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

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

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

General Bullregard -- A North South Tale

I'm excited to host Patty Wysong's Friday Fiction this week.

At the bottom of this post is Mr. Linky. Add your name

and a link to your fiction, then click on other links

to read fiction by some excellent writers.

Thanks for laughing at the days with me.




General Bullregard -- A North South Tale
by Beth LaBuff
Topic: Don't cut off your nose to spite your face.

Back in the fall of sixty-three…
Or was it sixty-four?
There was a minor skirmish that
‘Bout caused a barnyard war.

South feedlot yard on Shiloh Farm
Was where they kept the bull.
His name was Pierre Bullregard --
For short -- The General.

Fenced inside north pasture hills,
The sheep would safely lay
Beside the still creek waters,
With no worries that they’d stray.

North pasture hills and south feedlot
Were separated by
A current wielding ‘lectric fence
That stood ‘bout three feet high.

The General would often graze
Next to the ‘lectric fence.
His tough old hide got many zaps
Before he gained some sense.

Some days he’d walk the fence line
And some days trot -- for fun.
He carved a furrow in the ground --
A trail we called Bull Run.

That day of infamy that left
The General so distraught --
A sheep was grazing near the fence
Next to the south feedlot.

The General from across the fence
Was thinking, Muttonhead.
Then sheep’s eye locked with bull’s eye,
And “Baaaaaaaad,” the sheep’s mouth said.

“How dare that sheep from ‘cross the fence
Accuse me with that word!”
Sheep bleated out that “Baaaaaad” again
And “Baaaaaaad” The General heard.

Instead of letting bygones be
At night he counted sheep.
Then “Baa-Baaaaaad” echoed through his mind
And drove away his sleep.

Like chewing cud, his anger was
Regurgitated bile.
His all-consuming thoughts ’bout sheep
Envisioned things hostile.

The bull was livid and revenge
Became his sole obsession,
Payback for a misconceived
North pasture sheep aggression.

He pawed the ground then charged the fence
His eyes were seeing red.
And steam expelled from out his nose
And dust shook from his head.

He shorted out the ‘lectric fence.
Sparks crackled in the air.
His hair was singed, but in he slipped
Though none the worse for wear.

So blinded by his anger
He chased the sheep that day,
Till men in white coats were called in
And carted him away.

Folks said he went to market.
Some said he bought the farm.
Perhaps he cashed his cow chips in --
He ain’t been ’round this barn.

inspiration from: Psalm 23:1-2 NIV
The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters.

© Beth LaBuff -- February 2008
written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's ...

This week Fiction Friday is hosted by
Vonnie at My Backdoor Ministry

Stop over there for more avant-garde fiction.

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's ...
by Beth LaBuff

Topic: Australia

Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree,
Merry merry king of the bush is he.
Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra,
Gay your life must be!
--Australian Folk Song by Marion Sinclair--

In the bush-land of Australia
A diverse Society
Met each week at three o’clock
To brew their billy tea.

Each member of this Aussie guild
Were seated ‘round a bog,
The wombat and the bandicoot
The sheep and dingo dog.

The crocodile sidled up
Next to the Kangaroo.
The emu and the rabbit
Came from the Uluru.

The kookaburra, merry in
The Eucalyptus tree,
The koala and the lorikeet
Treetop society.

Each member reaffirmed an oath
In lingo, fierce and strong.
They pledged the preservation of
Their outback billabong.

Until one diabolic day
That twirled them for a loop,
A devil from Tasmania
Came to infiltrate their group.

He pointed out the differences
‘Tween haves and the have-nots
Them that have the pockets
And them that haven’t got.

He incited racial hatred
With zoologic prejudice,
A billabong dissension—
Down Under outback fuss.

The koala and the kangaroo
Had the pocket attribute
Likewise the dervish devil,
The wombat and the bandicoot.

When the meeting terminated
Haves left and headed home.
The have-nots lingered at the swamp
To empathize and moan.

Then derogatory comments
With a hissed, “marsupial,”
As speculation mounted what
Their pouches might conceal.

“Perhaps they stash a boomerang—
Protection in the outback,
Or maybe a $5 note
To buy their Cheezels snack.”

“A self-contained doggy bag
For when they’re dining out,
Or perhaps to tote their lipstick
While on a walkabout.”

Kookaburra fueled the spark
Tas-devil helped create.
The mates – urged to get pockets.
The devil’s advocate!

They brain-stormed ‘bout their have-not plight
Their words – highly explicit.
They’d each construct a pocket-pouch
And then would retrofit it.

The kookaburra’s wisdom solved
Their tacky-sticky problem.
To glue the pockets on themselves
Required old gum tree gum.

The crocodile insisted that

His pocket be astride
His nose, but as he focused
His eyes became cross-eyed.

The emu had his pocket glued
Upon his feathered chest,
Where inside he could bury his head
When he became distressed.

Rabbit’s grand idea to grow
The bunny population,
Pockets-to-nurture-rabbits,

He could overrun the nation.

The dingo glued an ample pouch
On ‘bout shoulder-height.
He filled his spacious pocket with
Some Aussie Vegemite.

Next week at three o’clock when
The group convened again,
Each one had a pocket.
Glued to feathers, fur, or skin.

The have-nots then became the haves.
Attained marsupial status.
But their pockets were ill-fitted
And declared “preposterous.”

When prejudicial comments flew
The new-haves weren’t amused.
To remove their added pockets
Faux-supials felt behooved.

Backwater from the billabong
Removed the gum adhesive.
The have-nots said they’d had enough
And swiftly made their leave.

The Society disbanded.
The effort, understaffed.
The water was depleted
...And the kookaburra laughed.

Author’s note: While this story may seem far-fetched,

the kookaburra insists it is fair dinkum.

Inspiration from:

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house,

...nor any thing that is thy neighbor's.

Exodus 20:17 KJV

© Beth LaBuff -- January 2009

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Go West Young Man

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by
Sherri Ward at A Candid Thought

Be sure to stop over there for more cutting-edge fiction.

Go West Young Man

by Beth LaBuff

Topic: The USA

In Old English, on the sheepskin
Conferred from Mid-State College,
Joe Peacock proudly eyed his name
And reveled in his knowledge.

He headed home on gravel roads,
Past the dirt road junction,
With grandiose ideas to
Increase the farms production.

With eagerness to implement
New methods and techniques,
But on deaf ears his concepts fell,
Were squashed down, so to speak.

Self-righteous anger boiled to
A discontented state.
Old farmers with archaic ways—
That would not be his fate.

A deft smooth-talking salesman,
Whose snaked tongue dripped with oil,
Filled young Joe with promises
Of western fertile soil.

“A progressive farmer should not
Stay here when I’ve land to sell.
Go west, young man, and leave this farm.
Just bid the past farewell.”

Sans common sense with a sound mind,
Joe bought the proffered land.
Paid the con with currency
Then shook his clammy hand.

Joe took his old green tractor
And a wagon for the load,
Donned a sign, “Westward or bust!”
Then throttled down the road.

Drove through “What Cheer” in Iowa,
In Colorado – “Hygiene”,
Aye-yi-yi! – the names of towns!
What were “town fathers” thinking !?!

One evening’s stop at a cafe
On his cross-country tour,
He went inside a restaurant
And ordered soup du jour.

He puzzled o’er the “mystery meat’s”
Stringy perpetual chew.
The waitress mumbled, “jackrabbit”
How gross! Hare in his stew!

As on he traveled he recalled
Sage council from Bugs Bunny,
“Hey doc, be careful that you don’t
Turn left in Albuquerque.”

At length his destination reached,
His eyes surveyed his land.
His mind – pow’rless to comprehend
And slow to understand.

“Hoodwinked!” the word came to his mind.
He pondered what he’d done.
His farm was situated in
The Grand “abyssal” Canyon!

He tossed his sheepskin in the gulch
And then …he had a notion.
He’d contour farm the canyon
To stop the soil erosion.

inspiration from: Philippians 4:11

Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned,

in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
© Beth LaBuff – January 2009

The Christmas Goose

Fiction Friday is hosted by Patty at Patterings
Be sure to head over there for some new and some recycled fiction.

The Christmas Goose

The old farmhouse exuded glee –
Unbridled expectation,
While youth and elders strategized
Their Christmas celebration.

The merriment that overflowed
Infected fowl and beast.
In the barnyard peace ensued
And acrimony creased.

Except… that is, one envious pig
Got up his porker dander
When he observed the peacock strut
Of one illustrious gander.

The gander overheard the cook,
Whose silvered-tongue was loose,
That if he plumped-up, he’d become
This seasons Christmas goose.

The whole farmhouse, both young and old,
At once began to pander,
Feeding this and bits of that
To fatten up the gander.

To be the Christmas goose MUST BE
The wish of every gosling.
For every inch his waistline grew,
More lustrous grew his goose dream.

With each applause and patted-back
And lofty gander praise,
The pig’s hate exponentially grew
For all the gander’s ways.

Pig quipped, to put him in his place,
“They’re going to cook your goose.”
Then added, while his nose-ring bobbed,
“You’ll simmer in your juice.”

And then to emphasize his point
They waddled to a window.
From underneath they overheard
The children’s voices flow.

With sing-song voice they patty-caked
A chant that made him shiver.
“Pluck the fowl, discard the tail,
Take out his goosey-liver.”

“Add peppercorns, season to taste,
Then truss him up with kite string.
Cook will roast the Christmas goose that’s
Crammed with chestnut stuffing.”

Then goose-bumps on the gander flared.
His face grew flushed, then paled.
A plan began to formulate
So he’d not be de-tailed.

With not a moment left to spare,
He donned clothes from the clothesline.
When cook went out to dress the fowl,
He hid behind the grapevine.

The cook, with kids and jealous pig,
Searched far— all o’er the place
What started as a hunting crew
Wound up a wild-goose chase.

With nary a gander sighting
Of hide, nor hair or feather,
Cook then whipped up a Plan B –
The children thought ‘twas clever.

Epilogue

The gander near the window crept,
When deemed the coast was clear.
The children’s chant – a second verse?
Was music to his ears.

“Green-bean casserole, candied yams,
Pumpkin pie, and custard.
We’ll pig out on Christmas ham
That’s spiced with cloves and mustard.”

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
Topic: Christmas Cooking/Baking
© Beth LaBuff -- October 2008

The Devolution of Planet eX-whY-Zee

Fiction Friday

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by
Shirley McClay at Sunny Glade

Be sure to visit for cutting-edge fiction.

Author's Note:
If the theory of evolution is possible,

then reverse evolution (or devolution) must also be possible.

Today I am posting a TRUE STORY for Fiction Friday,

may the powers-that-be forgive this indiscretion.

This true account is the story of a superior race that begins to devolve.

Here are the facts...


The Devolution of Planet eX-whY-Zee
by Beth LaBuff
Young Adult Genre

Ten trillion billion years ago
On planet eX-whY-Zee
Dwelt 50 million comrades --
An advanced humanity.

The citizens were sacrosanct,
Professing to be wise.
And every action that was done
Was right in their own eyes.

Events began to happen
That man did not foresee.
The cause? …‘twas global warming
Or a planetary freeze?

Maybe the ozone buildup
Caused an air pollution trap.
Or aliens used their ray guns
To melt the polar cap.

Eight trillion billion years ago
Man’s shoulders start to stoop.
A tail soon develops
And his arms begin to droop.

Six trillion billion years ago
Cro-Magnon’s cave is home
Where pterodactyl soar
And the brontosaurus roam.

Four trillion billion years ago
Monkeys become bees.
Man becomes a monkey and
The bees become small fleas.

Two trillion billion years ago
A single life-cell group
Mutated then transitioned into
Thick primordial soup

One trillion billion years ago
There remained some dull green fuzz.
A little bang transpired then
From something …nothing was.

***
9th grade Science Class --

Students, please review these facts. There will be a test on Monday.

Inspiration from:
Romans 1:20-22 For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse. For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened. Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools.

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

© Beth LaBuff -- June 2007

Forgive Her Trespasses

Fiction Friday

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by

Yvonne Blake at My Back Door

Be sure to visit for inspirational fiction!

Forgive Her Trespasses
by Beth LaBuff
Topic: Christmas Lights

A couple – married forty years,
The secret to their bliss?
Through the house and down the hall
An unseen line exists.

Two rooms were separated by
This line of demarcation
One chamber “his,” the other “hers”
For spousal isolation.

In her room, a rocking chair
With cushioned floral print.
A knitting basket perched nearby
With yarns of pastel tint.

In his room, a den of sorts,
And homage to his passions,
Where guns and mounted trophy heads
Were tributes of his actions.

She had, while settled in her chair
Resplendent inspiration—
Clandestine entrance to his room
For Yuletide decoration.

She hauled her stash of trimmings
To his hallowed, leathered lair.
Strands and strings of blinking lights
While he was unaware.

His south wall held a mounted bass,
Hung from its mouth, a lure.
She held a bauble to its fin
And tied it there, secure.

Great Uncle Albert’s picture hung
Next to the baubled bass –
She added chaser lights that lit-up
Clockwise round the glass.

She turned around then gazed upon
The wall that bordered east
Where smack dab in the center
Was a shoulder-mounted beast.

The beast was angled oddly,
His head wrenched, facing south.
She lit a Christmas candle
And placed it in his mouth.

The north wall held a bird in-flight
From Canada – a goose.
The goose-in-flight was wall-mates with
A mammoth head of moose.

Then up above, the light fixture,
Were cast-offs from some deer,
She hung some blinking snowflakes
From the antler chandelier.

Extension cords hid ‘neath a hide
Of pronghorn mammal fur.
She plugged the cord with three prongs in
A two-prong adapter.

Wrapped in the Yule moment,
A decorating whirlwind,
Multitudes of Christmas lights
Plugged end to end to end…

And still, she kept on adding lights—
Obsessed, compulsive urge.
Until the lights blinked off, then on—
Electric power’s surge.

AC/DC, watts, and amps,
Ungoverned energy,
By adding more the room maintained
High-powered synergy.

Finally, the last beast had been graced
With bulbs and decoration.
Back stealthily, she crossed the line
To gender segregation.

Expectancy for his return,
Excitement on her face,
She thought she heard a tiny “pop”
Perhaps … the fireplace?

A beep began to issue from
The sensor on the wall.
Smoke seethed from underneath the door
Then spewed into the hall.

Aghast, she peered across to see
Her husband’s char-broiled shotgun.
Who knew the room’s propensity? —
Spontaneous combustion!

The print of Uncle Albert
Shot high into the air.
It then became impaled upon
The antler chandelier.

The north wall saw excessive heat.
The goose – incinerated.
And on the floor a pile of ash,
Ill-fated moose — cremated.

With fried bass on the south wall,
She then rotated east—
Shocked electrocution of
The shoulder-mounted beast.

The leaning candle in the mouth,
That had been left ajar,
Made the beast appear like he
Was smoking a cigar.

They planned on eating out that night,
Cheeseburgers with some fries,
Instead, they opted to stay home.
For “Bar-B-Q Surprise”.

Inspiration from:

Forgive us our trespasses... Matthew 6:13

written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge
© Beth LaBuff -- November 2008

Serengeti Subterfuge

Fiction Friday

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by

Hoomi at Pod Tales and Ponderings

Be sure to visit for avant-garde fiction.

Serengeti Subterfuge

by Beth LaBuff

Topic: Charade

In the darkness rife with night sounds,

‘Neath an umbrella tree,

Crouched young Paka* of the woodlands –

Serengeti sovereignty.

Paka Leopard was courageous

As he thrived upon the plain.

In Serengeti’s rank he neared

The apex of the food chain.

He hoped for an appearance,

Kept his respirations quiet,

Craved a meal that conformed to his

High protein – low-carb diet.

With the tardiness of dinner

And scratching of the bramble.

His thoughts began to wonder

While his brain began to scramble.

Paka had a revelation,

“My spots are so cliché,

I’ll change my spots, expunge them

To blend in among my prey!”

He borrowed spot remover

From a clean safari guest,

Who’d hoped to spot a spotted cat

While spotless on his quest.

With spots obliterated,

Spotless Paka formed a plan,

To mingle with the monkeys

And blend in among their clan.

In order to pull off this hoax

He learned some monkey antics

Like eating ripe bananas

And monkey speech semantics.

With just a smidge of exercise,

Plus a scoop of guile,

He practiced swinging from the trees

His tail — faux prehensile.

The whole charade was scrutinized

By a watchful gnu,

Who faithfully transcribed it

From his hidden gnu’s eye view.

The gnu was an informer

To the Brotherhood of Apes,

Who voiced their stern distaste on

How events had taken shape.

The monkeys weren’t bamboozled

By Paka Leopard’s cheating.

They called each head of household to a

Monkey business meeting.

The Brotherhood of Apes

Then posted union views,

Saying “Leopards can’t be monkeys

‘Cause they pay no union dues.”

And with the union’s statement

That was posted in a hurry,

No hakuna with matata

Made Paka start to worry.

To reverse a spot remover

Became his chief concern.

And all the wishful thinking

Wouldn’t make the spots return.

Accounting of this tall charade

Might be a bit askew.

We asked around before we found

Just what the old gnu knew.

It seemed that Paka Leopard

Then simmered in a stew,

Till he found a place that could replace

His spots with ink tattoos.

*Swahili for cat

Inspiration from:

Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard its spots?
Jeremiah 13:23 (NIV)

written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge

© Beth LaBuff -- August 2008

Le Curator of the Shed

Fiction Friday

Fiction Friday is hosted by Patty at Patterings

Be sure to stop there for avant-garde fiction.

Le Curator of the Shed
by Beth LaBuff
Topic: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

‘Twas just an old abandoned shed
Decaying in the dell,
Inside were treasures of all sorts
That time had bid farewell.

Objects d’art were hung with twine
And carefully displayed,
Buckets, leather harnesses,
Steel plows, and rusty spade.

Then the pièce de résistance
In room’s center could be viewed.
It was most carefully guarded --
Le sac of dry cat food.

Asleep within this gallery
On sculptured hay bale bed
Was the steward of these items --
Le Curator of the shed.

At first glance he appeared to be
Chat noir -- a cat of black.
The second glimpse revealed to all
A white stripe down his back.

Few animals dared to trespass in
Le Curator’s domain,
Especially if their nose could smell
And they possessed a brain.

‘Twas greed that gripped Le Curator
With plans to boost his stash.
He snuck up to a refuse heap
To sift through other’s trash.

That’s when the fracas happened,
A thief came forth to steal,
He had a mask and banded tail
And planned to snitch a meal.

Time the brigand bided when
Le Curator left his shed,
The bandit came and havoc wrecked
Then in the dark he fled.

Grievous sight met beady eyes,
There’d been a bold incursion,
And Le Curator regretted
His scavenger excursion.

The thief defaced the gallery
And through the twine he chewed.
He kicked the buckets out the door
And stole le sac of food!

Inspiration from:
The thief comes only to steal... John 10:10 (NIV)

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
© Beth LaBuff -- January 2008