tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690925580951630942023-06-20T05:47:39.373-07:00Laughing at the DaysBethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-16742723120248182842013-09-27T11:25:00.002-07:002013-09-27T11:28:40.680-07:00Ziggurat<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
<a href="http://fictionfusion.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Friday Fiction with Sara</a> is hosted by </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Karlene @ <a href="http://karleneajacobsen.blogspot.com/2013/09/until-then.html" target="_blank">Karlene A Jacobsen</a> </div>
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Links for more inspirational fiction await you there. </div>
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This following fictional story, </div>
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based on the Biblical story The Tower of Babel,</div>
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was written for a FaithWriters challenge</div>
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with the topic "Measure." </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Ziggurat</span></h2>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I hear their hushed babbles; they watch me.
They recognize the clothing I wear</span><span style="color: #00b050; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">;</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> clothing that
proclaims my royal position. I am the one honored by Nimrod himself, selected
from the workers for this task. I am Akkade of Shinar. <br />
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An acrid odor clings to the plain; my eyes burn. Bricks outnumbering the stars
in the sky are baked in the fires that continually flame. Workers form the
bricks in order to build our city and the great tower that will reach to the
heavens, up to God himself. Nimrod proclaims that no power on earth can stop
us. The task assigned to me, Akkade of Shinar, is to measure the tower
progress. I will give a report each <i>araḫ</i><sup>1</sup> to Nimrod.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Araḫ Samna<sup>2</sup></span></i></b><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <br />
The work begins. The tower foundation has been laid. I have measured and
certified the perimeter at 73 nindanu<sup>3</sup> square. Bricks are
continuously being produced. <br />
--Akkade of Shinar</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Most workers now ignore me, but not he. I see him; he still stares. Jealousy
and hatred flare from his eyes, eyes that mirror the fires he continually
feeds. I should forget him; he is just a worker, a common fire-stoker.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Araḫ Kislimu<sup>2</sup></span></i></b><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
Rain has slowed the progress. The tower height is two nindanu<sup>3</sup>.<br />
--Akkade of Shinar</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Bricks rained down, and one struck my shoulder as I prepared to measure the
tower today. I hurriedly climbed the steps and saw him scurry away. It was the <i>common
fire-stoker</i>, as I’ve come to think of him. He is becoming a threat. I must
speak to Nimrod concerning him. <br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Araḫ Ṭebētum<sup>2</sup></span></i></b><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
The rains have ceased and progress has resumed. The tower height has reached
two aslu<sup>4</sup>. Brick production is not keeping up. We must find a way to
turn out bricks faster. <br />
--Akkade of Shinar</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The tower is reaching to heaven, up to God. Nothing can stop us. We will soon
walk into the presence of the Most High. Generations from now, when people see
the tower, they will remember what we accomplished. <br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Araḫ Šabaṭu<sup>2</sup></span></i></b><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
The tower is approaching four aslu<sup>4</sup>. Good communication among the
workers is aiding the progress. I propose we inscribe your worthy name, Nimrod,
on the capstone of this great tower.<br />
--Akkade of Shinar</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Nothing further hinders our progress. We have birthed this tower and nourished
it. Some mornings as I see clouds surround the top, I almost believe it is the
breath exhaled from the tower. I must ask permission of Nimrod to inscribe my
name on a stone at the top. I, too, will be praised by generations who see this
great marvel. They will see the tower and remember Akkade of Shinar.<br />
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<br />
Nimrod has given permission to do whatever pleases me concerning the <i>common
fire-stoker</i>. Today, I will confront him. He will bow to me or he will be
reassigned. The air holds an excitement; all my dreams are coming to pass. I’m
pleased with the great height reached by our <i>torre</i><sup>5</sup>. <i>¿Qué
pasó? ¡No entiendo! El trabajo se ha parado. ¡Contésteme ahora! ¡Soy Akkade de
Shinar!</i><sup>6</sup><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">***<br />
<i>~~ Fictional story based on The Tower of Babel from </i></span><a href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Genesis%2011.1-9" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Genesis 11:1-9</span></i></a><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> ~~</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
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***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<sup>1</sup> <i>Araḫ</i> - month<br />
<sup>2</sup> <i>Samna, Kislimu, Ṭebētum, and Šabaṭu</i> – Babylonian month
names<br />
<sup>3</sup> one <i>nindanu</i>, an ancient Mesopotamian unit of measure = 6
meters<br />
<sup>4</sup> one <i>aslu</i>, an ancient Mesopotamian unit of measure = 60
meters <br />
<sup>5</sup> tower<br />
<sup>6</sup> What happened? I don't understand! Work has stopped. Answer me,
now! I am Akkade of Shinar!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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written by Beth LaBuff - (c) January 2013<br />
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BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-91352767611841182392012-11-02T11:43:00.001-07:002012-11-02T11:44:25.690-07:00Junk Food National Historic Memorial<br />
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Friday Fiction</div>
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The beefy hand of the park ranger slid the pass to me and
droned, “Please don’t remove or consume any historical items from the memorial.” My eyebrows puckered; silently I queried the
dusting of powdered sugar near his lower lip.</div>
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It had been ten bland years since the prohibition against
all forms of junk food. The military was
pressed into service, called upon to round up junk food from manufacturing
plants, warehouses, store shelves, and even from the private sector. It was transported to a rural area, where confections
and snacks were bulldozed into a misshapen obese mountain. Within months of the junk food ban, the Bible
was also banned. Of these two dangers to
society, only junk food was memorialized with a National Historic Memorial.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the penumbra of the gastro-monstrous mountain, the
concrete Visitor Center and Museum beckoned.
After the greeting by the sticky museum
door handle, I felt the need to slide my hand down the spinach-green slacks I’d
chosen to wear. Inside, a standard
gray movable sign on the left announced, <i>“Junk
Food National Historic Memorial -- mountain tours begin on the hour.” </i>I checked my watch; I had thirty minutes
to explore the museum before the next tour began.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The adjoining room to my left was labeled <i>“Snacks.”</i> I entered its dimness, allowing my eyes to
focus on the bright displays. The first
told the history of the potato chip, its origin and packaging through the
years. Memories of fun-filled days spent
with Jimmy at the county fair flooded as scents of popcorn and chips were
vented into the room. The adjacent
display used glaring geometric shapes and blaring neon colors with a chilling
reminder of the calorie content and emphasized bodily damage from potato chip
consumption.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Next, my buff non-junk-food-contaminated body hurriedly
perused the snack cake display with its similar history followed by a consumer
warning. Nostalgia smacked my lean
six-pack with longing for those crème-filled delights of bygone days. Other rooms off the main hall were labeled, <i>“Soda Pop,” </i>and<i> “Pastries.”</i> I had my
choice of which <i>junk food</i> rooms to
sample next.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The last room I visited was labeled “<i>Experience the sluggish life of a junk-food junkie.” </i> This room was set up to be an experiential
warning, where the participant could suffer through two minutes in the life of
a junk food addict. This was the room I
secretly and eagerly anticipated. This
National Historic Memorial was the only place in the country where junk food
was legally sold—in limited quantities. Just
before entering, I purchased my artery-clogging, blood-pressure-raising junk food
of choice. There was an overstuffed
couch along the back wall of the lamp-lit room. I plopped onto the overstuffing and set my
feet atop the coffee table that fronted the couch. The opposite wall sported a mounted
television with a football game already in progress. I kicked-off my two minutes when I popped
the soda can top and ripped open the single-serving bag of chips. The
salty crisps and the fizzy liquid were an explosion of enjoyment, reawakening
smothered and forbidden sensations. The
two-minute <i>experiential </i>warning was
pure ambrosia.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I awaited the mountain tour, suddenly warning whistles
blared. Uniformed personnel swarmed from
every direction like ants looking for the last picnic crumb. The loud speaker announced that a praline
had been stolen from the historic mountain memorial and recent mountain
tourists would have to undergo a search.
Then came a saccharin apology, “We regret that due to the theft, there will
be no more Junk Food Mountain tours today.”
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I gave a quick wave to the park ranger as I left the
National Historic Memorial. His double
chin pumped his head in my direction as his mouth remained fixed and his hands
seemed preoccupied with something beyond my vision. The sign at the park exit warned, <i>“We remember; lest we go back.”</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
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I plan to return next year, just to be warned again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> © Beth LaBuff -- September 2012</span></i></div>
BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-71954172312570439522012-06-08T08:15:00.000-07:002012-06-08T11:54:14.218-07:00Friday Fiction<h3>
<center style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana, 'trebuchet MS', arial, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Plain Crash</span></b></center><center style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana, 'trebuchet MS', arial, sans-serif;"><i style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">by Beth LaBuff -- October 2011</i></center></h3>
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<center style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana, 'trebuchet MS', arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">A zephyr swept savanna's plain.<br />The African sun blazed.<br />A crash* of rhino's searched for food,<br />Their grassland overgrazed.<br /><br />A league of scholars heard their plight<br />And since it's common knowledge<br />That "Information holds the key,"<br />They rallied at their college.<br /><br />They formed, to raise awareness,<br /><i>The Rhino-Smarts Foundation</i>.<br />They gathered funds for laptops--<br />Tax deductible donations.<br /><br />The rhino boasts keen hearing,<br />Though poor eyesight overall.<br />It's also common knowledge that<br />His brain is somewhat small.<br /><br />An herbivore with thick gray skin,<br />Each foot displays three toes.<br />He's none too bright, quite comical<br />With horn atop his nose.<br /><br /><i>The Rhino-Smarts Foundation</i><br />Presented to the crash,<br />A laptop for their personal use,<br />With giga-memory cache.<br /><br />The rhinos, grateful for the gift,<br />Began appropriation.<br />They plotted ways to ascertain<br />Some prudent information.<br /><br />With keywords, "vitamins" and "grass,"<br />Each word spelled with precision.<br />They searched which grass variety<br />Would boost their feeble vision.<br /><br />They <i>googled</i> which would strengthen<br />The horn atop their nose<br />And which would banish athlete's foot<br />Between their triple toes.<br /><br />They also searched for recipes<br />To turn the grass to mash<br />That promised thick-skin softening—<br />Grass lotion for the crash.<br /><br />Just as they sought to <i>google</i><br />Specific grass locations –<br />Their laptop flashed a message,<br />Caused arrhythmic palpitations.<br /><br />"Warning! Virus Warning!"<br />Spread confusion like a flash.<br />Poor vision, plus their pint-sized brains—<br /><i>A virus struck their crash ? ! ?</i><br /><br />They <i>googled</i>, "virus symptoms."<br />They <i>yahooed</i>, "rhino pain."<br />Resultant—"<i>rhinovirus</i>"<br />Confused their rhino brains.<br /><br />It started with a sniffle, then<br />Progressed to horn congestion<br />"The virus" rampaged through the crash—<br />The powers of suggestion.<br /><br />While virus through the laptop spread<br />To giga-memory cache,<br />The monitor went haywire then<br />Their laptop system crashed.<br /><br />Sometimes a little knowledge<br />Can misdirect the brain.<br />The ailing, fevered rhinos crashed<br />And burned upon the plain.<br />***<br />*crash—a herd of rhinoceroses</center><br />
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***</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Friday Fiction is hosted by</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Rick @ <a href="http://podtalesandponderings.blogspot.com/">Pod Tales and Ponderings</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Head on over for links </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">to more inspirational Fiction.</span></div>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-67845818878789273922012-02-24T13:57:00.006-07:002012-02-24T14:27:14.520-07:00Stellar Appellations<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center; "><span style="font-style: normal; "><b>Friday Fiction</b> is hosted this week by </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center; "><span style="font-style: normal; ">Karls </span><span><i>(Karlene Jacobson</i></span><span style="font-style: normal; ">) at <a href="http://kannjacobsen.blogspot.com/">Voices...</a></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center; ">Head over for links to inspirational fiction.</div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><b><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Stellar Appellations</b></div></b></span><div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center; "><i>by Beth LaBuff</i></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><span><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">An aging brick façade, sat decomposing on the lane,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Held a rusty pock-marked door that was weather-beaten, stained.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Inside, a single dangling bulb launched shadows in a hall</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">That pointed to a doorway, set mid-center on the wall.</span></div></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><br /></div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Inside the room, Sir Abram toiled while fifty years accrued,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">His livelihood for fifty more if wishing stars held true.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Sparse furnishings—a single desk presided o’er the space.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Twas daily here, Sir Abram’s methodology took place.</span></div></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><br /></div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The walls and ceiling of this room were painted midnight blue</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">With tiny starlight pinpoints plotted—prompting easy view.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Beside each tiny stellar point, in pristine script of white,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The name he’d chosen to bestow upon that distant light.</span></div></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><br /></div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">A list each morn, with newest stars was tacked up in the hall,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">And by day’s end, each star was named and charted on his wall.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">He’d satisfaction in the fact that each star known to man</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Had carefully received a name by his own thoughtful plan.</span></div></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><br /></div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Each working day Sir Abram rambled down that shambled lane,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Regenerated once again inside his starred domain.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">As father with his children, he recited starry names,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Then when at rest, sat at his desk, a job well-done—acclaimed.</span></div></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><br /></div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">At mid-point of the fifty-second year of his employment,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">A shadow loomed that dimmed his light and halted his enjoyment.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">It seemed a ruthless act, to slide a pink slip ‘neath his door,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">But there it lay, a bearer of bad tidings on the floor.</span></div></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><br /></div><i><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“The Appellator, Bureau Office, Stellar Appellations,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">We hereby give you notice of our budget lacerations.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">For due to lack of funding, we inform you to our sorrow,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">We’re shutting down this office; it’s effective on the morrow.”</span></div></span></i><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><br /></div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">So voila! Unemployment, his reward for fifty years!</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">This pink slip proclamation predicated life to veer,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">At workday’s end, he offed the lights— symbolic— darkened-day.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">But satisfied each star was named, he sadly trod away.</span></div></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><br /></div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Despite his melancholiness— new stars that offer light,</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Though still unnamed, regardless, go on shining just as bright.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">And if uncharted nor assessed—the distance from our sun,</span></div></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">These unnamed stars, unfathomed lights—still have been named by <b>One</b>.</span></div></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><br /></div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">***</span></div></span><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 100%; ">He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name.</i></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: 100%; ">Psalm 147:4</b></div></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><i>Look up at the heavens and count the stars...So shall your offspring be.</i></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><b>Genesis 15:5</b></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; "><br /></div><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><div style="text-align: center;">© Beth LaBuff -- January 2012</div></span>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-17273420273402079532011-12-09T10:30:00.004-07:002011-12-09T13:41:21.223-07:00The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: large; ">The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">by Beth LaBuff</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">'Twas the eve 'fore Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Our cottage was brimming with victuals and sweets.</div><div style="text-align: center;">The pumpkin pies cooled, as had marshmallowed yams,</div><div style="text-align: center;">And raisin bread slices awaited plum jam.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The turkey was nestled all snug in its pan,</div><div style="text-align: center;">A five a.m. stuffing— accorded the plan.</div><div style="text-align: center;">The lists on the counter would free-up my head.</div><div style="text-align: center;">With tasks for each hour, I climbed into bed.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">When out on the porch I heard clunkings and bams.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I ran out the doorway, then tripped on canned Spam!</div><div style="text-align: center;">Now what kind of prank had entangled my feet?</div><div style="text-align: center;">What lunacy lurked here on Cranberry Street?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">For hundreds of cans lay in haphazard heaps,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Who sent this fool Spam? Am I still fast asleep?</div><div style="text-align: center;">Did Cranberry Street have a luncheon meat war?</div><div style="text-align: center;">I entered my cottage, securing the door.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Befuddled, I sat in my swivel desk chair,</div><div style="text-align: center;">I pondered the front porch; I whispered a prayer.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I switched on my laptop, my brain in a stew;</div><div style="text-align: center;">I thought to read emails for something to do.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Then what to my listening ears was THAT sound?</div><div style="text-align: center;">My inbox was flooding with emails— inbound.</div><div style="text-align: center;">More rapid than vultures, from whom and from where,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Converged on my inbox, left messages there.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Prolific as rabbits, more forthcoming mail</div><div style="text-align: center;">Assaulted my thinking—I feared to exhale.</div><div style="text-align: center;">These emails could cause such outlandish fixations—</div><div style="text-align: center;">Proposing that Spam be the pride of our nation!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Suggestions: That canned Spam would pair well with tea break,</div><div style="text-align: center;">At Christmas time— canned Spam in lieu of a fruitcake.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Have roasted stuffed Spam served on Thanksgiving Day,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Tie ribbons on Spam and attach to bouquets.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Then flanking my email were ads from cafés.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Each advertised dishes like Spam Fudge Parfaits,</div><div style="text-align: center;">And touted the flavor of Simmered Spam Stew,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Or boasted the glories of Cubed Spam Fondue.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">While haunted by roasts of our Thanksgivings past,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Now, luncheon meat cans on my porch had amassed.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I feared for tomorrow, for our turkey meat.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Such strange things had happened on Cranberry Street.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I may eat Spam pudding and suffer this scheme,</div><div style="text-align: center;">I may add some Spam to my coffee with cream.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I may grill Spam steaks on the Fourth of July,</div><div style="text-align: center;">But don't dump your Spam in my sweet pumpkin pie.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I swiveled my swivel chair, lost deep in thought.</div><div style="text-align: center;">This whole Spam fiasco had left me distraught.</div><div style="text-align: center;">It rested on me, so I must find a way—</div><div style="text-align: center;">I couldn't let Spam be the rule of the day.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">And there, a solution for streets out-of-kilter,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Alleging a swift comprehensive spam filter.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I added my addresses—email and house,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Then dispatched it posthaste with a click of my mouse.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I'll never know how that this task was completed—</div><div style="text-align: center;">But all the Spam cans on my porch were deleted.</div><div style="text-align: center;">The filter-fix helped purge our porch of Spam meat—</div><div style="text-align: center;">Put life back to normal on Cranberry Street.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">—with apologies to Clement C. Moore, Dr. Seuss, and Hormel—</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;">Spam © Hormel Foods LLC</div><div style="text-align: center;">© Beth LaBuff -- 2011</div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;">If you enjoyed reading this</div><div style="text-align: center;">you will find more great reading</div><div style="text-align: center;">by clicking the following link.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Friday Fiction is hosted this week </div><div style="text-align: center;">by Vonnie at <a href="http://www.mybackdoorministry.blogspot.com">My Back Door</a></div>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-34441644060881906872011-04-26T14:17:00.004-07:002011-04-26T14:25:05.116-07:00eBook review of "Light Farm Works"<center><br /><br /><p><a href="http://indi-equality.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" alt="Inde-iQuality" src="http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s265/yomamarita/button-4-1.jpg" /></a></p></center><br /><br />Shelley Ledfors has so graciously reviewed my eBook, <em><strong>Light Farm Works</strong></em> on her blog <strong>"Indi-eQuality."</strong><br />She has just launced her blog to <em>"be a helpful site for those who read, write, edit, design, format and enjoy top quality, clean fiction e-books!"</em><br /><br />Please visit Shelley's site [click the button above] and let her know what you think.BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-15788840305809710752010-08-20T03:17:00.004-07:002010-08-20T08:15:47.483-07:00Voice of the Maker<div align="center"><a href="http://karlenejacobsen.blogspot.com/search/label/Fiction%20Friday" target="_blank"><img border="0" alt="Fiction' view¤t=" src="http://i434.photobucket.com/albums/qq68/Write4Joy/FFButton3framed.jpg" target="_blank" /></a><br />Fiction Friday is hosted by Vonnie @ <a href="http://polliwogpages.blogspot.com/p/tell-me-story.html">Polliwog Pages</a><br />Stroll on over for more inspirational fiction.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Voice of the Maker</strong><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">by Beth LaBuff</span><br /><br />A car door slammed, then with a lope<br />Scampered a carefree lad,<br />The little guy with skinned-up knees<br />Was visiting Granddad.<br />The days ahead held promise with<br />Adventures to unfold,<br />You can’t just sit and wait on life<br />When you’re six years old.<br /><br /><br />The farmhouse sprang to action,<br />‘Twas fair-weather for the day,<br />They packed a lunch, then out the door<br />And they were on their way.<br />The little legs took twice the steps<br />To match the Granddad’s stride,<br />And Granddad’s heart, though weakened some,<br />Beat with a family pride.<br /><br /><br />Adventures started with a trek<br />Upon an earthen road,<br />Across the bridge then up a hill,<br />At length their pace had slowed.<br />‘Twas there upon a milkweed,<br />A caterpillar crawled,<br />He paused a bit and raised his head,<br />The two looked on— enthralled.<br /><br /><br />“What is he doing, Granddad?”<br />Inquired the little guy.<br />-<br />“He’s listening for the Maker’s voice,”<br />Was Granddad’s wise reply.<br />-<br />“And what’s the Maker telling him?”<br />-<br />“The Maker says that soon<br />He’ll need to find a steady branch<br />Then make his silk cocoon.”<br /><br /><br />Quite typical of six-year-olds<br />The next word posed was, “Why?”<br />-<br />Granddad, with his knowledge,<br />“He’ll become a butterfly.”<br />-<br />The boy thought on the process<br />Then breathed a whispered sigh.<br />He stared down at the dirt beside<br />Then something caught his eye.<br /><br /><br />The six-year old bent skinned-up knees<br />And stooped down to the ground,<br />He grasped a dark red pebble,<br />One quite smooth and round.<br />His childish fingers picked it up<br />And rolled it in his hand,<br />He stuffed it in his pocket,<br />Then rose again, to stand.<br /><br /><br />A chicken hen scratched near the two,<br />The boy studied the bird.<br />He wondered as the chicken paused<br />What had the old hen heard?<br />And as she fluttered to the coop<br />On feathered-chicken leg,<br />He knew that God was telling her<br />‘Twas time to lay her egg.<br /><br /><br />They journeyed on, more slowly now,<br />Then finally had to rest<br />For Granddad was all out of breath,<br />His palm pressed to his chest.<br />They settled ‘neath an apple tree<br />Upon the meadow grass,<br />They ate their lunch and waited for<br />His episode to pass.<br /><br /><br />When Granddad’s breath came easier,<br />Once more upon their way,<br />They saw a cow off by herself<br />Nearby the fresh mown hay.<br />“Now what would God say to a cow?”<br />The boy muffled a laugh.<br />-<br />Then Granddad said, “He’d tell the cow,<br />‘It’s time to drop your calf’.”<br /><br /><br />As they walked they came upon<br />An odd array of rocks,<br />Somewhat stacked atop each like<br />Haphazard building blocks.<br />Granddad told the little guy<br />About the Bible story,<br />The donkey and the palm leaves and<br />The people’s praise and glory.<br /><br /><br />He told about the Pharisees,<br />(Words penned by Dr. Luke)<br />To silence the disciples<br />They requested a rebuke.<br />How Jesus told the Pharisees<br />Amid hosanna-shouts,<br />That if the people quieted<br />The rocks would then cry out.<br /><br /><br />The wheels inside the young child’s head<br />Spun ‘round in concentration,<br />Then in his pocket deep he reached<br />And pulled forth his donation.<br />He put his pebble on the pile<br />And then he thought about<br />Just how amazing it would sound<br />To hear the rocks cry out.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Just days after their journey<br />Found Granddad sick abed,<br />Reposed upon a patchwork quilt,<br />The boy perched near his head.<br />The open window near the bed<br />Enabled evening breeze<br />To cool the ashen weathered brow<br />And boy with skinned-up knees.<br /><br /><br />“What are you doing Granddad?”<br />He eyed the pallid face.<br />-<br />“I’m listening.” The Granddad said,<br />Cheered by the child’s embrace.<br />-<br />“And do you hear the Maker’s voice?”<br />-<br />Words whispered with a quaver,<br />“The voice that I am listening to—<br />That of my loving Savior.”<br /><br /><br />“And what’s the Savior telling you?”<br />He shifted on the bed<br />Then leaned to hear the Granddad’s voice,<br />-<br />“’Come home,’ my Savior said.”<br />-<br />Then youthful hands clasped work-worn ones<br />Until the final sigh,<br />And through the window, on the breeze,<br />Entered a butterfly. </div><div align="center"><br />***<br /><em>Inspiration from:</em><br /><strong>Job 39</strong><br />Does the eagle soar at your command…? <em>Verse 27</em><br />Do you know when the mountain goats give birth…? <em>Verse 1</em><br /><em>NIV</em> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">***<br /><br />©Beth LaBuff -- July 2010<br />written for a <strong>FaithWriters.com</strong> writing challenge</div>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-47408787544006830032010-07-30T13:05:00.006-07:002010-07-30T14:27:29.471-07:00Incident at The Black-Caped Shadow Grill<div align="center">Maybe this is a little too graphic for some,</div><div align="center">and perhaps I need to add a disclaimer like, </div><div align="center">"The views expressed in this poem are not necessarily those of the author." :)</div><div align="center">***</div><div align="center">I think I will just add a "warning."</div><div align="center">***</div><div align="center"><strong>WARNING:</strong> </div><div align="center">The following poem deals with the subject of vampires. </div><div align="center">...BUT, IT IS JUST A DREAM!" </div><div align="center">--as always, thanks for reading! </div><div align="center">--Beth</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /><br /><a href="http://karlenejacobsen.blogspot.com/search/label/Fiction%20Friday" target="_blank"><img border="0" alt="Fiction' view¤t=" src="http://i434.photobucket.com/albums/qq68/Write4Joy/FFButton3framed.jpg" target="_blank" /></a><br /><br />Fiction Friday is hosted today by Rick (Hoomi) at<br /><a href="http://www.podtalesandponderings.blogspot.com/">Rick's Pod Tales and Ponderings</a><br />Head over there for Rick's excellent sci-fi!<br />You will also find links to other great fiction pieces!<br />***</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Incident at <br />The Black-Caped Shadow Grill<br /></strong></span><span style="font-size:85%;">By Beth LaBuff</span><br /><br />I settled in my easy-chair<br />To dissipate my tension,<br />I closed my eyes then wakened in<br />An alternate dimension.<br />But surely it was just a dream.<br />The blame — I had a hunch,<br />Was caused by Beef Chipotle<br />That I scarfed down at lunch.<br /><br />And in my dream, a neon sign<br />That flashed, “Open All Night.”<br />I clenched my collar ‘round my neck<br />Then peered through muted light.<br />Words painted on a window,<br />“The Black-Caped Shadow Grill.”<br />I entered in faint-heartedly,<br />Ignoring dank and chill.<br /><br />My eyes skimmed the interior,<br />The clientele — dismissing,<br />The worn plank floor was gouged in spots<br />With many slivers missing.<br />Then focused on the patrons with<br />Red lips and black attire,<br />And I, the only human in<br />The diner of vampires—<br /><br />I yielded to a shiver,<br />I saw their fangs and winced.<br />I’ve heard, “Vampires are shape-shifters.”<br />Frankly — I’m unconvinced.<br />To take the form of animals,<br />To flit about as bats,<br />I spurn the theory vampires<br />Can transform into rats.<br /><br />Then seated near the kitchen door,<br />My eyes compelled to look,<br />Were locked into a stare-down with<br />The bloodstained-aproned cook.<br />His manner disconcerted me.<br />His eyetooth glinted gold.<br />His hairline formed a widow’s peak.<br />He made my blood run cold.<br /><br />A menu pressed into my palms,<br />I welcomed its intrusion.<br />I scanned the list of beverages<br />Entitled— “Chilled transfusions.”<br />“We’ve drinks to please your palate,<br />Our patrons all agree,<br />We’ve even stocked ‘O negative,’<br />Along with ‘A’ and ‘B’.”<br /><br />“Our famed, ‘Thicker Than Water,’<br />On-site, this beverage brewed<br />In our blood-pressure-cooker—<br />Pairs well with any food.”<br />“And for the youngsters, ‘Veggie-Freeze’—<br />The blood squeezed from a turnip—<br />A blend of wholesome plasma<br />Served frozen in a cup.”<br /><br />“The meats we grill are all served rare.”<br />The menu’s guarantee—<br />“A red and juicy center,<br />We pledge they’re garlic-free.”<br />“And seared to seal the juices in,<br />The ‘Special of the Day,’<br />With coriander seasoning—<br />A porterhouse fillet.”<br /><br />The creature sitting next to me,<br />His tone and manner—curt,<br />I heard him hiss, “One special with<br />“Blood pudding for dessert.”<br />Ten minutes passed before a<br />Harried waiter served his food,<br />I thought it looked a little charred,<br />That wouldn’t help his mood.<br /><br />He cut into the well-done steak,<br />He said it tasted blander<br />Than any fare that passed his fangs,<br />“It’s missing coriander!”<br />He jumped up with his steak knife,<br />Eyes bored the kitchen door.<br />He started hacking wooden stakes<br />From off the wooden floor.<br /><br />He raged into the kitchen while<br />Behind him trailed his cloak,<br />Then just before he skewered the cook,<br />Well, that’s when I awoke.<br />My wife was gently jostling me.<br />She said, to my relief,<br />That she’d be serving chicken<br />And not sirloin of beef.<br /><br />Still settled in my easy chair,<br />I swear this is the truth,<br />A rat peered out and sneered at me,<br />I saw his golden tooth!<br />They say, “Vampires are shape-shifters.”<br />Although it goes against<br />The core of what I once believed,<br />But yeah, now I’m convinced!<br /><br />***<br />written for a <strong>FaithWriters.com</strong> writing challenge<br />© Beth LaBuff -- July 2010<br /><br />***<br /><em>inspiration:</em><br /><strong>Daniel 4:5</strong><br />I had a dream that made me afraid. </p>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-91575761063301546612010-06-25T09:29:00.004-07:002010-06-25T09:45:57.201-07:00Sun-Block<div align="center"><a href="http://karlenejacobsen.blogspot.com/search/label/Fiction%20Friday" target="_blank"><img border="0" alt="Fiction' view¤t=" src="http://i434.photobucket.com/albums/qq68/Write4Joy/FFButton3framed.jpg" target="_blank" /></a><br />Fiction Friday is hosted today by Laury @<br /><a href="http://www.lauryhubrich.blogspot.com/">Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart</a><br />Head over for links to more inspirational fiction!<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Sun-Block<br /></span></strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">by Beth LaBuff<br /></span></em><br />According to quaint solar lore,<br />Upon a sunspot crater,<br />A colony of immigrants<br />Lived near the sun’s equator.<br />As former Saturn citizens,<br />They each possessed two brains,<br />A fore brain and an aft brain lived<br />Within each skull’s domain.<br /><br />Sun energy that radiated<br />From a solar vortex,<br />Made inspiration flow and fill up<br />Each cerebral cortex.<br />The colonists were writers,<br />Each were stylized with their form,<br />The synergy between their brains—<br />A solar-powered brainstorm.<br /><br />The mentor for their writing group,<br />And leading citizen,<br />Was Stella who wrote poetry<br />In her solarium.<br />She kept a sundog for a pet.<br />She called him Astral-Sol,<br />He ate moon pies and drank sun tea.<br />Before each evening stroll.<br /><br />Each solar day began just like<br />The solar day before,<br />And solar energy infused<br />The sunspot writer’s core.<br />Until <em>that</em> day! — ‘Twas overcast,<br />The weather turned for worst,<br />The sun’s corona had a<br />Solar flare flare up and burst.<br /><br />The solar flare disturbance<br />To the sunspot dweller’s brains<br />Impeded brain synapses and<br />Caused solar flare brain-sprains.<br />And inspiration ceased to flow,<br />An intellectual shock,<br />When residents upon the sun<br />Can’t write, it’s called <em>sun-block</em>.<br /><br />And so severe the malady,<br />They called in a physician<br />Who ranked it, “<em>third-degree sun-block,<br />A non-lethal condition</em>.”<br />The solar lore recounted<br />How the colony declined,<br />“The worst instance of sun-block<br />For all of Solar-kind.”<br /><br />The solar flares continued,<br /><em>Ergo</em>; Stella couldn’t write—<br />No currency for moon-pies<br />For her sundog’s snack at night.<br />“Each fore brain and each aft brain<br />Fought each other,” said the lore,<br />“Drove sunspot crater citizens<br />Quite wacko with <em>head-war</em>.”<br /><br />Then much to everyone’s relief<br />And answer to their prayers,<br />A merchant starship orbited,<br />He came to ply his wares.<br />A peddler from Andromeda,<br />A dealer in space junk,<br />Wielded a flare-extinguisher<br />Pulled from a cargo trunk.<br /><br />So Stella and the colonists<br />Used local currency,<br />They paid the man in <em>gamma rays</em>,<br />A sun commodity.<br />They utilized extinguishers<br />To end creative drought,<br />Once sprayed, the solar flares smoldered<br />Then sputtered and went out.<br /><br />Without the flares the <em>sun-block</em> ceased<br />The cloudy skies departed.<br />The brain synapses recommenced,<br />Creativeness — jump-started.<br />Their fore brains and their aft brains<br />Were kicked into high gear.<br />Each writer produced volumes,<br />Had success in their careers.<br /><br />Then Astral-Sol ate moon-pies,<br />Strolled a street called Sunnyside,<br />And every solar day that dawned<br />Was <em>Sunday</em> sunspot-wide.<br /><br />***<br />written for a <strong>FaithWriters.com</strong> writing challenge<br /><em>©May 2010 -- Beth LaBuff<br /></em>Topic: inspiration/block for the writer<br />***<br /><em>inspirational verse:<br /></em>a merry heart doeth good like a medicine<br /><strong>Proverbs 17:22 KJV</strong> </div>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-44465449933382360802010-06-10T12:49:00.003-07:002010-06-10T13:05:26.015-07:00A new style, fashion, flair, look!I'm excited to show-off my new look. Ella's picture's at the top will ensure that you <em>Laugh at the Days</em> or will at least leave you with a smile. I'm grateful to <strong>Marita "Mari" Thelander</strong> for her expertise in designing and making these changes for me! Thanks, Mari!BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-36355501088723907372010-03-18T21:40:00.006-07:002010-03-19T07:36:47.941-07:00Phantom of the Reptile<div align="center"><a href="http://karlenejacobsen.blogspot.com/search/label/Fiction%20Friday" target="_blank"><img border="0" alt="Fiction' view¤t=" src="http://i434.photobucket.com/albums/qq68/Write4Joy/FFButton3framed.jpg" target="_blank" /></a><br /><br />Friday Fiction is hosted this week by<br />Christina Banks @ <a href="http://christinabanks.blogspot.com/">With Pen in Hand</a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Be sure to head over for links to more great fiction,<br />or add a link to your own.<br /></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Phantom of the Reptile</span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">by Beth LaBuff<br /></span><br />A seashore near the ocean where<br />The breakers scattered foam,<br />A turtle dwelt with two small friends—<br />The sandy beach their home.<br />“Benevolence”—their motto,<br />A Marine Society<br />Of turtle, clam, and hermit crab—<br />Companions by the sea.<br /><br />The turtle’s shell – beguiling—<br />Chartreuse with flecks of puce,<br />But flawed, she had a seal-leak,<br />Her shell, a trifle loose.<br />Her leak issues let in a draft<br />When ocean breezes blew,<br />The gusts that wafted ‘round felt like<br />El Niño coming through.<br /><br />Just two weeks past the little group<br />Ceased daily occupation,<br />They gathered with the turtle for<br />Her birthday celebration.<br />They all partook of birthday cake—<br />Some kelp steeped in sea brine,<br />To celebrate her sixty years.<br />(In turtle years, that’s nine.)<br /><br />The turtle then proceeded to<br />Unwrap her gifts as planned.<br />The clam presented turtle with<br />A coarse brown grain of sand.<br />The sentiment read, “Keep this sand<br />Positioned near your heart,<br />In time your irritations change—<br />A pearled work of art.<br /><br />Inside her shell she tucked the sand,<br />Though contact wasn’t pleasant.<br />Then hermit crab, with shifty eyes<br />Presented her his present.<br />To her surprise the second gift<br />Opened that afternoon,<br />A shiny sleek harmonica<br />To play a turtle tune.<br /><br />With cake and presents finished,<br />They bid each one farewell.<br />Two special gifts from two rare friends<br />Were tucked within her shell.<br />‘Twas later on that evening<br />She basked in ocean’s breeze,<br />Then noise issued within her shell,<br />A harsh and jarring wheeze.<br /><br />It gave the turtle such a fright<br />A rasp sprang from her beak,<br />It sounded somewhat like a “Phbiss!”<br />That’s turtle-speak for “Eek!”<br />Well mercy me! the turtle thought.<br />Her turtle eyes grew wide.<br />She bravely sought the noise’s source,<br />She pulled her head inside.<br /><br />The jarring, wheezing dissonance,<br />Refusing to be quelled,<br />Chords ebbed and flowed around inside<br />And echoed in her shell.<br />The discord and cacophony<br />Had left the turtle daunted.<br />And in her mind she was convinced<br />Her turtle shell was haunted!<br /><br />Her head and turtleneck popped out<br />For what was she to do?<br />Her quandary was astounding,<br />Put her in a turtle stew.<br />Afraid to tuck her head inside<br />Where once it used to dwell,<br />She thought perhaps she’d hire one<br />To exorcise her shell.<br /><br />A fortnight since her birthday,<br />And two weeks since she’d slept,<br />She had a plan to use the clam.<br />Herself— she was inept.<br />The clam, squeezed in her turtle shell<br />Armed with a D-Cell light,<br />He hoped to find the origin<br />Of turtle’s awful plight.<br /><br />Then what he found inside her shell,<br />The noise secret—unlocked.<br />He couldn’t wait to tell her,<br />Was sure she’d be shell-shocked—<br />‘Twas through her leaky turtle shell<br />When wafted airy breeze,<br />It blew through her harmonica<br />And made the breathy wheeze.<br /><br />The hermit crab confessed his scheme,<br />He’d coveted her shell.<br />He hoped she would evacuate,<br />Give him a place to dwell.<br />The turtle, though a trifle mad,<br />Revenge did not demand.<br />To show ‘twas no hard feelings,<br />Gave him her grain of sand.<br /><br />Benevolent Society—<br />Was weighed—found to be wanting.<br />The hermit crab, sand in his shell,<br />Still for a new one—hunting.<br /><br />***<br /><strong>Thou</strong> <em>shell</em> <strong>not covet thy neighbor’s house.</strong><br />Exodus 20:17<br /><em>(paraphrase and emphasis mine)</em><br /><br />written for a <strong>FaithWriters.com</strong> writing Challenge<br /><em>Topic: "Eek!"</em><br />© Beth LaBuff -- March 2010 </div>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-3861873626717592792010-02-25T18:26:00.015-07:002010-02-26T08:30:51.428-07:00Catfish on a Hot Tin Roof<div align="center"><a href="http://karlenejacobsen.blogspot.com/search/label/Fiction%20Friday" target="_blank"><img border="0" alt="Fiction' view¤t=" src="http://i434.photobucket.com/albums/qq68/Write4Joy/FFButton3framed.jpg" target="_blank" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><p align="center">Friday Fiction is being hosted by<br />Shelley @ <a href="http://the-veil-thins.blogspot.com/">The Veil Thins</a><br />Head over there for links to more great fiction.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Catfish on a Hot Tin Roof<br /></strong></span><em>(ballad of a bottom-feeder)<br /></em><span style="font-size:85%;">By Beth LaBuff </span><br /><br />Through the middle of a cornfield<br />With its ripe and golden grain,<br />‘Round a waist-high prairie meadow<br />Wound a pot-hole riddled lane.<br />‘Twas there a shallow pool<br />Where a sign read, “Zoned – No wake,”<br />(Named with hopeful aspirations)<br />Was the pond called Mammoth Lake.<br /><br />The pool, at its broadest point<br />Was scarcely ten feet wide,<br />And deep down in its shallow depths<br />A catfish did reside.<br />An educated catfish<br />For he’d memorized <em>the rules</em><br />To graduate—top of his class<br />At M-L Catfish School.<br /><br /><em>The rules</em> simply put were<br />Rule <em>ONE</em>— “Turtles are taboo,”<br />And “If it shines, don’t bite it,”<br />Was rule <em>NUMBER TWO</em>.<br />And if perchance th’ unthinkable,<br />You find a hook you’ve bit,<br />Then <em>NUMBER THREE</em> will save your fins<br />Just “Flop, then twist, and spit.”<br /><br />Last June, the day was hot enough<br />To make a catfish sweat,<br />Something occurred this catfish<br />Wasn’t likely to forget,<br />A pickup truck came rolling to<br />The pond with boat in tow.<br />The boat was launched on Mammoth Lake,<br />The anchor dropped below.<br /><br />Five feet from shore the boat bobbed in<br />The middle of the lake,<br />And in the boat, a tackle box<br />Was labeled “‘Zekiel Flake.”<br />Zeke wore his lucky fishing shirt<br />A rip upon his sleeve.<br />Where late last fall a fish hook caught<br />And corner-tore the weave.<br /><br />An ice chest, also in the boat,<br />Was handy for the day.<br />He reached inside and grabbed some lunch—<br />On rye – P-B & J.<br />He set the sandwich on one knee<br />And when ‘twas aptly blessed,<br />He grabbed a portly earthworm<br />And then he closed the chest.<br /><br />Zeke took a bite of sandwich,<br />And then threaded the hook<br />Straight through the earth worm’s belly<br />‘Til positioned in the crook.<br />He tossed the worm rig overboard,<br />Then cleaned his hands of dirt,<br />Another bite of sandwich then<br />He smoothed his lucky shirt.<br /><br />The worm began to wiggle and<br />Continued his descension,<br />When near the catfish hovel,<br />Caught the catfish’s attention.<br />The catfish knew<em> the rules</em> ‘cause<br />He’d learned them long ago.<br />But as he watched he was enticed<br />By wriggly earthworm’s show.<br /><br />The worm was <em>pleasing to his eye</em>,<br />And in his mind he thought,<br /><em>If on the tail I nibbled, I’d not<br />Break the rules, as taught.<br />I’ll brush it with my whiskers<br />While the hook and worm I view.</em><br />The more he watched, the more he<br />Schemed to bend rule NUMBER TWO.<br /><br />The catfish took a nibble,<br />Then the bobber took a plunge.<br />The pole ‘bout lost within his grasp,<br />Zeke Flake was forced to lunge.<br />His peanut butter sandwich flew<br />And lost most of its jelly.<br />It flipped, bounced on his lucky shirt<br />Then landed on his belly.<br /><br />Then Zeke Flake tugged upon the pole,<br />Securely set the hook,<br />The catfish—sins before him—<br />Rued the day the bait he took.<br />Zeke’s mouth watered for fish sticks,<br /><em>Heard</em> the sizzle in the pan,<br />Adrenaline pumped through his veins<br />And then— something unplanned…<br /><br /><em>Rule NUMBER THREE!</em> the catfish thought,<br />To <em>“Flop, then twist, and spit.”</em><br />He sputtered out the fishhook<br />Then he turned his tail and split.<br />And Zeke thought sure he heard a “hiss”<br />Or possibly, a “meow,”<br />Besides the hook, the catfish spit<br />Pond water on Zeke’s brow.<br /><br />Relief then coursed through catfish veins.<br />His plight, at one time grave,<br />The catfish and his whiskers<br />Had averted a close shave.<br />Old Zeke, bereft of dinner,<br />Spat upon his lucky shirt.<br />He rowed to shore and then he flung<br />His tackle in the dirt.<br /><br />Then with relief, Zeke Flake recalled<br /><em>More lunch— P-B & J!<br /></em>The sandwich in his hand surpassed<br />The fish that got away.<br />The catfish vowed his fish lips would<br />Not eat worm meat again,<br />He’d only dine on plants, he’d be<br />A vegetarian.<br /><br />***<br /><em>My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.</em><br /><strong>Proverbs 1:10 KJV</strong><br />***<br />written for a <strong>FaithWriters.com</strong> writing challenge<br /><em>Topic: "Phew!"</em><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>February 2010</strong></span> </p>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-73702778349118191092010-01-07T14:28:00.013-07:002010-01-08T09:48:39.505-07:00Barred Plymouth Rock Band<div align="center"><a href="http://karlenejacobsen.blogspot.com/search/label/Fiction%20Friday" target="_blank"><img border="0" alt="Fiction' Friday,button,karlene? view¤t=" src="http://i434.photobucket.com/albums/qq68/Write4Joy/FFButton3framed.jpg" target="_blank" /></a><br /><br />Fiction Friday is hosted today </div><div align="center">by Sara @ <a href="http://fictionfusion.blogspot.com/">Fiction Fusion</a><br />Skate on over for more great inspirational fiction.<br /><br /><strong>Barred Plymouth Rock Band</strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">By Beth LaBuff</span><br /><br />Abutting an abandoned barn,<br />A crib devoid of corn,<br />With weathervane and cupola,<br />The rooftop, sagged and worn.<br /><br />The corncrib was repurposed<br />By fowl society,<br />A chicken troupe, Barred Plymouth Rocks,<br />The white variety.<br /><br />This granary was their concert hall<br />With only room to stand,<br />For nightly concerts were sold out for<br />For this uncommon band.<br /><br />Bandleader of this feathered group,<br />This five-fowl poultry show,<br />A southern bird of Creole stock<br />Was dubbed Ole Chick’ <em>Gumbo</em>.<br /><br />Ole <em>Gumbo</em> plucked the banjo strings,<br />On French horn — <em>Cordon Bleu</em>,<br />With <em>Kiev</em> on percussion,<br />And <em>Lo Mein</em> played kazoo.<br /><br />The fifth fowl, in a washtub,<br />He floundered on dry land.<br />Sans feathers, Chicken from the Sea<br />His job—<em>tuna</em> the band.<br /><br />White feathers ruffled as they crooned,<br />Laud for their chicken breed.<br />They danced till eggs were scrambled.<br />They sang for chicken feed.<br /><br /><em>Cordon Bleu</em> stuck in his craw<br />His spare chapstick supply.<br />It came in handy, between songs,<br />When chicken-lips got dry.<br /><br />And <em>Kiev</em> on percussion,<br />Brushed cymbals with his tail,<br />And when he had a solo,<br />Made chicken drumsticks flail.<br /><br /><em>Gumbo</em> kept the songs up-beat,<br />His banjo on his knee.<br />He picked with pomp and circumstance,<br />His notes were extra crispy.<br /><br />Misfortune struck one chicken,<br />A pox upon <em>Lo Mein</em>,<br />No longer able to kazoo,<br />He could not entertain.<br /><br />The band was sympathetic,<br />In order to console,<br />They gave <em>Lo Mein</em> a paperback<br />“Beef Stew for Chicken’s Soul.”<br /><br />Auditions held, to fill his spot,<br />A hog stood in their midst.<br />A rumor breathed to chicken ears,<br />“The pig’s a chauvinist.”<br /><br />The pig squealed, “I am white meat, too,<br />And for this group well-suited.”<br />The hearsay disregarded,<br />The porcine was recruited.<br /><br />Their chicken-band, Barred Plymouth Rocks<br />Would now sum-total three,<br />And pig, another white meat,<br />And one Chicken from the Sea.<br /><br />***<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">© Beth LaBuff—November 2009 </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">written for a <strong>FaithWriters.com</strong> writing challenge<br /><em>Topic: White</em><br /></span><br />***<br /><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Inspiration:</span></strong></em> <em><span style="font-size:85%;">Proverbs 17:22<br />A merry heart doeth good like a medicine… KJV </div></span></em>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-22184255580125789092009-11-12T21:06:00.009-07:002009-11-13T10:24:26.974-07:00Big-Game's Big Game<center><a href="http://karlenejacobsen.blogspot.com/search/label/Fiction%20Friday" target="_blank"><img alt="Fiction' Friday,button,karlene? view¤t=" src="http://i434.photobucket.com/albums/qq68/Write4Joy/FFButton3framed.jpg" border="0" target="_blank" /></a></center><p align="center"><br />Fiction Friday is hosted by Vonnnie @<br /><a href="http://mybackdoorministry.blogspot.com/">My Back Door</a><br />Head over there for great inspirational fiction.<br /><br /></p><center><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Big-Game’s Big Game</span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">By Beth LaBuff<br /></span><br />In the heart of the savanna,<br />In the dry season they came.<br />The folks on a safari sought<br />To covertly spy game.<br /><br />Dressed in their khaki field jackets,<br />They hid among the plants,<br />And all things for their trek were held<br />Within their cargo pants.<br /><br />Among the group, a jovial chap,<br />A red-head named Eugene,<br />Photographer of wildlife<br />Came slathered in sunscreen.<br /><br /><em>One thing the tourists did not know,</em><br />This was a staged charade<br />Of the lion, rhino, hippo,<br />Warthog, zebra cavalcade.<br /><br />The big-game had agreements<br />That were drafted for their cause.<br />Each play and drill was outlined<br />And recorded as by-laws.<br /><br />The toss to start the big-game’s game<br />Employed their mascot quail.<br />And when he landed on his head,<br />The call was yelled out, “Tail.”<br /><br />The lion and the hippo<br />Commenced the premier play.<br />The lion’s rush was blocked, fans cheered<br />This grand defense display.<br /><br />The humor of the big-game’s world<br />To species can transcend—<br />Positions that the rhino played<br />Were <em>nose guard</em> and <em>tight-end.</em><br /><br />The next play had the hippo and<br />The rhino in a sweep.<br />All things considered, they did well,<br />Both landed in a heap.<br /><br />The second quarter’s big-game plan,<br />The zebra had to scramble.<br />The warthog snarled and snorted as<br />He charged from ‘neath the bramble.<br /><br /><em>One thing the big-game did not know,</em><br />A panther came to play.<br />He’d never read their by-laws<br />He just entered in the fray.<br /><br />The swarthy streak of feline fur,<br />His unleashed speed revealed.<br />The zebra ascertained, “Illegal<br />Motion on the field.”<br /><br />The panther angled ‘cross the field<br />To intercept the <em>pigskin.</em><br />He clipped the warthog on the nose<br />And sent him in a tailspin.<br /><br />The black cat’s interference<br />Put the game in overtime.<br />The call, “illegal cat downfield”—<br />A big-game by-law crime.<br /><br />The warthog cut, then circled back<br />Across savanna’s green.<br />The action got a little close,<br />They almost clipped Eugene.<br /><br />He broke out in a profuse sweat.<br />His face took on a sheen.<br />Lucky for him, his cargo pants<br />Contained surplus sunscreen.<br /><br />The big-game saw the crowd’s response<br />So they began to scheme,<br />They hoped to sign the panther,<br />A free agent, on their team.<br /><br />The panther, meanwhile, quit the game.<br />The teammates looked around.<br />He absconded with the warthog<br />Who was nowhere to be found. </center><br /><center>***<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>written for a <strong>FaithWriters.com</strong> writing challenge </em></span></center><center><span style="font-size:85%;">October 2009<br /><em>Topic: black</em><br /></span><br /><em>A merry heart doeth good like a medicine... Proverbs 17:33 KJV</center></em>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-50482981643443964702009-09-25T11:55:00.010-07:002009-09-25T20:57:06.489-07:00It Doesn't Get Much Better<center><a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"><img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Laury/patteringsbutton2.jpg" border="0" /></a></center><p><br /></p><p align="center">Friday Fiction is hosted this week by<br />Sherri @ <a href="http://candidthought.blogspot.com/">A Candid Thought</a>.<br />Be sure to stop over there for fabulous fall fiction!<br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></strong></p><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">It Doesn’t Get Much Better<br /></span></strong>By Beth LaBuff<br /><em>Topic: Retirement</em><br /><strong><em><br />Sunday<br /></em></strong>The morning sun shone lustrous<br />On a charming Cape Cod house,<br />Seated in the dining room,<br />The Mr. and his spouse.<br /><br />He sipped his steaming Eight O’Clock.<br />His mouth sanctioned a grin.<br />He pondered both, retirement<br />And his years-of-service pin.<br /><br />As he perused the Tribune sighed,<br />“It doesn’t get much better.”<br />They, arm in arm, took off for church<br />With Bibles and her sweater.<br /><br /><strong><em>Monday<br /></em></strong>He broke the fast before the sun,<br />Though no alarm was set.<br />His brain still time-zoned, nine to five,<br />Some things—hard to forget.<br /><br />His day stretched out before him,<br />He had an inspiration,<br />He’d help the Mrs. ‘round the house<br />To show appreciation.<br /><br />And in his fervor pointed out<br />Art, crooked on the wall,<br />A crystal glass with smudges, while<br />Dust bunnies roamed the hall.<br /><br />He hovered while she vacuumed,<br />With cleanliness—obsessed.<br />He checked for dirt on window sills—<br />Employed the white-glove test.<br /><br /><strong><em>Tuesday<br /></em></strong>The town library’s many books<br />Would help him find a hobby.<br />He carried home a cookbook on<br /><em>How to Prepare Kohlrabi</em>.<br /><br />And <em>Tennis for the Seniors Set</em>,<br /><em>Ten Steps to Play Guitar,<br />Gardening for Imbeciles,<br /></em>and <em>Maintenance for Your Car</em>.<br /><br />He knitted on her project<br />From two till three o’clock,<br />But read the pattern upside-down—<br />Knit sleeves into her sock!<br /><br /><strong><em>Wednesday<br /></em></strong>A tennis outing with the boys.<br />She sighed in her relief.<br />A morning detached from her spouse,<br />Her respite would be brief.<br /><br />The score was love to forty<br />When their game came to a halt.<br />He toppled o’er the base line,<br />A penalty—foot-fault.<br /><br />The balance of the day he spent<br />Reclined upon his chair<br />While she applied an ice pack<br />To the bump ‘neath his gray hair.<br /><br /><strong><em>Thursday<br /></em></strong>He urged his spouse to take a break<br />Then lit the barbecue.<br />Their pergola went up in flames<br />Thus went his grill debut.<br /><br />The bad news, with the flare-up,<br />The steaks were grilled pitch-black.<br />The good news for the novice chef,<br />His eyebrows would grow back.<br /><br /><strong><em>Friday<br /></em></strong>A junket with the boys out to<br />The lake, with pole and bait.<br />To hook some walleye, perch, or pike,<br />To grace his dinner plate.<br /><br />He brought the pungent stringer home<br />And cast it in the sink.<br />To have a go at cleaning fish<br />‘Bout drove her to the brink.<br /><br /><strong><em>Saturday<br /></em></strong>He changed the auto oil, but<br />It splattered o’er the lawn.<br />The next time that she drove the car<br />“Check engine” light flashed on.<br /><br /><strong><em>Sunday<br /></em></strong>Their Cape Cod seemed to shrink that week.<br />It bound her like a fetter.<br />She’d scream out if she heard again,<br />“It doesn’t get much better.”</p><div align="center"><br />He sipped his morning Eight O’Clock,<br />Pondered past week’s enjoyment.<br />She snatched the Sunday Tribune ads<br />To contemplate employment.</div><div align="center"><br />***<br /></div><div align="center">© Beth LaBuff -- September 2009</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>inspiration from:</em> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Proverbs 16:31</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Gray hair is a crown of splendor...</span></div><br><br /><center>written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge</center>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-35027865114535116322009-09-18T13:27:00.005-07:002009-09-18T14:00:31.919-07:00The Case Against a Sugar Maple<center><a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"><img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Laury/patteringsbutton2.jpg" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">Friday Fiction is hosted this week by </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">Joanne at <a href="http://joannesher.blogspot.com/2009/09/friday-fiction-prayer-walk.html">An Open Book</a></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">Head over there for links to more great fiction.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">The Case Against a Sugar Maple<br /></span></strong>By Beth LaBuff </div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Topic: Winter<br /></span></em><br />In a clearing of a forest,<br />In the gusty frigid air,<br />A small arboreal assembly<br />Launched a civic woods affair.<br /><br />‘Twas a hearing, in this clearing,<br />Of a sugar maple tree,<br />To ascertain her state of mind,<br />To gauge competency.<br /><br />Witnesses were singly summoned<br />Forth and testified.<br />The conifers and evergreens,<br />Compelled by law, complied.<br /><br />Presiding o’er this hearing was<br />The magistrate, a fowl.<br />And all esteemed the wisdom<br />Of the worthy great horned owl.<br /><br />The first to testify, blue spruce,<br />“She’s a pathetic sight,<br />High atop a branch she keeps<br />A tethered kite in flight.”<br /><br />“Perhaps she has a syndrome<br />Or is daft, to some degree.<br />Her trunk is <em>thick</em>, her branches <em>dense</em>.<br />She seems <em>out of her tree</em>.”<br /><br />“Your honor, I have knowledge of<br />Some things we can’t condone.<br />She runs a house for boarders though<br />For business, she’s not zoned.”<br /><br />“When frigid weather hit, birds flew—<br />Eviction of her tenants!<br />For this and other crimes we must<br />Insist this tree do penance!”<br /><br />“Without a permit, rodents came.<br />They brought some nuts and fruit.<br />A hollow branch— her doggie bag<br />Where squirrels stashed their loot.”<br /><br />A charge of “addled” pierced the chill.<br />Her verdict appeared dim.<br />As if to validate their claim,<br />Her kite looped ‘round a limb.<br /><br />The owl reminded witnesses,<br />His words abrupt and blunt,<br />“You can’t pronounce her guilty,<br />Assume she’s innocent.”<br /><br />Then douglas fir confided to<br />The court, his voice austere,<br />“I’ve witnessed bats fly unimpeded<br />In her upper sphere.”<br /><br />“Masked bandits came with banded tails,<br />Were harbored from the law.<br />She should be hewn for firewood<br />Before the first spring thaw.”<br /><br />“One final thing to seal our case,<br />A proof you can’t ignore,<br />She doffed her crimson autumn coat—<br />Littered our forest floor.”<br /><br />As ending arguments were heard,<br />In blew a balmy breeze.<br />Soon buds appeared on maple’s limbs<br />She sprouted bright green leaves.<br /><br />To their surprise, the robins then<br />Returned to build their nest.<br />The plaintiffs, without arguments,<br />Receded to the forest.<br /><br />Owl hooted, “Whooo’ll accuse you now?<br />There’s none left in our midst.”<br />She clapped her limbs together.<br />The owl sighed, “Case dismissed.”</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center">© Beth LaBuff -- August 2009</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">inspiration from:</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Isaiah 55:12 -- NIV</span></strong></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">"...the mountains and the hills will burst into song before you, </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">and all the trees of the field will clap their hands."</span></em></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">John 8:10 -- NIV</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">"...where are they? Has no one condemned you?"</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">written for a <strong>FaithWriters.com</strong> writing challenge</span></div><em></em>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-76369978428443799132009-07-10T11:08:00.015-07:002009-07-11T09:32:09.425-07:00Ale From Two Citruses<div align="center"><a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"><img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Laury/patteringsbutton2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Catrina @ <a href="http://catrinabradley.blogspot.com/">A Work in Progress</a><br />Click on over for great summer fiction.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Ale from Two Citruses </strong></span></div><div align="center">by Beth LaBuff</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><em>(</em>with a nod to Charles Dickens'<em> "Tale of Two Cities")</em> </div><div align="center"><br />Oh, worst of times, like constant drips—<br />His quarrel-monger wife,<br />So on the rooftop corner<br />He chose to live his life.<br /><br />His health had been affected.<br />His life brimmed with despair<br />And just behind his cowlick,<br />He’d lost most of his hair.<br /><br />The word acrid could best describe<br />Her personality.<br />Likewise, the word distressed described<br />His frail mentality.<br /><br />Critical mass point had been reached.—<br />He’d salvage life and house!<br />His first step to accomplish this—<br />He’d renovate his spouse.<br /><br />His perplexed thoughts upon his plight,<br />To ease his situation<br />He googled into cyberspace<br />To gather information.<br /><br />On the keyboard, keywords typed<br />Were “Bitter,” “quarrelsome.”<br />He placed his faith, his hopes and dreams,<br />Then prayed for the outcome.<br /><br />To his surprise, a recipe<br />Purported forth a cure.<br />An ale of odd ingredients,<br />The listing, quite obscure.<br /><br />Take two teaspoons of bitter orange,<br />Add one sweet lemon rind.<br />Blend with ascorbic acid<br />And sucrose – white, refined.<br /><br />Add moonbeams, two troy ounces.<br />The potion, then, should glow.<br />Fold in club soda, form a paste.<br />Apply to her left toe.<br /><br />The new dilemma of his quest—<br />How to apply this cure?<br />Baptize her left extremity—<br />Sprinkle the elixir?<br /><br />So stealthily, while she reposed,<br />He drew near with the potion.<br />He held his breath, with trembling hand<br />He dabbed it on, like lotion.<br /><br />Oh, best of times, his life now that<br />His mission was complete.<br />His wife, now so congenial,<br />His rose, she seemed so sweet.<br /><br />Her charm and temper pleased him.<br />Then he saw her puzzled eye.<br />She scrutinized him toe to head.<br />He feared things went awry.<br /><br />His sweet world turned to saccharine.<br />She schemed, her inspiration—<br />She googled “cowlick,” “hair-loss”<br />To anoint his situation.<br /><br />***<br />This poem is a work of fiction.<br />Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, </div><div align="center">is entirely coincidental.<br /><br />***<br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">inspiration from: </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Proverbs 21:9</strong></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Better to live on a corner of the roof </span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">than share a house with a quarrelsome wife. </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Proverbs 27:15</strong></span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">A quarrelsome wife is like a </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">constant dripping on a rainy day.<br /></span></em><br />© Beth LaBuff -- June 2009 </div><div align="center">written for a <strong>faithwriters.com</strong> writing challenge<br />Topic: Bitter and Sweet </div>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-50762124291405135442009-06-25T12:53:00.022-07:002009-06-26T06:55:20.408-07:00The Pelican Grief<div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>(For Friday Fiction)</em></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">The Pelican Grief<br /></span></strong>By Beth LaBuff</div><div align="center"><br />Within an Eastern seaboard town—<br />A salt-air weathered hut<br />With large displays of seafood<br />Sold from Beaker’s Fish Market.<br /><br />The pelican proprietor,<br />With his unique physique,<br />Would stock the shelves with seafood<br />Hauling fish within his beak.<br /><br />Patrons in this seaboard town,<br />To satiate their hunger,<br />Bought, salmon, shrimp, and snapper<br />From their pelican fishmonger.<br /><br />One day while fishing off the wharf,<br />To stock his shelves anew,<br />He ran into an albatross<br />And caught the fowl bird flu.<br /><br />And with the flu, a fever rose<br />Then goose bumps, wheezing, chills.<br />The Doc’s advice, “Get bird-nest rest.”<br />He prescribed some vile swill.<br /><br />Recovery time, though minimal,<br />The bird flu left him weak,<br />Affecting his ability<br />To haul fish in his beak.<br /><br />So Beaker’s Market floundered,<br />A fiscal loss incurred.<br />His shop showed a resemblance to<br />Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.<br /><br />The market’s shelves were empty.<br />The patrons wailed louder.<br />“No lobster, shrimp, or scallops,<br />And no clams for our chowder!”<br /><br />His loss of strength, the empty shelves—<br />Two desperate situations.<br />He needed brawn to fill the shelves<br />With catfish and crustaceans.<br /><br />On self-exam, his abs were mush.<br />Then he let out a wail.<br />Worst fears confirmed, for cellulite<br />Was dimpled on his tail.<br /><br />With lunges, curls, and crunches—<br />A cardio work-out.<br />His glutes grew firm and sturdy,<br />His muscles, fit and stout.<br /><br />Once more the shelves were loaded<br />With perch and halibut,<br />And business boomed just like before<br />At Beaker’s Fish Market.<br /><br />New items added to his shelves,<br />Like chips and tartar sauce.<br />Soon came a line of airborne fowl—<br />Filet of albatross.</div><br /><div align="center">***</div><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>inspiration from:</strong> <em><strong>Proverbs 102:6 KJV</strong></em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>I am like a pelican of the wilderness,</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>I am like an owl of the desert.</em></span></div><br /><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">***</span></em></div><div align="center"><em>written for a <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.faithwriters.com"><strong>faithwriters.com</strong></a> writing challenge</em></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Topic: Empty and Full</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">© Beth LaBuff -- June 2009</span></div><br /><br /><center><a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"><img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Laury/patteringsbutton2.jpg" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center>Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Sherri at <a href="http://candidthought.blogspot.com/">A Candid Thought</a><br />Be sure to stop there for links to great summer fiction.</center>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-75896355598330302572009-06-04T19:43:00.009-07:002009-06-17T20:40:02.732-07:00The Sackbut Player's Solo<div align="center"><a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"><img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Laury/patteringsbutton2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center">Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Karlene at <a href="http://networkedblogs.com/p5721570">Heart and Soul</a></div><div align="center">Be sure to stop over there for more inspirational fiction.</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">The Sackbut Player’s Solo<br /></span></strong>By Beth LaBuff – April 2009<br /><em>Topic: Up and Down<br /></em><br />The concert hall’s grand elegance<br />With velvet seats and lacquered wood,<br />And silence echoed off the walls<br />In hushed anticipation.<br /><br />A poster promised classics from<br />L. van Beethoven’s repertoire.<br />The concert time was eight o’clock,<br />Announced the invitation.<br /><br />“Come hear the modern debut,<br />An historic instrument<br />Unearthed near ancient Babylon,<br />A recent excavation.”<br /><br />This four-stringed sackbut had survived<br />With two strings missing, two intact.<br />Harp from Nebuchadnezzar’s band<br />And Daniel’s generation.<br /><br />The sackbut player’s grand entrance,<br />He held the cherished artifact.<br />A gasp rose from the audience,<br />A spellbound fascination.<br /><br />But where to seat the sackbut? –<br />The dilemma of this age.<br />Among the flutes? … one flautist, though<br />Did flaunt his aggravation.<br /><br />The maestro wildly waved his arms.<br />Musicians readied for their song.<br />An upbeat, first …the downbeat, next,<br />Con brio orchestration.<br /><br />At center stage the player stood,<br />His instrument, he cradled.<br />The string he plucked was rusted through<br />And snapped from oxidation.<br /><br />‘Twas the middle of the coda,<br />A shocked silence filled the hall.<br />The sackbut player’s starched white shirt<br />Was drenched with perspiration.<br /><br />A flush crept up the maestro’s face<br />His anger …seven times hotter.<br />A handkerchief cooled down his brow<br />And saved him from cremation.<br /><br />The sackbut player’s head hung down.<br />The flautist glowered, showed contempt.<br />And through a sneer he snidely said,<br />“Don’t quit your day vocation.”<br /><br />When it was feared the song had failed<br />Sackbutist’s fingers slowly plucked<br />The fragile sole-surviving string,<br />Grateful for preservation.<br /><br />A mellow note, melodious,<br />It soared and drifted ‘round the hall.<br />Not heard for three millennia,<br />This musical sensation.<br /><br />The audience burst out, jumped up,<br />With accolades and praises.<br />Down in their seats they plunked again<br />For encore’s presentation.<br /><br />But with profuse applause, a draft.<br />The music drifted off the stands,<br />The hasty grab for music sheets<br />Left discombobulation.<br /><br />In the confusion, songs were swapped,<br />The parts redistributed.<br />Musicians puzzled o’er new notes—<br />A heart-sick palpitation.<br /><br />The flautist’s shock showed in his eyes,<br />He blamed the sackbut player,<br />And in derision hurled at him<br />A frothed expectoration.<br /><br />Despite the classics’ muddle<br />And the mixed-up sour notes,<br />The sackbut’s voice resounded<br />To the listeners’ elation.<br /><br />Moonlight Sonata, Ode to Joy,<br />The jumbled songs’ cacophony.<br />Anachronistic re-debut,<br />A modern fascination.<br /><br />One thing the world may never know,<br />Did “Sackbut’s Ode Sonata”<br />Cause Beethoven to roll over?<br />There’ll be no exhumation.<br /><br /><strong><em>Note:</em></strong> </div><div align="center"><em>It is believed that the “sackbut” of Biblical times (Daniel 3—KJV) </em></div><div align="center"><em>was a triangular stringed musical instrument. It is also translated “lyre.”</em> </div><div align="center">***</div><div align="center"><em>written for a <strong>faithwriters.com</strong> writing challenge</em></div><div align="center">***</div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">inspiration from:</span></em></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Daniel 3:5</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">That at what time ye hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">sackbut, psaltery, </span><span style="font-size:85%;">dulcimer, and all kinds of musick, </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">ye fall down and worship the golden image that </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nebuchadnezzar the king hath set up. (King James Version)</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-80916845247258473742009-03-19T22:50:00.021-07:002009-03-21T08:21:55.818-07:00Peking Duck<center><a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"><img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Laury/patteringsbutton2.jpg" border="0" /></a></center><br /><p align="center">Friday Fiction is hosted this week by</p><p align="center">Dee at <a href="http://deeyodersblogspot.blogspot.com/">My Heart's Dee-Light</a><br /><em>Spring</em> over there for more <em>seasonal</em> fiction.<br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Peking Duck<br /></span></strong>By Beth LaBuff – March 2009<br /><em>Topic: Asia<br /></em><br />In an undisclosed location<br />Somewhere in China’s wall,<br />A most uncommon baker<br />Cooked from dawn to post nightfall.<br /><br />This surreptitious baker<br />Used fortune and good luck<br />To craft world-famous dishes,<br />His name was Peking Duck.<br /><br />So skilled in Asian cooking<br />This waterfowl’d become.<br />The multi-tasking Peking Duck<br />Could wok while chewing gum.<br /><br />His specialty was cookies,<br />Though he stressed over the crumbs,<br />Which led to frequent meltdowns –<br /><em>The China</em> chef <em>Syndrome.</em><br /><br />To some he was a legend,<br />A mystic cooking fable.<br />He sold his fortune cookies<br />With the <em>Great Wall Cookie</em> label.<br /><br />His ancient oven used by those<br />Within his family tree,<br />Before this duck was <em>Egg Foo Young</em>,<br />Before Ming’s Dynasty.<br /><br />His copy of the recipe<br />Recorded in his scrawl<br />Was written down graffiti-style—<br />Handwriting on the wall.<br /><br />No need to keep this recipe<br />Secured behind a lock,<br />The secret won’t be advertised<br />Because the “walls don’t talk”.<br /><br />His prized obscure ingredient,<br />Stored in a flour sack,<br />And stirred in with a chopstick<br />Was the semi-precious “quack”.<br /><br />A special tool, to seal the edge,<br />Chef Peking Duck devised.<br />He’d step down squarely on the dough<br />His webbed foot utilized.<br /><br />He’d puzzled o’er the crescent shape,<br />Persistence would prevail,<br />He took the flattened cookie<br />To mold it ‘round his tail.<br /><br />When family honor—saving face<br />Had caused blood-ties to thicken,<br />His second cousin, twice removed,<br />The noble Kung Pao Chicken…<br /><br />The chicken wrote a letter—<br />Requisitioned the republic<br />And petitioned that the new year<br />Be “the year of Peking duck”.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Somewhere … inside a restaurant<br />Were signs “No MSG,”<br />And “Specials of the Evening” were<br />“Lo Mein and Chop Suey.”<br /><br />The music’s plinky melody<br />In pentatonic scale,<br />Where chairs and tables artfully staged<br />With strict <em>feng shui</em> detail,<br /><br />And waitresses and waiters with<br />Their hair in braided queues,<br />Served egg rolls to the patrons<br />And distributed menus.<br /><br />Each meal would not be complete<br />Without dessert’s addition.<br />Each patron got a cookie<br />That was fashioned per tradition.<br /><br />A <em>Great Wall Cookie</em> cookie<br />That compelled a smile to crack<br />‘Cause when they broke it open<br />It exhaled a little “quack.”</p><br /><div align="center">written for a <strong>FaithWriters.com</strong> writing challenge</div><div align="center">© Beth LaBuff -- March 2009</div><br /><div align="center"><strong>Inspiration from:</strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Daniel 5:5 NIV</strong></span></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Suddenly the fingers of a hu</span></em><em><span style="font-size:85%;">man hand appeared </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">and wrote on the plaster of the wall,</span></em><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></em></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Proverbs 31:15, 18 NIV</strong></span></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">She gets up while it is still dark; </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">she provides food for her family ...</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">She sees that her trading is profitable,</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">and her lamp does not go out at night.</span></em></div>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-50215724753911715732009-02-26T16:26:00.015-07:002009-02-26T18:09:48.818-07:00General Bullregard -- A North South Tale<div align="center">I'm excited to host Patty Wysong's <strong>Friday Fiction</strong> this week. </div><div align="center">At the bottom of this post is Mr. Linky. Add your name </div><div align="center">and a link to your fiction, then click on other links </div><div align="center">to read fiction by some excellent writers.<br /><br />Thanks for <em><strong>laughing at the days</strong></em> with me.<br /><br /><a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"><img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Laury/patteringsbutton2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>General Bullregard -- A North South Tale</strong></span><br />by Beth LaBuff<br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Topic: Don't cut off your nose to spite your face.</span></em><br /><br />Back in the fall of <em>sixty-three</em>…<br />Or was it <em>sixty-four</em>?<br />There was a minor <em>skirmish</em> that<br />‘Bout caused a barnyard <em>war</em>.<br /><br /><em>South</em> feedlot yard on <em>Shiloh </em>Farm<br />Was where they kept the bull.<br />His name was <em>Pierre Bullregard</em> --<br />For short -- The <em>General</em>.<br /><br />Fenced inside <em>north</em> pasture hills,<br />The sheep would safely lay<br />Beside the still creek waters,<br />With no worries that they’d stray.<br /><br /><em>North</em> pasture hills and <em>south</em> feedlot<br />Were separated by<br />A current wielding ‘lectric fence<br />That stood ‘bout three feet high.<br /><br />The General would often graze<br />Next to the ‘lectric fence.<br />His tough old hide got many zaps<br />Before he gained some sense.<br /><br />Some days he’d walk the fence line<br />And some days trot -- for fun.<br />He carved a furrow in the ground --<br />A trail we called <em>Bull Run</em>.<br /><br />That day of infamy that left<br />The General so distraught --<br />A sheep was grazing near the fence<br />Next to the south feedlot.<br /><br />The General from across the fence<br />Was thinking, <em>Muttonhead</em>.<br />Then sheep’s eye locked with bull’s eye,<br />And “Baaaaaaaad,” the sheep’s mouth said.<br /><br />“How dare that sheep from ‘cross the fence<br />Accuse me with that word!”<br />Sheep bleated out that “Baaaaaad” again<br />And “Baaaaaaad” The General heard.<br /><br />Instead of letting bygones be<br />At night he counted sheep.<br />Then “Baa-Baaaaaad” echoed through his mind<br />And drove away his sleep.<br /><br />Like chewing cud, his anger was<br />Regurgitated bile.<br />His all-consuming thoughts ’bout sheep<br />Envisioned things hostile.<br /><br />The bull was livid and revenge<br />Became his sole obsession,<br />Payback for a misconceived<br /><em>North</em> pasture sheep <em>aggression</em>.<br /><br />He pawed the ground then charged the fence<br />His eyes were seeing red.<br />And steam expelled from out his nose<br />And dust shook from his head.<br /><br />He shorted out the ‘lectric fence.<br />Sparks crackled in the air.<br />His hair was singed, but in he slipped<br />Though none the worse for wear.<br /><br />So blinded by his anger<br />He chased the sheep that day,<br />Till men in white coats were called in<br />And carted him away.<br /><br />Folks said he went to market.<br />Some said he bought the farm.<br />Perhaps he cashed his cow chips in --<br />He ain’t been ’round this barn.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>inspiration from:</strong> Psalm 23:1-2</span> <span style="font-size:85%;">NIV<br /><em>The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. </em></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters.</em></span><br /><br />© Beth LaBuff -- February 2008<br /><em>written for a <strong>FaithWriters.com</strong> writing challenge</em> </div><br /><br /><center><script src="http://www.blenza.com/linkies/autolink.php?owner=BethL&postid=26Feb2009" type="text/javascript"></script></center>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-80277863100867587022009-02-18T19:13:00.016-07:002009-02-19T22:34:19.410-07:00Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's ...<div align="center"><a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"><img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Laury/patteringsbutton2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This week Fiction Friday is hosted by<br />Vonnie at <a href="http://mybackdoorministry.blogspot.com/">My Backdoor Ministry</a></div><div align="center">Stop over there for more <em>avant-garde</em> fiction.</div><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's</span></strong><em> ...<br /></em>by Beth LaBuff </div><div align="center"><em>Topic: Australia</em></div><div align="center"><em><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree,<br />Merry merry king of the bush is he.<br />Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra,<br />Gay your life must be!</span><br />--</em><span style="font-size:85%;">Australian Folk Song by Marion Sinclair--</span><em><br /><br /></em>In the bush-land of Australia<br />A diverse Society<br />Met each week at three o’clock<br />To brew their billy tea.<br /><br />Each member of this Aussie guild<br />Were seated ‘round a bog,<br />The wombat and the bandicoot<br />The sheep and dingo dog.<br /><br />The crocodile sidled up<br />Next to the Kangaroo.<br />The emu and the rabbit<br />Came from the Uluru.<br /><br />The kookaburra, merry in<br />The Eucalyptus tree,<br />The koala and the lorikeet<br />Treetop society.<br /><br />Each member reaffirmed an oath<br />In lingo, fierce and strong.<br />They pledged the preservation of<br />Their outback billabong.<br /><br />Until one diabolic day<br />That twirled them for a loop,<br />A devil from Tasmania<br />Came to infiltrate their group.<br /><br />He pointed out the differences<br />‘Tween haves and the have-nots<br />Them that have the pockets<br />And them that haven’t got.<br /><br />He incited racial hatred<br />With zoologic prejudice,<br />A billabong dissension—<br />Down Under outback fuss.<br /><br />The koala and the kangaroo<br />Had the pocket attribute<br />Likewise the dervish devil,<br />The wombat and the bandicoot.<br /><br />When the meeting terminated<br />Haves left and headed home.<br />The have-nots lingered at the swamp<br />To empathize and moan.<br /><br />Then derogatory comments<br />With a hissed, “marsupial,”<br />As speculation mounted what<br />Their pouches might conceal.<br /><br />“Perhaps they stash a boomerang—<br />Protection in the outback,<br />Or maybe a $5 note<br />To buy their Cheezels snack.”<br /><br />“A self-contained doggy bag<br />For when they’re dining out,<br />Or perhaps to tote their lipstick<br />While on a walkabout.”<br /><br />Kookaburra fueled the spark<br />Tas-devil helped create.<br />The mates – urged to get pockets.<br />The devil’s advocate!<br /><br />They brain-stormed ‘bout their have-not plight<br />Their words – highly explicit.<br />They’d each construct a pocket-pouch<br />And then would retrofit it.<br /><br />The kookaburra’s wisdom solved<br />Their tacky-sticky problem.<br />To glue the pockets on themselves<br />Required old gum tree gum.<br /><br />The crocodile insisted that </div><div align="center">His pocket be astride<br />His nose, but as he focused<br />His eyes became cross-eyed.</div><div align="center"><br />The emu had his pocket glued<br />Upon his feathered chest,<br />Where inside he could bury his head<br />When he became distressed.<br /><br />Rabbit’s grand idea to grow<br />The bunny population,<br />Pockets-to-nurture-rabbits,</div><div align="center">He could overrun the nation.<br /><br />The dingo glued an ample pouch<br />On ‘bout shoulder-height.<br />He filled his spacious pocket with<br />Some Aussie Vegemite.<br /><br />Next week at three o’clock when<br />The group convened again,<br />Each one had a pocket.<br />Glued to feathers, fur, or skin.<br /><br />The have-nots then became the haves.<br />Attained marsupial status.<br />But their pockets were ill-fitted<br />And declared “preposterous.”<br /><br />When prejudicial comments flew<br />The new-haves weren’t amused.<br />To remove their added pockets<br />Faux-supials felt behooved.</div><div align="center"><br />Backwater from the billabong<br />Removed the gum adhesive.<br />The have-nots said they’d had enough<br />And swiftly made their leave.<br /><br />The Society disbanded.<br />The effort, understaffed.<br />The water was depleted<br />...And the kookaburra laughed.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Author’s note:</strong><em> While this story may seem far-fetched,</em> </span></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">the kookaburra insists it is fair dinkum.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></em></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Inspiration from:</strong> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, </em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>...nor any thing that is thy neighbor's.</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Exodus 20:17 KJV</span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">© Beth LaBuff -- January 2009</div><div align="center"><strong>written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge</strong></div>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-36205411779259765152009-02-11T11:02:00.011-07:002009-02-11T11:20:44.146-07:00Tutankhamen -- Romance on the Nile<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Tutankhamen -- Romance on the Nile</span></strong><br />By Beth LaBuff -- March 2008<br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Topic: Homespun Wisdom -- Every dark cloud has a silver lining.</span></em><br /><br />Adrift among the bulrushes<br />Upon the river Nile,<br />A lily pad meandered --<br />An aquatic floating isle.<br /><br />The lily pad’s lone occupant<br />A bullfrog -- Tutankhamen,<br />Would sun upon yon’ lily pad,<br />Then swim, then sun again.<br /><br />Life, unharried, drifted out<br />Amongst the river folk,<br />Speaking when the spirit moved,<br />His solitary “croak.”<br /><br />Tut came from royal bloodlines.<br />His lineage -- traced with pride<br />To kindred frogs in Pharaoh’s halls,<br />On his mummy’s side --<br /><br />Four thousand generations back,<br />Give or take a few,<br />To frogs in Egypt’s kneading troughs<br />And those in oven’s stew.<br /><br />His lily pad, with leak issues,<br />Drooped on it’s starboard side.<br />It caused Tut’s leg to ebb and flow<br />And dangle in the tide.<br /><br />His marinated frog leg<br />Showed dire discoloration --<br />A sickly sort of sallow xanthous<br />Chartreuse combination.<br /><br />How does one hide a mismatched leg<br />Or cloak humiliation?<br />His personal plague, thorn in the flesh --<br />Disgraceful situation.<br /><br />Tut hopped to town to seek out shops<br />So that he might compare<br />The price to stabilize his pad<br />With leak and droop repair.<br /><br />The knowledgeable merchant<br />Insisted that he knew<br />Precisely what his pad would need --<br />New gutters, paint, and glue.<br /><br />Tut juggled all his purchases<br />As he hopped out the door<br />To a “Thank you, please come back again"<br />From Bart’s Botanical Store.<br /><br />Before he’d taken twenty steps<br />He lost his gutter grip.<br />Paint then glue and gutters flew<br />And that caused Tut to trip.<br /><br />His flailing leg flashed like a light,<br />Stopped traffic on the road.<br />And caught the eye and interest of<br />One Cleopatra Toad.<br /><br />Miss Cleo’s fairy tale world<br />Desired hoppy bliss,<br />With visions of a frog turned prince<br />After a magic kiss.<br /><br />Enamored with Tut’s garish leg,<br />‘Cause printed in black ink<br />She’d read in Fashion Magazine,<br />“Chartreuse is the new pink.”<br /><br /><em>Epilogue</em><br /><br />A cloud burst on the lily pad<br />New gutters were in use.<br />Two amphibians, eight total legs --<br />Seven green and one chartreuse.</div><p align="center"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge</strong><br />© Beth LaBuff -- March 2008</span> </p>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-70938846601575826422009-02-02T19:50:00.027-07:002009-02-09T08:53:34.408-07:00Go West Young Man<center><a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"><img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Laury/patteringsbutton2.jpg" border="0" /></a></center><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Fiction Friday<span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></strong></span>is hosted this week by<br />Sherri Ward at <a href="http://candidthought.blogspot.com/">A Candid Thought</a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Be sure to stop over there for more cutting-edge fiction.</div><div align="center"></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Go West Young Man</span></strong> </div><div align="center">by Beth LaBuff</div><div align="center"><em>Topic: The USA</em></div><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center">In Old English, on the sheepskin<br />Conferred from Mid-State College,<br />Joe Peacock proudly eyed his name<br />And reveled in his knowledge.<br /><br />He headed home on gravel roads,<br />Past the dirt road junction,<br />With grandiose ideas to<br />Increase the farms production.<br /><br />With eagerness to implement<br />New methods and techniques,<br />But on deaf ears his concepts fell,<br />Were squashed down, so to speak.<br /><br />Self-righteous anger boiled to<br />A discontented state.<br /><em>Old farmers with archaic ways—<br />That would not be his fate.<br /><br /></em>A deft smooth-talking salesman,<br />Whose snaked tongue dripped with oil,<br />Filled young Joe with promises<br />Of western fertile soil.<br /><br />“A progressive farmer should not<br />Stay here when I’ve land to sell.<br />Go west, young man, and leave this farm.<br />Just bid the past farewell.”<br /><br />Sans common sense with a sound mind,<br />Joe bought the proffered land.<br />Paid the con with currency<br />Then shook his clammy hand.<br /><br />Joe took his old green tractor<br />And a wagon for the load,<br />Donned a sign, “Westward or bust!”<br />Then throttled down the road.<br /><br />Drove through “What Cheer” in Iowa,<br />In Colorado – “Hygiene”,<br /><em>Aye-yi-yi! – the names of towns!<br />What were “town fathers” thinking !?!<br /></em><br />One evening’s stop at a cafe<br />On his cross-country tour,<br />He went inside a restaurant<br />And ordered soup du jour.<br /><br />He puzzled o’er the “mystery meat’s”<br />Stringy perpetual chew.<br />The waitress mumbled, “jackrabbit”<br /><em>How gross! Hare in his stew!<br /><br /></em>As on he traveled he recalled<br />Sage council from Bugs Bunny,<br />“Hey doc, be careful that you don’t<br />Turn left in Albuquerque.”<br /><br />At length his destination reached,<br />His eyes surveyed his land.<br />His mind – pow’rless to comprehend<br />And slow to understand.<br /><br /><em>“Hoodwinked!”</em> the word came to his mind.<br />He pondered what he’d done.<br />His farm was situated in<br />The Grand “abyssal” Canyon!<br /><br />He tossed his sheepskin in the gulch<br />And then …he had a notion.<br />He’d contour farm the canyon<br />To stop the soil erosion.</div><div align="center"><br /><sp></div><div align="center"><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">inspiration from: Philippians 4:11 </span></strong></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.</span></em> </div><p align="center"><em>written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge</em><br /><em>© Beth LaBuff – January 2009</em></p></span></span>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-469092558095163094.post-75341415651534582392008-12-26T11:01:00.013-07:002009-02-09T08:55:02.054-07:00The Christmas Goose<center><span style="font-size:130%;"><center><a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"><img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Laury/patteringsbutton2.jpg" /></a> </center><center><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Fiction Friday is hosted by Patty at </span><a href="http://www.pattywysong.blogspot.com/">Patterings</a><br />Be sure to head over there for some new and some recycled fiction.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>The Christmas Goose</strong></span><br /><br />The old farmhouse exuded glee –<br />Unbridled expectation,<br />While youth and elders strategized<br />Their Christmas celebration.<br /><br />The merriment that overflowed<br />Infected fowl and beast.<br />In the barnyard peace ensued<br />And acrimony creased.<br /><br />Except… that is, one envious pig<br />Got up his porker dander<br />When he observed the peacock strut<br />Of one illustrious gander.<br /><br />The gander overheard the cook,<br />Whose silvered-tongue was loose,<br />That if he plumped-up, he’d become<br />This seasons Christmas goose.<br /><br />The whole farmhouse, both young and old,<br />At once began to pander,<br />Feeding this and bits of that<br />To fatten up the gander.<br /><br />To be the Christmas goose MUST BE<br />The wish of every gosling.<br />For every inch his waistline grew,<br />More lustrous grew his goose dream.<br /><br />With each applause and patted-back<br />And lofty gander praise,<br />The pig’s hate exponentially grew<br />For all the gander’s ways.<br /><br />Pig quipped, to put him in his place,<br />“They’re going to cook your goose.”<br />Then added, while his nose-ring bobbed,<br />“You’ll simmer in your juice.”<br /><br />And then to emphasize his point<br />They waddled to a window.<br />From underneath they overheard<br />The children’s voices flow.<br /><br />With sing-song voice they patty-caked<br />A chant that made him shiver.<br />“Pluck the fowl, discard the tail,<br />Take out his goosey-liver.”<br /><br />“Add peppercorns, season to taste,<br />Then truss him up with kite string.<br />Cook will roast the Christmas goose that’s<br />Crammed with chestnut stuffing.”<br /><br />Then goose-bumps on the gander flared.<br />His face grew flushed, then paled.<br />A plan began to formulate<br />So he’d not be de-tailed.<br /><br />With not a moment left to spare,<br />He donned clothes from the clothesline.<br />When cook went out to dress the fowl,<br />He hid behind the grapevine.<br /><br />The cook, with kids and jealous pig,<br />Searched far— all o’er the place<br />What started as a hunting crew<br />Wound up a wild-goose chase.<br /><br />With nary a gander sighting<br />Of hide, nor hair or feather,<br />Cook then whipped up a Plan B –<br />The children thought ‘twas clever.<br /><br /><em>Epilogue </em><br /><br />The gander near the window crept,<br />When deemed the coast was clear.<br />The children’s chant – a second verse?<br />Was music to his ears.<br /><br />“Green-bean casserole, candied yams,<br />Pumpkin pie, and custard.<br />We’ll pig out on Christmas ham<br />That’s spiced with cloves and mustard.”<br /><strong><br />written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge</strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Topic: Christmas Cooking/Baking</em><br />© Beth LaBuff -- October 2008</span><br /></span></center><center><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></center><center><br /></center><center></center><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></center>BethLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437061780974521381noreply@blogger.com9