.
The little legs took twice the steps
To match the Granddad’s stride,
And Granddad’s heart, though weakened some,
Beat with a family pride.


Adventures started with a trek
Upon an earthen road,
Across the bridge then up a hill,
At length their pace had slowed.
‘Twas there upon a milkweed,
A caterpillar crawled,
He paused a bit and raised his head,
The two looked on— enthralled.


“What is he doing, Granddad?”
Inquired the little guy.
-
“He’s listening for the Maker’s voice,”
Was Granddad’s wise reply.
-
“And what’s the Maker telling him?”
-
“The Maker says that soon
He’ll need to find a steady branch
Then make his silk cocoon.”


Quite typical of six-year-olds
The next word posed was, “Why?”
-
Granddad, with his knowledge,
“He’ll become a butterfly.”
-
The boy thought on the process
Then breathed a whispered sigh.
He stared down at the dirt beside
Then something caught his eye.


The six-year old bent skinned-up knees
And stooped down to the ground,
He grasped a dark red pebble,
One quite smooth and round.
His childish fingers picked it up
And rolled it in his hand,
He stuffed it in his pocket,
Then rose again, to stand.


A chicken hen scratched near the two,
The boy studied the bird.
He wondered as the chicken paused
What had the old hen heard?
And as she fluttered to the coop
On feathered-chicken leg,
He knew that God was telling her
‘Twas time to lay her egg.


They journeyed on, more slowly now,
Then finally had to rest
For Granddad was all out of breath,
His palm pressed to his chest.
They settled ‘neath an apple tree
Upon the meadow grass,
They ate their lunch and waited for
His episode to pass.


When Granddad’s breath came easier,
Once more upon their way,
They saw a cow off by herself
Nearby the fresh mown hay.
“Now what would God say to a cow?”
The boy muffled a laugh.
-
Then Granddad said, “He’d tell the cow,
‘It’s time to drop your calf’.”


As they walked they came upon
An odd array of rocks,
Somewhat stacked atop each like
Haphazard building blocks.
Granddad told the little guy
About the Bible story,
The donkey and the palm leaves and
The people’s praise and glory.


He told about the Pharisees,
(Words penned by Dr. Luke)
To silence the disciples
They requested a rebuke.
How Jesus told the Pharisees
Amid hosanna-shouts,
That if the people quieted
The rocks would then cry out.


The wheels inside the young child’s head
Spun ‘round in concentration,
Then in his pocket deep he reached
And pulled forth his donation.
He put his pebble on the pile
And then he thought about
Just how amazing it would sound
To hear the rocks cry out.

***

Just days after their journey
Found Granddad sick abed,
Reposed upon a patchwork quilt,
The boy perched near his head.
The open window near the bed
Enabled evening breeze
To cool the ashen weathered brow
And boy with skinned-up knees.


“What are you doing Granddad?”
He eyed the pallid face.
-
“I’m listening.” The Granddad said,
Cheered by the child’s embrace.
-
“And do you hear the Maker’s voice?”
-
Words whispered with a quaver,
“The voice that I am listening to—
That of my loving Savior.”


“And what’s the Savior telling you?”
He shifted on the bed
Then leaned to hear the Granddad’s voice,
-
“’Come home,’ my Savior said.”
-
Then youthful hands clasped work-worn ones
Until the final sigh,
And through the window, on the breeze,
Entered a butterfly.

***
Inspiration from:
Job 39
Does the eagle soar at your command…? Verse 27
Do you know when the mountain goats give birth…? Verse 1
NIV

***

©Beth LaBuff -- July 2010
written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge