Ziggurat

Friday Fiction with Sara is hosted by 

Karlene @ Karlene A Jacobsen    

Links for more inspirational fiction await you there.  

This following fictional story, 

based on the Biblical story The Tower of Babel,

 was written for a FaithWriters challenge

 with the topic "Measure."  

Ziggurat

I hear their hushed babbles; they watch me. They recognize the clothing I wear; 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.


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 araḫ¹ to Nimrod.

Araḫ Samna²
The work begins. The tower foundation has been laid. I have measured and certified the perimeter at 73 nindanu³ square. Bricks are continuously being produced.
--Akkade of Shinar

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.

Araḫ Kislimu²
Rain has slowed the progress. The tower height is two nindanu³.
--Akkade of Shinar

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 common fire-stoker, as I’ve come to think of him. He is becoming a threat. I must speak to Nimrod concerning him.

Araḫ Ṭebētum²
The rains have ceased and progress has resumed. The tower height has reached two aslu⁴. Brick production is not keeping up. We must find a way to turn out bricks faster.
--Akkade of Shinar

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.

Araḫ Šabaṭu²
The tower is approaching four aslu⁴. Good communication among the workers is aiding the progress. I propose we inscribe your worthy name, Nimrod, on the capstone of this great tower.
--Akkade of Shinar

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.


Nimrod has given permission to do whatever pleases me concerning the common fire-stoker. 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 torre⁵. ¿Qué pasó? ¡No entiendo! El trabajo se ha parado. ¡Contésteme ahora! ¡Soy Akkade de Shinar!⁶

***
~~ Fictional story based on The Tower of Babel from Genesis 11:1-9 ~~

***

¹ Araḫ - month
² Samna, Kislimu, Ṭebētum, and Šabaṭu – Babylonian month names
³ one nindanu, an ancient Mesopotamian unit of measure = 6 meters
⁴ one aslu, an ancient Mesopotamian unit of measure = 60 meters
⁵ tower
⁶ What happened? I don't understand! Work has stopped. Answer me, now! I am Akkade of Shinar!

written by Beth LaBuff - (c) January 2013

Junk Food National Historic Memorial

Friday Fiction

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.

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.

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, “Junk Food National Historic Memorial -- mountain tours begin on the hour.”   I checked my watch; I had thirty minutes to explore the museum before the next tour began.

The adjoining room to my left was labeled “Snacks.”   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.

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, “Soda Pop,” and “Pastries.”   I had my choice of which junk food rooms to sample next.

The last room I visited was labeled “Experience the sluggish life of a junk-food junkie.”    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 experiential warning was pure ambrosia.

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.” 

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, “We remember; lest we go back.”  

I plan to return next year, just to be warned again.

  © Beth LaBuff -- September 2012

Friday Fiction

Plain Crashby Beth LaBuff -- October 2011

A zephyr swept savanna's plain.
The African sun blazed.
A crash* of rhino's searched for food,
Their grassland overgrazed.

A league of scholars heard their plight
And since it's common knowledge
That "Information holds the key,"
They rallied at their college.

They formed, to raise awareness,
The Rhino-Smarts Foundation.
They gathered funds for laptops--
Tax deductible donations.

The rhino boasts keen hearing,
Though poor eyesight overall.
It's also common knowledge that
His brain is somewhat small.

An herbivore with thick gray skin,
Each foot displays three toes.
He's none too bright, quite comical
With horn atop his nose.

The Rhino-Smarts Foundation
Presented to the crash,
A laptop for their personal use,
With giga-memory cache.

The rhinos, grateful for the gift,
Began appropriation.
They plotted ways to ascertain
Some prudent information.

With keywords, "vitamins" and "grass,"
Each word spelled with precision.
They searched which grass variety
Would boost their feeble vision.

They googled which would strengthen
The horn atop their nose
And which would banish athlete's foot
Between their triple toes.

They also searched for recipes
To turn the grass to mash
That promised thick-skin softening—
Grass lotion for the crash.

Just as they sought to google
Specific grass locations –
Their laptop flashed a message,
Caused arrhythmic palpitations.

"Warning! Virus Warning!"
Spread confusion like a flash.
Poor vision, plus their pint-sized brains—
A virus struck their crash ? ! ?

They googled, "virus symptoms."
They yahooed, "rhino pain."
Resultant—"rhinovirus"
Confused their rhino brains.

It started with a sniffle, then
Progressed to horn congestion
"The virus" rampaged through the crash—
The powers of suggestion.

While virus through the laptop spread
To giga-memory cache,
The monitor went haywire then
Their laptop system crashed.

Sometimes a little knowledge
Can misdirect the brain.
The ailing, fevered rhinos crashed
And burned upon the plain.
***
*crash—a herd of rhinoceroses

***

Friday Fiction is hosted by
Rick @ Pod Tales and Ponderings
Head on over for links 
to more inspirational Fiction.

Stellar Appellations

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by

Karls (Karlene Jacobson) at Voices...

Head over for links to inspirational fiction.

Stellar Appellations

by Beth LaBuff

An aging brick façade, sat decomposing on the lane,

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

Inside, a single dangling bulb launched shadows in a hall

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

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

His livelihood for fifty more if wishing stars held true.

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

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

The walls and ceiling of this room were painted midnight blue

With tiny starlight pinpoints plotted—prompting easy view.

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

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

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

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

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

Had carefully received a name by his own thoughtful plan.

Each working day Sir Abram rambled down that shambled lane,

Regenerated once again inside his starred domain.

As father with his children, he recited starry names,

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

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

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

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

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

“The Appellator, Bureau Office, Stellar Appellations,

We hereby give you notice of our budget lacerations.

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

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

So voila! Unemployment, his reward for fifty years!

This pink slip proclamation predicated life to veer,

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

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

Despite his melancholiness— new stars that offer light,

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

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

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

***

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

Psalm 147:4

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

Genesis 15:5

© Beth LaBuff -- January 2012

The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street

The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street

by Beth LaBuff

'Twas the eve 'fore Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street,

Our cottage was brimming with victuals and sweets.

The pumpkin pies cooled, as had marshmallowed yams,

And raisin bread slices awaited plum jam.

The turkey was nestled all snug in its pan,

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

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

With tasks for each hour, I climbed into bed.

When out on the porch I heard clunkings and bams.

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

Now what kind of prank had entangled my feet?

What lunacy lurked here on Cranberry Street?

For hundreds of cans lay in haphazard heaps,

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

Did Cranberry Street have a luncheon meat war?

I entered my cottage, securing the door.

Befuddled, I sat in my swivel desk chair,

I pondered the front porch; I whispered a prayer.

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

I thought to read emails for something to do.

Then what to my listening ears was THAT sound?

My inbox was flooding with emails— inbound.

More rapid than vultures, from whom and from where,

Converged on my inbox, left messages there.

Prolific as rabbits, more forthcoming mail

Assaulted my thinking—I feared to exhale.

These emails could cause such outlandish fixations—

Proposing that Spam be the pride of our nation!

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

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

Have roasted stuffed Spam served on Thanksgiving Day,

Tie ribbons on Spam and attach to bouquets.

Then flanking my email were ads from cafés.

Each advertised dishes like Spam Fudge Parfaits,

And touted the flavor of Simmered Spam Stew,

Or boasted the glories of Cubed Spam Fondue.

While haunted by roasts of our Thanksgivings past,

Now, luncheon meat cans on my porch had amassed.

I feared for tomorrow, for our turkey meat.

Such strange things had happened on Cranberry Street.

I may eat Spam pudding and suffer this scheme,

I may add some Spam to my coffee with cream.

I may grill Spam steaks on the Fourth of July,

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

I swiveled my swivel chair, lost deep in thought.

This whole Spam fiasco had left me distraught.

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

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

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

Alleging a swift comprehensive spam filter.

I added my addresses—email and house,

Then dispatched it posthaste with a click of my mouse.

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

But all the Spam cans on my porch were deleted.

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

Put life back to normal on Cranberry Street.

***

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

***

Spam © Hormel Foods LLC

© Beth LaBuff -- 2011

***

If you enjoyed reading this

you will find more great reading

by clicking the following link.

Friday Fiction is hosted this week

by Vonnie at My Back Door

eBook review of "Light Farm Works"

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

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

Voice of the Maker

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

Voice of the Maker
by Beth LaBuff

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

***

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


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


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

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

***

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

Incident at The Black-Caped Shadow Grill

Maybe this is a little too graphic for some,

and perhaps I need to add a disclaimer like,

"The views expressed in this poem are not necessarily those of the author." :)

***

I think I will just add a "warning."

***

WARNING:

The following poem deals with the subject of vampires.

...BUT, IT IS JUST A DREAM!"

--as always, thanks for reading!

--Beth

Fiction Friday is hosted today by Rick (Hoomi) at
Rick's Pod Tales and Ponderings
Head over there for Rick's excellent sci-fi!
You will also find links to other great fiction pieces!
***

Incident at
The Black-Caped Shadow Grill
By Beth LaBuff

I settled in my easy-chair
To dissipate my tension,
I closed my eyes then wakened in
An alternate dimension.
But surely it was just a dream.
The blame — I had a hunch,
Was caused by Beef Chipotle
That I scarfed down at lunch.

And in my dream, a neon sign
That flashed, “Open All Night.”
I clenched my collar ‘round my neck
Then peered through muted light.
Words painted on a window,
“The Black-Caped Shadow Grill.”
I entered in faint-heartedly,
Ignoring dank and chill.

My eyes skimmed the interior,
The clientele — dismissing,
The worn plank floor was gouged in spots
With many slivers missing.
Then focused on the patrons with
Red lips and black attire,
And I, the only human in
The diner of vampires—

I yielded to a shiver,
I saw their fangs and winced.
I’ve heard, “Vampires are shape-shifters.”
Frankly — I’m unconvinced.
To take the form of animals,
To flit about as bats,
I spurn the theory vampires
Can transform into rats.

Then seated near the kitchen door,
My eyes compelled to look,
Were locked into a stare-down with
The bloodstained-aproned cook.
His manner disconcerted me.
His eyetooth glinted gold.
His hairline formed a widow’s peak.
He made my blood run cold.

A menu pressed into my palms,
I welcomed its intrusion.
I scanned the list of beverages
Entitled— “Chilled transfusions.”
“We’ve drinks to please your palate,
Our patrons all agree,
We’ve even stocked ‘O negative,’
Along with ‘A’ and ‘B’.”

“Our famed, ‘Thicker Than Water,’
On-site, this beverage brewed
In our blood-pressure-cooker—
Pairs well with any food.”
“And for the youngsters, ‘Veggie-Freeze’—
The blood squeezed from a turnip—
A blend of wholesome plasma
Served frozen in a cup.”

“The meats we grill are all served rare.”
The menu’s guarantee—
“A red and juicy center,
We pledge they’re garlic-free.”
“And seared to seal the juices in,
The ‘Special of the Day,’
With coriander seasoning—
A porterhouse fillet.”

The creature sitting next to me,
His tone and manner—curt,
I heard him hiss, “One special with
“Blood pudding for dessert.”
Ten minutes passed before a
Harried waiter served his food,
I thought it looked a little charred,
That wouldn’t help his mood.

He cut into the well-done steak,
He said it tasted blander
Than any fare that passed his fangs,
“It’s missing coriander!”
He jumped up with his steak knife,
Eyes bored the kitchen door.
He started hacking wooden stakes
From off the wooden floor.

He raged into the kitchen while
Behind him trailed his cloak,
Then just before he skewered the cook,
Well, that’s when I awoke.
My wife was gently jostling me.
She said, to my relief,
That she’d be serving chicken
And not sirloin of beef.

Still settled in my easy chair,
I swear this is the truth,
A rat peered out and sneered at me,
I saw his golden tooth!
They say, “Vampires are shape-shifters.”
Although it goes against
The core of what I once believed,
But yeah, now I’m convinced!

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

***
inspiration:
Daniel 4:5
I had a dream that made me afraid.

Sun-Block

Fiction Friday is hosted today by Laury @
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart
Head over for links to more inspirational fiction!

Sun-Block
by Beth LaBuff

According to quaint solar lore,
Upon a sunspot crater,
A colony of immigrants
Lived near the sun’s equator.
As former Saturn citizens,
They each possessed two brains,
A fore brain and an aft brain lived
Within each skull’s domain.

Sun energy that radiated
From a solar vortex,
Made inspiration flow and fill up
Each cerebral cortex.
The colonists were writers,
Each were stylized with their form,
The synergy between their brains—
A solar-powered brainstorm.

The mentor for their writing group,
And leading citizen,
Was Stella who wrote poetry
In her solarium.
She kept a sundog for a pet.
She called him Astral-Sol,
He ate moon pies and drank sun tea.
Before each evening stroll.

Each solar day began just like
The solar day before,
And solar energy infused
The sunspot writer’s core.
Until that day! — ‘Twas overcast,
The weather turned for worst,
The sun’s corona had a
Solar flare flare up and burst.

The solar flare disturbance
To the sunspot dweller’s brains
Impeded brain synapses and
Caused solar flare brain-sprains.
And inspiration ceased to flow,
An intellectual shock,
When residents upon the sun
Can’t write, it’s called sun-block.

And so severe the malady,
They called in a physician
Who ranked it, “third-degree sun-block,
A non-lethal condition.”
The solar lore recounted
How the colony declined,
“The worst instance of sun-block
For all of Solar-kind.”

The solar flares continued,
Ergo; Stella couldn’t write—
No currency for moon-pies
For her sundog’s snack at night.
“Each fore brain and each aft brain
Fought each other,” said the lore,
“Drove sunspot crater citizens
Quite wacko with head-war.”

Then much to everyone’s relief
And answer to their prayers,
A merchant starship orbited,
He came to ply his wares.
A peddler from Andromeda,
A dealer in space junk,
Wielded a flare-extinguisher
Pulled from a cargo trunk.

So Stella and the colonists
Used local currency,
They paid the man in gamma rays,
A sun commodity.
They utilized extinguishers
To end creative drought,
Once sprayed, the solar flares smoldered
Then sputtered and went out.

Without the flares the sun-block ceased
The cloudy skies departed.
The brain synapses recommenced,
Creativeness — jump-started.
Their fore brains and their aft brains
Were kicked into high gear.
Each writer produced volumes,
Had success in their careers.

Then Astral-Sol ate moon-pies,
Strolled a street called Sunnyside,
And every solar day that dawned
Was Sunday sunspot-wide.

***
written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
©May 2010 -- Beth LaBuff
Topic: inspiration/block for the writer
***
inspirational verse:
a merry heart doeth good like a medicine
Proverbs 17:22 KJV

A 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 Laugh at the Days or will at least leave you with a smile. I'm grateful to Marita "Mari" Thelander for her expertise in designing and making these changes for me! Thanks, Mari!

Phantom of the Reptile

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by
Christina Banks @ With Pen in Hand
Be sure to head over for links to more great fiction,
or add a link to your own.

Phantom of the Reptile
by Beth LaBuff

A seashore near the ocean where
The breakers scattered foam,
A turtle dwelt with two small friends—
The sandy beach their home.
“Benevolence”—their motto,
A Marine Society
Of turtle, clam, and hermit crab—
Companions by the sea.

The turtle’s shell – beguiling—
Chartreuse with flecks of puce,
But flawed, she had a seal-leak,
Her shell, a trifle loose.
Her leak issues let in a draft
When ocean breezes blew,
The gusts that wafted ‘round felt like
El Niño coming through.

Just two weeks past the little group
Ceased daily occupation,
They gathered with the turtle for
Her birthday celebration.
They all partook of birthday cake—
Some kelp steeped in sea brine,
To celebrate her sixty years.
(In turtle years, that’s nine.)

The turtle then proceeded to
Unwrap her gifts as planned.
The clam presented turtle with
A coarse brown grain of sand.
The sentiment read, “Keep this sand
Positioned near your heart,
In time your irritations change—
A pearled work of art.

Inside her shell she tucked the sand,
Though contact wasn’t pleasant.
Then hermit crab, with shifty eyes
Presented her his present.
To her surprise the second gift
Opened that afternoon,
A shiny sleek harmonica
To play a turtle tune.

With cake and presents finished,
They bid each one farewell.
Two special gifts from two rare friends
Were tucked within her shell.
‘Twas later on that evening
She basked in ocean’s breeze,
Then noise issued within her shell,
A harsh and jarring wheeze.

It gave the turtle such a fright
A rasp sprang from her beak,
It sounded somewhat like a “Phbiss!”
That’s turtle-speak for “Eek!”
Well mercy me! the turtle thought.
Her turtle eyes grew wide.
She bravely sought the noise’s source,
She pulled her head inside.

The jarring, wheezing dissonance,
Refusing to be quelled,
Chords ebbed and flowed around inside
And echoed in her shell.
The discord and cacophony
Had left the turtle daunted.
And in her mind she was convinced
Her turtle shell was haunted!

Her head and turtleneck popped out
For what was she to do?
Her quandary was astounding,
Put her in a turtle stew.
Afraid to tuck her head inside
Where once it used to dwell,
She thought perhaps she’d hire one
To exorcise her shell.

A fortnight since her birthday,
And two weeks since she’d slept,
She had a plan to use the clam.
Herself— she was inept.
The clam, squeezed in her turtle shell
Armed with a D-Cell light,
He hoped to find the origin
Of turtle’s awful plight.

Then what he found inside her shell,
The noise secret—unlocked.
He couldn’t wait to tell her,
Was sure she’d be shell-shocked—
‘Twas through her leaky turtle shell
When wafted airy breeze,
It blew through her harmonica
And made the breathy wheeze.

The hermit crab confessed his scheme,
He’d coveted her shell.
He hoped she would evacuate,
Give him a place to dwell.
The turtle, though a trifle mad,
Revenge did not demand.
To show ‘twas no hard feelings,
Gave him her grain of sand.

Benevolent Society—
Was weighed—found to be wanting.
The hermit crab, sand in his shell,
Still for a new one—hunting.

***
Thou shell not covet thy neighbor’s house.
Exodus 20:17
(paraphrase and emphasis mine)

written for a FaithWriters.com writing Challenge
Topic: "Eek!"
© Beth LaBuff -- March 2010

Catfish on a Hot Tin Roof

Friday Fiction is being hosted by
Shelley @ The Veil Thins
Head over there for links to more great fiction.

Catfish on a Hot Tin Roof
(ballad of a bottom-feeder)
By Beth LaBuff

Through the middle of a cornfield
With its ripe and golden grain,
‘Round a waist-high prairie meadow
Wound a pot-hole riddled lane.
‘Twas there a shallow pool
Where a sign read, “Zoned – No wake,”
(Named with hopeful aspirations)
Was the pond called Mammoth Lake.

The pool, at its broadest point
Was scarcely ten feet wide,
And deep down in its shallow depths
A catfish did reside.
An educated catfish
For he’d memorized the rules
To graduate—top of his class
At M-L Catfish School.

The rules simply put were
Rule ONE— “Turtles are taboo,”
And “If it shines, don’t bite it,”
Was rule NUMBER TWO.
And if perchance th’ unthinkable,
You find a hook you’ve bit,
Then NUMBER THREE will save your fins
Just “Flop, then twist, and spit.”

Last June, the day was hot enough
To make a catfish sweat,
Something occurred this catfish
Wasn’t likely to forget,
A pickup truck came rolling to
The pond with boat in tow.
The boat was launched on Mammoth Lake,
The anchor dropped below.

Five feet from shore the boat bobbed in
The middle of the lake,
And in the boat, a tackle box
Was labeled “‘Zekiel Flake.”
Zeke wore his lucky fishing shirt
A rip upon his sleeve.
Where late last fall a fish hook caught
And corner-tore the weave.

An ice chest, also in the boat,
Was handy for the day.
He reached inside and grabbed some lunch—
On rye – P-B & J.
He set the sandwich on one knee
And when ‘twas aptly blessed,
He grabbed a portly earthworm
And then he closed the chest.

Zeke took a bite of sandwich,
And then threaded the hook
Straight through the earth worm’s belly
‘Til positioned in the crook.
He tossed the worm rig overboard,
Then cleaned his hands of dirt,
Another bite of sandwich then
He smoothed his lucky shirt.

The worm began to wiggle and
Continued his descension,
When near the catfish hovel,
Caught the catfish’s attention.
The catfish knew the rules ‘cause
He’d learned them long ago.
But as he watched he was enticed
By wriggly earthworm’s show.

The worm was pleasing to his eye,
And in his mind he thought,
If on the tail I nibbled, I’d not
Break the rules, as taught.
I’ll brush it with my whiskers
While the hook and worm I view.
The more he watched, the more he
Schemed to bend rule NUMBER TWO.

The catfish took a nibble,
Then the bobber took a plunge.
The pole ‘bout lost within his grasp,
Zeke Flake was forced to lunge.
His peanut butter sandwich flew
And lost most of its jelly.
It flipped, bounced on his lucky shirt
Then landed on his belly.

Then Zeke Flake tugged upon the pole,
Securely set the hook,
The catfish—sins before him—
Rued the day the bait he took.
Zeke’s mouth watered for fish sticks,
Heard the sizzle in the pan,
Adrenaline pumped through his veins
And then— something unplanned…

Rule NUMBER THREE! the catfish thought,
To “Flop, then twist, and spit.”
He sputtered out the fishhook
Then he turned his tail and split.
And Zeke thought sure he heard a “hiss”
Or possibly, a “meow,”
Besides the hook, the catfish spit
Pond water on Zeke’s brow.

Relief then coursed through catfish veins.
His plight, at one time grave,
The catfish and his whiskers
Had averted a close shave.
Old Zeke, bereft of dinner,
Spat upon his lucky shirt.
He rowed to shore and then he flung
His tackle in the dirt.

Then with relief, Zeke Flake recalled
More lunch— P-B & J!
The sandwich in his hand surpassed
The fish that got away.
The catfish vowed his fish lips would
Not eat worm meat again,
He’d only dine on plants, he’d be
A vegetarian.

***
My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.
Proverbs 1:10 KJV
***
written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
Topic: "Phew!"
February 2010

Barred Plymouth Rock Band

Fiction Friday is hosted today

by Sara @ Fiction Fusion
Skate on over for more great inspirational fiction.

Barred Plymouth Rock Band
By Beth LaBuff

Abutting an abandoned barn,
A crib devoid of corn,
With weathervane and cupola,
The rooftop, sagged and worn.

The corncrib was repurposed
By fowl society,
A chicken troupe, Barred Plymouth Rocks,
The white variety.

This granary was their concert hall
With only room to stand,
For nightly concerts were sold out for
For this uncommon band.

Bandleader of this feathered group,
This five-fowl poultry show,
A southern bird of Creole stock
Was dubbed Ole Chick’ Gumbo.

Ole Gumbo plucked the banjo strings,
On French horn — Cordon Bleu,
With Kiev on percussion,
And Lo Mein played kazoo.

The fifth fowl, in a washtub,
He floundered on dry land.
Sans feathers, Chicken from the Sea
His job—tuna the band.

White feathers ruffled as they crooned,
Laud for their chicken breed.
They danced till eggs were scrambled.
They sang for chicken feed.

Cordon Bleu stuck in his craw
His spare chapstick supply.
It came in handy, between songs,
When chicken-lips got dry.

And Kiev on percussion,
Brushed cymbals with his tail,
And when he had a solo,
Made chicken drumsticks flail.

Gumbo kept the songs up-beat,
His banjo on his knee.
He picked with pomp and circumstance,
His notes were extra crispy.

Misfortune struck one chicken,
A pox upon Lo Mein,
No longer able to kazoo,
He could not entertain.

The band was sympathetic,
In order to console,
They gave Lo Mein a paperback
“Beef Stew for Chicken’s Soul.”

Auditions held, to fill his spot,
A hog stood in their midst.
A rumor breathed to chicken ears,
“The pig’s a chauvinist.”

The pig squealed, “I am white meat, too,
And for this group well-suited.”
The hearsay disregarded,
The porcine was recruited.

Their chicken-band, Barred Plymouth Rocks
Would now sum-total three,
And pig, another white meat,
And one Chicken from the Sea.

***
© Beth LaBuff—November 2009

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
Topic: White

***
Inspiration: Proverbs 17:22
A merry heart doeth good like a medicine… KJV

Big-Game's Big Game

Fiction Friday is hosted by Vonnnie @
My Back Door
Head over there for great inspirational fiction.

Big-Game’s Big Game
By Beth LaBuff

In the heart of the savanna,
In the dry season they came.
The folks on a safari sought
To covertly spy game.

Dressed in their khaki field jackets,
They hid among the plants,
And all things for their trek were held
Within their cargo pants.

Among the group, a jovial chap,
A red-head named Eugene,
Photographer of wildlife
Came slathered in sunscreen.

One thing the tourists did not know,
This was a staged charade
Of the lion, rhino, hippo,
Warthog, zebra cavalcade.

The big-game had agreements
That were drafted for their cause.
Each play and drill was outlined
And recorded as by-laws.

The toss to start the big-game’s game
Employed their mascot quail.
And when he landed on his head,
The call was yelled out, “Tail.”

The lion and the hippo
Commenced the premier play.
The lion’s rush was blocked, fans cheered
This grand defense display.

The humor of the big-game’s world
To species can transcend—
Positions that the rhino played
Were nose guard and tight-end.

The next play had the hippo and
The rhino in a sweep.
All things considered, they did well,
Both landed in a heap.

The second quarter’s big-game plan,
The zebra had to scramble.
The warthog snarled and snorted as
He charged from ‘neath the bramble.

One thing the big-game did not know,
A panther came to play.
He’d never read their by-laws
He just entered in the fray.

The swarthy streak of feline fur,
His unleashed speed revealed.
The zebra ascertained, “Illegal
Motion on the field.”

The panther angled ‘cross the field
To intercept the pigskin.
He clipped the warthog on the nose
And sent him in a tailspin.

The black cat’s interference
Put the game in overtime.
The call, “illegal cat downfield”—
A big-game by-law crime.

The warthog cut, then circled back
Across savanna’s green.
The action got a little close,
They almost clipped Eugene.

He broke out in a profuse sweat.
His face took on a sheen.
Lucky for him, his cargo pants
Contained surplus sunscreen.

The big-game saw the crowd’s response
So they began to scheme,
They hoped to sign the panther,
A free agent, on their team.

The panther, meanwhile, quit the game.
The teammates looked around.
He absconded with the warthog
Who was nowhere to be found.
***

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge October 2009
Topic: black

A merry heart doeth good like a medicine... Proverbs 17:33 KJV

It Doesn't Get Much Better

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by
Sherri @ A Candid Thought.
Be sure to stop over there for fabulous fall fiction!

It Doesn’t Get Much Better
By Beth LaBuff
Topic: Retirement

Sunday
The morning sun shone lustrous
On a charming Cape Cod house,
Seated in the dining room,
The Mr. and his spouse.

He sipped his steaming Eight O’Clock.
His mouth sanctioned a grin.
He pondered both, retirement
And his years-of-service pin.

As he perused the Tribune sighed,
“It doesn’t get much better.”
They, arm in arm, took off for church
With Bibles and her sweater.

Monday
He broke the fast before the sun,
Though no alarm was set.
His brain still time-zoned, nine to five,
Some things—hard to forget.

His day stretched out before him,
He had an inspiration,
He’d help the Mrs. ‘round the house
To show appreciation.

And in his fervor pointed out
Art, crooked on the wall,
A crystal glass with smudges, while
Dust bunnies roamed the hall.

He hovered while she vacuumed,
With cleanliness—obsessed.
He checked for dirt on window sills—
Employed the white-glove test.

Tuesday
The town library’s many books
Would help him find a hobby.
He carried home a cookbook on
How to Prepare Kohlrabi.

And Tennis for the Seniors Set,
Ten Steps to Play Guitar,
Gardening for Imbeciles,
and Maintenance for Your Car.

He knitted on her project
From two till three o’clock,
But read the pattern upside-down—
Knit sleeves into her sock!

Wednesday
A tennis outing with the boys.
She sighed in her relief.
A morning detached from her spouse,
Her respite would be brief.

The score was love to forty
When their game came to a halt.
He toppled o’er the base line,
A penalty—foot-fault.

The balance of the day he spent
Reclined upon his chair
While she applied an ice pack
To the bump ‘neath his gray hair.

Thursday
He urged his spouse to take a break
Then lit the barbecue.
Their pergola went up in flames
Thus went his grill debut.

The bad news, with the flare-up,
The steaks were grilled pitch-black.
The good news for the novice chef,
His eyebrows would grow back.

Friday
A junket with the boys out to
The lake, with pole and bait.
To hook some walleye, perch, or pike,
To grace his dinner plate.

He brought the pungent stringer home
And cast it in the sink.
To have a go at cleaning fish
‘Bout drove her to the brink.

Saturday
He changed the auto oil, but
It splattered o’er the lawn.
The next time that she drove the car
“Check engine” light flashed on.

Sunday
Their Cape Cod seemed to shrink that week.
It bound her like a fetter.
She’d scream out if she heard again,
“It doesn’t get much better.”

He sipped his morning Eight O’Clock,
Pondered past week’s enjoyment.
She snatched the Sunday Tribune ads
To contemplate employment.

***

© Beth LaBuff -- September 2009

inspiration from:

Proverbs 16:31

Gray hair is a crown of splendor...

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

The Case Against a Sugar Maple

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by

Joanne at An Open Book

Head over there for links to more great fiction.

The Case Against a Sugar Maple
By Beth LaBuff

Topic: Winter

In a clearing of a forest,
In the gusty frigid air,
A small arboreal assembly
Launched a civic woods affair.

‘Twas a hearing, in this clearing,
Of a sugar maple tree,
To ascertain her state of mind,
To gauge competency.

Witnesses were singly summoned
Forth and testified.
The conifers and evergreens,
Compelled by law, complied.

Presiding o’er this hearing was
The magistrate, a fowl.
And all esteemed the wisdom
Of the worthy great horned owl.

The first to testify, blue spruce,
“She’s a pathetic sight,
High atop a branch she keeps
A tethered kite in flight.”

“Perhaps she has a syndrome
Or is daft, to some degree.
Her trunk is thick, her branches dense.
She seems out of her tree.”

“Your honor, I have knowledge of
Some things we can’t condone.
She runs a house for boarders though
For business, she’s not zoned.”

“When frigid weather hit, birds flew—
Eviction of her tenants!
For this and other crimes we must
Insist this tree do penance!”

“Without a permit, rodents came.
They brought some nuts and fruit.
A hollow branch— her doggie bag
Where squirrels stashed their loot.”

A charge of “addled” pierced the chill.
Her verdict appeared dim.
As if to validate their claim,
Her kite looped ‘round a limb.

The owl reminded witnesses,
His words abrupt and blunt,
“You can’t pronounce her guilty,
Assume she’s innocent.”

Then douglas fir confided to
The court, his voice austere,
“I’ve witnessed bats fly unimpeded
In her upper sphere.”

“Masked bandits came with banded tails,
Were harbored from the law.
She should be hewn for firewood
Before the first spring thaw.”

“One final thing to seal our case,
A proof you can’t ignore,
She doffed her crimson autumn coat—
Littered our forest floor.”

As ending arguments were heard,
In blew a balmy breeze.
Soon buds appeared on maple’s limbs
She sprouted bright green leaves.

To their surprise, the robins then
Returned to build their nest.
The plaintiffs, without arguments,
Receded to the forest.

Owl hooted, “Whooo’ll accuse you now?
There’s none left in our midst.”
She clapped her limbs together.
The owl sighed, “Case dismissed.”

© Beth LaBuff -- August 2009

inspiration from:

Isaiah 55:12 -- NIV

"...the mountains and the hills will burst into song before you,

and all the trees of the field will clap their hands."

John 8:10 -- NIV

"...where are they? Has no one condemned you?"

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Ale From Two Citruses

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Catrina @ A Work in Progress
Click on over for great summer fiction.

Ale from Two Citruses

by Beth LaBuff

(with a nod to Charles Dickens' "Tale of Two Cities")

Oh, worst of times, like constant drips—
His quarrel-monger wife,
So on the rooftop corner
He chose to live his life.

His health had been affected.
His life brimmed with despair
And just behind his cowlick,
He’d lost most of his hair.

The word acrid could best describe
Her personality.
Likewise, the word distressed described
His frail mentality.

Critical mass point had been reached.—
He’d salvage life and house!
His first step to accomplish this—
He’d renovate his spouse.

His perplexed thoughts upon his plight,
To ease his situation
He googled into cyberspace
To gather information.

On the keyboard, keywords typed
Were “Bitter,” “quarrelsome.”
He placed his faith, his hopes and dreams,
Then prayed for the outcome.

To his surprise, a recipe
Purported forth a cure.
An ale of odd ingredients,
The listing, quite obscure.

Take two teaspoons of bitter orange,
Add one sweet lemon rind.
Blend with ascorbic acid
And sucrose – white, refined.

Add moonbeams, two troy ounces.
The potion, then, should glow.
Fold in club soda, form a paste.
Apply to her left toe.

The new dilemma of his quest—
How to apply this cure?
Baptize her left extremity—
Sprinkle the elixir?

So stealthily, while she reposed,
He drew near with the potion.
He held his breath, with trembling hand
He dabbed it on, like lotion.

Oh, best of times, his life now that
His mission was complete.
His wife, now so congenial,
His rose, she seemed so sweet.

Her charm and temper pleased him.
Then he saw her puzzled eye.
She scrutinized him toe to head.
He feared things went awry.

His sweet world turned to saccharine.
She schemed, her inspiration—
She googled “cowlick,” “hair-loss”
To anoint his situation.

***
This poem is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

is entirely coincidental.

***
inspiration from:

Proverbs 21:9
Better to live on a corner of the roof
than share a house with a quarrelsome wife.

Proverbs 27:15

A quarrelsome wife is like a

constant dripping on a rainy day.

© Beth LaBuff -- June 2009

written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge
Topic: Bitter and Sweet

The Pelican Grief

(For Friday Fiction)

The Pelican Grief
By Beth LaBuff

Within an Eastern seaboard town—
A salt-air weathered hut
With large displays of seafood
Sold from Beaker’s Fish Market.

The pelican proprietor,
With his unique physique,
Would stock the shelves with seafood
Hauling fish within his beak.

Patrons in this seaboard town,
To satiate their hunger,
Bought, salmon, shrimp, and snapper
From their pelican fishmonger.

One day while fishing off the wharf,
To stock his shelves anew,
He ran into an albatross
And caught the fowl bird flu.

And with the flu, a fever rose
Then goose bumps, wheezing, chills.
The Doc’s advice, “Get bird-nest rest.”
He prescribed some vile swill.

Recovery time, though minimal,
The bird flu left him weak,
Affecting his ability
To haul fish in his beak.

So Beaker’s Market floundered,
A fiscal loss incurred.
His shop showed a resemblance to
Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

The market’s shelves were empty.
The patrons wailed louder.
“No lobster, shrimp, or scallops,
And no clams for our chowder!”

His loss of strength, the empty shelves—
Two desperate situations.
He needed brawn to fill the shelves
With catfish and crustaceans.

On self-exam, his abs were mush.
Then he let out a wail.
Worst fears confirmed, for cellulite
Was dimpled on his tail.

With lunges, curls, and crunches—
A cardio work-out.
His glutes grew firm and sturdy,
His muscles, fit and stout.

Once more the shelves were loaded
With perch and halibut,
And business boomed just like before
At Beaker’s Fish Market.

New items added to his shelves,
Like chips and tartar sauce.
Soon came a line of airborne fowl—
Filet of albatross.

***

inspiration from: Proverbs 102:6 KJV

I am like a pelican of the wilderness,

I am like an owl of the desert.

***

written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge

Topic: Empty and Full

© Beth LaBuff -- June 2009

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Sherri at A Candid Thought
Be sure to stop there for links to great summer fiction.

The Sackbut Player's Solo

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Karlene at Heart and Soul

Be sure to stop over there for more inspirational fiction.

The Sackbut Player’s Solo
By Beth LaBuff – April 2009
Topic: Up and Down

The concert hall’s grand elegance
With velvet seats and lacquered wood,
And silence echoed off the walls
In hushed anticipation.

A poster promised classics from
L. van Beethoven’s repertoire.
The concert time was eight o’clock,
Announced the invitation.

“Come hear the modern debut,
An historic instrument
Unearthed near ancient Babylon,
A recent excavation.”

This four-stringed sackbut had survived
With two strings missing, two intact.
Harp from Nebuchadnezzar’s band
And Daniel’s generation.

The sackbut player’s grand entrance,
He held the cherished artifact.
A gasp rose from the audience,
A spellbound fascination.

But where to seat the sackbut? –
The dilemma of this age.
Among the flutes? … one flautist, though
Did flaunt his aggravation.

The maestro wildly waved his arms.
Musicians readied for their song.
An upbeat, first …the downbeat, next,
Con brio orchestration.

At center stage the player stood,
His instrument, he cradled.
The string he plucked was rusted through
And snapped from oxidation.

‘Twas the middle of the coda,
A shocked silence filled the hall.
The sackbut player’s starched white shirt
Was drenched with perspiration.

A flush crept up the maestro’s face
His anger …seven times hotter.
A handkerchief cooled down his brow
And saved him from cremation.

The sackbut player’s head hung down.
The flautist glowered, showed contempt.
And through a sneer he snidely said,
“Don’t quit your day vocation.”

When it was feared the song had failed
Sackbutist’s fingers slowly plucked
The fragile sole-surviving string,
Grateful for preservation.

A mellow note, melodious,
It soared and drifted ‘round the hall.
Not heard for three millennia,
This musical sensation.

The audience burst out, jumped up,
With accolades and praises.
Down in their seats they plunked again
For encore’s presentation.

But with profuse applause, a draft.
The music drifted off the stands,
The hasty grab for music sheets
Left discombobulation.

In the confusion, songs were swapped,
The parts redistributed.
Musicians puzzled o’er new notes—
A heart-sick palpitation.

The flautist’s shock showed in his eyes,
He blamed the sackbut player,
And in derision hurled at him
A frothed expectoration.

Despite the classics’ muddle
And the mixed-up sour notes,
The sackbut’s voice resounded
To the listeners’ elation.

Moonlight Sonata, Ode to Joy,
The jumbled songs’ cacophony.
Anachronistic re-debut,
A modern fascination.

One thing the world may never know,
Did “Sackbut’s Ode Sonata”
Cause Beethoven to roll over?
There’ll be no exhumation.

Note:

It is believed that the “sackbut” of Biblical times (Daniel 3—KJV)

was a triangular stringed musical instrument. It is also translated “lyre.”

***

written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge

***

inspiration from:

Daniel 3:5

That at what time ye hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp,

sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of musick,

ye fall down and worship the golden image that

Nebuchadnezzar the king hath set up. (King James Version)

Peking Duck

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by

Dee at My Heart's Dee-Light
Spring over there for more seasonal fiction.

Peking Duck
By Beth LaBuff – March 2009
Topic: Asia

In an undisclosed location
Somewhere in China’s wall,
A most uncommon baker
Cooked from dawn to post nightfall.

This surreptitious baker
Used fortune and good luck
To craft world-famous dishes,
His name was Peking Duck.

So skilled in Asian cooking
This waterfowl’d become.
The multi-tasking Peking Duck
Could wok while chewing gum.

His specialty was cookies,
Though he stressed over the crumbs,
Which led to frequent meltdowns –
The China chef Syndrome.

To some he was a legend,
A mystic cooking fable.
He sold his fortune cookies
With the Great Wall Cookie label.

His ancient oven used by those
Within his family tree,
Before this duck was Egg Foo Young,
Before Ming’s Dynasty.

His copy of the recipe
Recorded in his scrawl
Was written down graffiti-style—
Handwriting on the wall.

No need to keep this recipe
Secured behind a lock,
The secret won’t be advertised
Because the “walls don’t talk”.

His prized obscure ingredient,
Stored in a flour sack,
And stirred in with a chopstick
Was the semi-precious “quack”.

A special tool, to seal the edge,
Chef Peking Duck devised.
He’d step down squarely on the dough
His webbed foot utilized.

He’d puzzled o’er the crescent shape,
Persistence would prevail,
He took the flattened cookie
To mold it ‘round his tail.

When family honor—saving face
Had caused blood-ties to thicken,
His second cousin, twice removed,
The noble Kung Pao Chicken…

The chicken wrote a letter—
Requisitioned the republic
And petitioned that the new year
Be “the year of Peking duck”.

***

Somewhere … inside a restaurant
Were signs “No MSG,”
And “Specials of the Evening” were
“Lo Mein and Chop Suey.”

The music’s plinky melody
In pentatonic scale,
Where chairs and tables artfully staged
With strict feng shui detail,

And waitresses and waiters with
Their hair in braided queues,
Served egg rolls to the patrons
And distributed menus.

Each meal would not be complete
Without dessert’s addition.
Each patron got a cookie
That was fashioned per tradition.

A Great Wall Cookie cookie
That compelled a smile to crack
‘Cause when they broke it open
It exhaled a little “quack.”

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

© Beth LaBuff -- March 2009

Inspiration from:

Daniel 5:5 NIV

Suddenly the fingers of a human hand appeared

and wrote on the plaster of the wall,

Proverbs 31:15, 18 NIV

She gets up while it is still dark;

she provides food for her family ...

She sees that her trading is profitable,

and her lamp does not go out at night.