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

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

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

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.