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