30 Days 30 Stories: Haiku

By Julie Daines

This year, I'm sharing some awesome Haiku. Most of these were written by my friends for a competition, and I'm posting them without permission, so oops.

Anyway, here are some great Haiku poems about books:

Swan Song (Haiku by T.J. Reed) 

Young girl, heart of gold

Devil roaming happily

Will the world end?


Keturah and Lord Death (Haiku by Michelle Ratto)

death permeates all

life and love in the village

and forces a choice


The Hunger Games (Haiku by Christine Tyler)

Thanks for the burnt bread

If you kiss me you get soup

I'd like to frost you


To Kill A Mockingbird (Haiku by Scott Rhoades)

Fearing boogieman

two finches learn tolerance

among injustice

Pride and Prejudice (Haiku by Taffy Lovell)

Rich men want a wife

It's a universal law

Mother's want the match

The Hobbit (Haiku by Scott Rhoades)

He's number thirteen

with some dwarves and a wizard

What's in his pocket?

Where the Wild Things Are (Haiku by Rachel Taylor)

They held Max up high

"And now let the wild rumpus begin"

They all roared out loud.

The Body Finder (Haiku by Taffy Lovell)

I hear the echoes

From the missing and the dead

And the one who killed

Have you got a book Haiku you'd like to share? Leave it in the comments.

30 Days: "Going Home"

By: T.J. Reed

Brent’s dusty boots thumped on the hardwood floor of his father’s home; the same boots that Brent had stood on the streets of Baghdad in. He carefully closed the door behind him and shifted the cardboard carrier that held his and his dad’s coffees back to his strong hand. He had practiced this scenario every morning for the past two months since they had called a nurse in to take care of him. Every morning, at 7:30 am, Brent would arrive with their coffees and that day’s copy of USA Today. The coffee needed to be black for his father which matched his personality; strong.

He had served in the Marine Corps during the Vietnam War, then had spent several years working as an armored truck driver after that, and that is when the cancer came. It had hit him quickly, much more quickly than Brent had anticipated. He had always assumed that he would have more time with his dad, one more day, one more hour, a minute. But, that all changed when Orville called and told him that they had found cancer, “running all up in me,” as he had put it.

“He has been waiting for you this morning.” The short nurse in the kitchen said.

“Yeah, I am a couple minutes late. The lady at the coffee house tried to put sugar in dad’s coffee. Had to wait while she brewed a whole new pot.”

“He has been talking to Big Tiny again. He says that he is going home today.” She said with a smile.

Over the past week, Brent’s father had been telling him stories about a young man that had been coming to the house to visit him that went by the name Big Tiny. The doctors had told Brent that he would slowly start to slip into this sort of state; speaking to people that was not there or forgetting who people was all together. Brent had just gone with it. He would sit with his coffee and listen to Orville tell him about the glorious things that Big Tiny would tell him of Heaven. Brent had decided that if this was how his father was going to lose his mind, he was ok with it.

Brent slowly opened the door to his father’s bedroom to find him staring at the ceiling, his eyes bright and wide with excitement.

“Good morning son!” His father tried to shout hoarsely from the confines of his bed.

“Hey old man. I got your coffee. You sure look happy this morning. You feeling better?”

“I don’t feel a thing son. Big Tiny said today I get to go home. He told me I get my retirement papers for my service here.” The old man tried to laugh and began to cough. Brent pulled a napkin from a box next the bed and handed it to his father which he then used to dab the speckles of blood from his lips and then just stared at his son.

“Big Tiny says that he has a job for me.” His father, though his eyes were bright with excitement, Brent came to the quick realization that his father was telling him that he was slowly slipping away. He could see it in the color of his skin and in the way he labored for breath. They had assumed that this would have happened a week ago, but Orville had proved too tough for death, as he did in Vietnam, and had fought it out for one more week.

“He does?” Brent said as he fought back tears.

Orville looked up at the ceiling again as if staring into Heaven itself, tears of his own slowly cupping the corners of his eyes and then streaking down the many creases and wrinkles on his face.

“Yep. Says my service is requested. Feels good to be wanted again, to be able to serve again, you know?” Orville smiled and looked at his son. “He says that you don’t need to worry about me and we will meet again.”

“He said all that, huh?” Brent said smiling now as he took his father’s hand. In the moment that his fingers touched his dads, it was as if a lightning bolt had struck Brent. The room flashed white, his hair stood on end, and then everything was as it was. Brent blinked his eyes several times and looked at his father.

“Can you see him now? He is talking to you.” Orville said to his son.

Brent looked at the foot of the bed and seen a soldier standing in his desert fatigues, full body armor, and his helmet held in gloved hands as he smiled a goofy smile that Brent knew all too well. The man possessed the face that had been in his dreams for the past 7 years since he had been killed in an ambush in Iraq.
“Tony?”

“Hey buddy.” Tony said. “You got one heck of an old man. This guy will talk your ear off if you let him.”

“Tony?” Brent repeated.

“Yep.” Tony started laughing.

“Why does he call you Big Tiny?” Brent said laughing as a mixture of tears of joy and sadness flooded his eyes.

“When he first asked my name, I said Big Tony. The old man is hard of hearing, I guess he heard Big Tiny and I just haven’t had the heart to correct him.”

The two laughed. They laughed like old friends do when they have not seen each other in a very long time and Brent noticed that his father was not laughing. The grip on his hand had lightened and his fingers were slipping from his grip. Brent looked at his father, his eyes nearly closed but he was smiling.

“Don’t worry Brent. I got this. I will make sure your old man gets where he needs to go. That is my job now. I am a courier; a courier for the poor tortured souls that is us. We give everyone a gentle welcome into their ever after and bring them to their families.  Remember how we always joked that we would be guarding the gates of Heaven or the streets of gold. Apparently, those things don’t need any guarding brother. What they need is us collecting up our brothers and sisters and bringing them home.” Tony smiled again.

Brent used his free arm to wipe the tears from his face. “He said you had a job for him.”

“Well, I don’t. The old man upstairs does. He is going to make him a courier too. I already have a man to train him up for the task.”

Brent turned his head to look back at his father and found that his eyes were now closed. The weak grip that he had held on his hand was now gone but his body was lying with his arms stiffly placed alongside his legs as if he was in the position of attention. There were two young men now standing at the far side of the bed dressed in an older style of military uniform that Brent recognized from a few pictures that his father had shared with him of Vietnam. The dark green uniforms looked like they were fresh out of the box; crisp and clean without speck of dust on them.

“Brent, I would like you to meet Bryan Meeks. I haven’t seen this young man in fifty years!” Brent’s father said as he laughed and hugged his long lost friend, a friend that he had lost in Vietnam and had worn a bracelet every day of his life to remember that friend. Brent looked down at his own wrist and stared at the thin metal bracelet he wore for Tony. A bracelet that he never took off and that was a constant reminder of a friend he had lost in a foreign land. Brent looked up and all of his new friends were gone along with his father.

He cried.

He let the tears for his father fall to the floor along with the tears of closure for a friend that he had always hoped that he could see again someday. He knew that whenever it was his time to go, there would be a young man in uniform prepared to escort him to the other side and he hoped that his name was Big Tiny.

Written for the memories of my fallen brothers:

Pfc. Alva L. Gaylord May 5^th, 2006

Spec. Matthew F. Straughter January 31^st, 2008

Staff Sgt. Bradley J. Skelton February 6^th, 2008

Sgt. Denis D. Kisseloff May 14^th, 2010

Rest in peace brothers and I hope you enjoy your new jobs. I cannot wait to see you all again when my time comes and I hope that you all show up to escort me home.

30 Days: Undeaditorial

Dear Editor:

With great interest, I read your special issue about biometric computer authentication (March, 2014). My firm has been looking for a viable biometrics solution for quite some time and several of the products you reviewed look promising.

However, we have one question that remains unanswered by any of the articles in this otherwise excellent issue: Do any of these products work for the undead?

You see, we take being an equal opportunity employer quite seriously. Hiring the undead keeps us in compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act and contributes to a diverse work environment. We also recognize that there are certain advantages to hiring people who have risen from the grave. For one thing, they seldom object to working the night shift. In fact, they prefer it. As long as the shift ends before sunrise, you can count on zombies to remain alert and productive way into the wee hours of the morning. They also tend not to require expensive health benefits or group life insurance.

But for these prized workers, traditional passwords don't do any good because people tend to forget them when their brains rot and leak out of their ears. Unfortunately, biometric authentication often brings its own set of problems.

It's hard to log in to the network with a fingerprint reader when your fingerprints have decayed and your finger tends to remain in the reader after you pull your hand away. Likewise, iris recognition devices are problematic when the eyes keep falling out of the head and dangle well below the beam from the reader. Face recognition? Forget it. As the face deteriorates, new patches of mold or the continual changing of the shape of a rotting face with its sagging skin and ever-more-deviating septum renders such systems useless.

Some of our employees have suggested that it might be useful to have a device that allows the employee to pull the bowels from his belly and run them through a scanner. This might help solve the problem, but it raises an obvious security issue: What's to stop somebody from pulling the guts out of a coworker and using them to gain access to a restricted system? DNA-based devices have similar security problems. We even tried odor-based biometrics, but quickly learned that this type of device overloads and fails when the workplace houses more than a small number of rotting corpses.

As you can see, current biometrics don't work for an organization like ours. In this economy, more and more people seem to be dying every day, and as they venture forth from their coffins to seek suitable employment, biometric authentication seems like the way to go.

If the research you did for your special issue provided insight into how to use biometrics for this under-appreciated segment of the workforce, we would love to hear about it.

Thank you,

Rip Morguenstern,
VP of Security
Liquid Putrefaction, Inc.

30 Days: Pioneer Chrismas

-->

Ma, where will we be for Christmas this year?

In the Salt Lake Valley.

Will we get there before Christmas?

I hope so, little one.

But isn’t it Christmas right now?

No, dear, not yet.

But there is so much snow.

I know. Come along.

My feet hurt.

Let me see. I have a little flour sack. Let me wrap them.

I’m hungry too.

We all are. I have a little leather left. Chew it as we walk.

Will Pa be home for Christmas?

No, love, he can’t be with us anymore.

Where is he?

We had to leave him with the others.

Will the wolves hurt him?

We covered him good with sage brush.

Will we see him again, Ma?

Yes.

Will he miss us?

I think he will be sad to not be with us. Do you know who was born on Christmas?

Jesus?

Yes. And His Mother and Father loved Him very much.

Did He grow big like me?

Yes, He did. And one day Jesus had to leave His family even when He didn’t want to leave.

Just like Pa.

Yes, and Pa is with Jesus in Heaven.

Pa gets to spend Christmas with Jesus?

He does.

He gets to have the best Christmas.

I think you’re right.

I still wish Pa was with us, pulling me in the handcart.

Do you want to get in the handcart now?

May I? The rocks are hurting my feet.

Let me put you in with sister.

Sister is so cold, Ma.

Wrap your arms around her and hold her close.

Will she spend Christmas with Jesus, too?

I would miss her terribly if she did, dear.

Can you hear the singing?

It must be the other Saints singing.

I can’t see no other handcarts. Didn’t angels sing when Jesus was born?

Yes.

I think the angels are singing for us tonight so we are not alone.

I believe you are right, little one.

30 Days: Frogs, A Memoir

by Scott Rhoades

When I was young, Newark was full of frogs. Toads, really, but we called them frogs, and I’m not going to rename them now just because I know better. They were frogs then, so as far I’m concerned, they are frogs now.


It was easy to find a frog if you wanted to find one, and, being boys, my friends and I always wanted to find them. In the brick wall around my front yard, there was a gap for water to drain out after a rain. There was always a frog in there. At my school, Ruschin Elementary, there were similar drains in the cement wall around the playground. Again, you were guaranteed to find a frog in there.


There were frogs everywhere. You couldn’t walk down a sidewalk or street without finding flattened frogs. If it was a fresh kill, you left it alone because it was kind of gross. But if it had been there long enough to dry up, which only took a day or two, it was irresistible. We'd scrape it up and fling it at a friend, or a girl, or any other suitable target. They didn’t fly as well when they were still squishy, but when they were dry and hard, look out. Somewhere in suburban California, I’m sure, a kid lost an eye because of a well-aimed frog frisbee.


Every once in a while, some lucky guy would hit the jackpot and find a gigantic frog, sometimes six or eight inches long or more, not counting the long legs. I only saw two or three of those, and never actually caught one myself, but those giant frogs were better than a treasure chest, and the guys who were lucky enough to catch one were the envy of the entire neighborhood.


During the rainy season, Newark had some huge mud puddles. The puddles were never very deep, no more than a couple inches, but they could be wide. When the puddles were full, they were as big a temptation for a kid on a bike as the nickle-a-scoop ice cream at Thrifty’s drug store was on a summer day. You’d start back as far as you could, then build up speed and fly through the puddle, spraying water a couple feet in the air. Some of the bigger puddles were hard to get through after a good rain.


The puddles were good for more than soaking yourself as you rode through them. If they stayed full for more than a couple days--and some held water for weeks--they would teem with polliwogs.


Polliwogs made great school projects. They also made interesting pets. I was a preteen scientist with my own microscope and chemistry set, and was fascinated by all things scientific. Watching the transformation from polliwog to frog was even better than a good book, and that’s saying something.


Mom would help us catch a few polliwogs and help to set up a little tank for them. Eventually, we’d have a couple more little frogs to put out in the garden. I’m surprised we ever had any bugs. Whenever mom watered the garden, we could go out and find toads in the pools of water. Usually, we could also find one under the zucchini leaves or hiding in the shade under the tomatoes.


One time, things got a little out of hand.


I found a ton of polliwogs somewhere, probably either at The Lake or in that big puddle on Jarvis, near Lake Blvd. I caught as many as I could, a couple dozen or more, in one of mom’s fruit jars, then I dumped them in my aquarium and dutifully put the screen over the top because I knew what could happen if the little frogs found an opening. Before long, I had a bunch of little frogs with tails, then frogs with nubs. This is about the time when the frogs were able to climb the glass.


Inevitably, the screen was loose or something one day, and the wee beasties found a way out. I didn’t notice the problem with the screen at first. What I noticed was a pair of baby frogs climbing a wall. Then the cat was interested in something under a chair. Next thing I knew, a herd of frogs was migrating across the living room.


The hunt was on. Mom and Kevin and I combed the house looking for frogs. We found as many as we could and took them out to the garden. For several days, we’d be watching TV or reading the paper or playing on the floor and a frog would hop through the room. After while we stopped seeing them. But for months afterward, anytime we’d move a chair or couch, we’d find tiny dessicated frogs.


When I go back to Newark, I don’t see flattened frogs anymore. I guess the frog population dropped as the human population rose. There aren’t as many mud puddles these days, and there are more cats and dogs, and as the fields around town filled with houses and businesses, the raccoons moved into the neighborhoods. But I’m sure that somewhere in town, little descendants of my frogs are still hopping around.


At least, I like to think they are.

Scott Rhoades is a regular contributor to this blog. He has been a technical writer and editor since 1988, when he worked for Atari. He currently works for Adobe. He has been published in The Writer magazine and various Web markets, and has had a poem featured at the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame library. He lives in Orem with one wife, two to six children, two (and soon three) grandchildren, four cats, one dog, one serious baseball addiction and, sadly, no frogs. He is currently working on a third unpublished novel.   

Thank You for Another Successful "30 Days, 30 Stories" Project

To the authors who were brave and shared their work, to the readers who took the time to comment, to the readers who took the time to read, we thank you!

See you next year!

30 Days: "Tombs of Terror" by T. Lynn Adams

This is an excerpt from my YA thriller, Tombs of Terror. Sixteen-year-old Jonathon Bradford, a bilingual American, has been taken hostage by the Shining Path terrorists of Peru. In this scene he again crosses paths with Severino, a 17-year-old Peruvian teenager. (Tombs of Terror is published by Bonneville Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort. Copyright 2010. Reprinted with permission.)

Sitting on a burlap bag filled with dry beans, Jonathon wrapped his arms around his knees. Ropes cut into his wrists and bound his ankles together. From beyond the storeroom door, he could hear men laughing and talking. Sometimes he heard his name being said, other times he heard “Americano.” He knew they were talking about him, and he wondered what they were planning to do. He also wondered if he would ever see his family again.

The door to the storage room opened, and Severino entered, followed by another man. Though Severino had traded his rifle for a mug, the man with him carried an automatic rifle. Severino moved across the room while the other man stopped to stand guard just inside the doorway.

The Peruvian teen stopped in front of Jonathon. Gray steam curled and floated up from the mug in Severino’s hands, swirling in front of his face. “I brought you something to drink.” Severino took a deep swallow of the steaming liquid before passing the mug to Jonathon’s tied hands. His actions were deliberated—the drink had not been poisoned.
Despite the ropes binding his wrists, Jonathon managed to cup his hands around the heated mug. The warmth of its sides felt good. In the chilled storeroom, his entire body shook with cold. Peering down at the thick drink, he felt the warm steam encircle his face. The scent of chocolate and oatmeal drifted up into his senses, and Jonathon’s stomach growled.

Severino heard it. He squatted by Jonathon, checking the ropes on his ankles. “You better drink while it is still warm.”

Jonathon lifted the mug to his lips. He blew across the surface, letting more heat escape to warm him, before tasting the mixture with a slow sip. The creamy chocolate drink filled him with sweet warmth. As he swallowed, he felt it slide down his throat and into his stomach. He took a second swallow.

A hard jerk on the ropes ensnaring his feet caused Jonathon to spill some of his drink, scalding his damaged hand. “What was that for?”

Severino watched him with annoyance. “No reason.”

Jonathon sucked the thick, hot liquid off his hand but a burn mark remained. Looking at Severino, Jonathon’s anger welled but he knew he needed to control his response. “So what are you going to do with me?”

Straightening, Severino shrugged. “That is a group decision.”

Still fighting for control and not liking the answer, Jonathon’s eyes narrowed into a frown. “And what is the group planning to do with me.”

Severino gave a taunting smile. “We haven’t decided yet but when we do, you will definitely find out.”

Jonathon drew back to throw the liquid at Severino, but the Peruvian reacted quickly, reaching out his hand to cover the mug and stop his motion. “Don’t,” he warned. “That is your only food .There will be no more. I suggest you drink it and not waste it on me.”

Scars and calluses crisscrossed Severino’s brown hand. Dozens of wounds, in various stages of healing, marked the brown flesh. Jonathon’s anger melted into shock as he saw a lifetime of damage. No American hands he knew looked like that. He lifted his gaze to Severino’s face. For a moment, the two stared at each other, as if peering into each other’s thoughts.

Severino withdrew his hand, breaking away. “You have seen our faces and where we meet. That makes you very dangerous to us.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

A sour laugh escaped Severino. “That type of promise is only kept when people are scared.” His expression hardened and he leaned closer. “Are you scared, gringo?”

Jonathon looked at Severino but could not answer. He was scared, terrified.

Severino’s voice remained low, ominous. “Because you have seen us and know our faces, some want to kill you. They say that would be best. What do you think? Do you think it would be best for us to kill you and let the authorities or the wild animals find your body?”

“No.” Jonathon’s response was a swallow of fear.

“Still others want to use you to make us rich. They want to collect a huge ransom.”

Jonathon grasped at that option. “Tell them to call my dad. He’ll pay.” Fear fed his rapid words.

“Can he pay five million dollars?”

Hope dissipated. “Five million dollars?” Jonathon’s voice managed only a whisper. “But he doesn’t have five million dollars.”

“You mean you are not a wealthy American? I thought all Americans were rich.” Sarcasm filled Severino’s voice.

“No. Only a few Americans are rich. Most of us are poor.”

Now Severino laughed out his disdain. “Poor? You don’t know what poor is. Even a poor American is wealthy to a Peruvian. To you, being poor means you can’t eat at McDonald’s for lunch. Here, being poor means you eat from the garbage dump for lunch, and there are a lot of poor people in Peru! You mocoso!”

Jonathon lifted his head in anger. “I am not a brat.”

“That is right. You are a spoiled brat, mocoso engreido. In fact, you are so spoiled you are rotten!”

Now Severino lowered his voice to a whisper, anger hissing through his quiet words. “I told you to stay in bed, but you didn’t listen. You didn’t think I was worth listening to. You thought I was an ignorant, uneducated Peruvian.”

The comment surprised Jonathon, and he sensed something more. In silence he mouthed back his own rage. “You never told me why!” Near the door, the guard did not hear them.

“I told you ‘Evil’ would find you and it did.”

“You never told me the ‘Evil’ meant terrorists.”

“What did you think the ‘Evil’ was, mummies from your tunnels? At least those mummies are dead. These terrorists will make you dead whether you dad pays five million dollars or not .Because you did not listen to me, you just walked into your own funeral, you imbecíl.”

Stunned, Jonathon could not answer.

Straightening, Severino moved away from the prisoner and toward the door. As he drew alongside the guard he turned back and laughed out loud, raising his voice. “You got yourself stuck right in the middle of the Shining Path. You walked right up and knocked on their front door, and they let you in; but they won’t be letting you back out.”

30 Days: "Everything" by David Hulet

“I really like pizza,” Eliot said, chomping down on a piece of pepperoni.

“Uh, okay?” Ben scrunched his face. “That was sort of random.”

“No. I think pizza--” Eliot stopped to stare intensely at the slice in his hand. “--Pizza explains everything.”

“Is this pizza drugged?”

“No, stupid.” Eliot laughed, shoving him a little. “I’m serious!” Eliot insisted.

“Okay, what about pizza explains everything?”

“Well, take the pizza when you first open it. It’s full. It’s round. You have the whole thing to eat. At the beginning of life, you have everything to look forward to. The smells, the tastes; I mean, there’s a whole pizza!”

Ben wasn’t convinced. He still thought Eliot was being loopy.

“Then once you eat a couple of slices, it looks like pac-man.”

“Pac-man?” Ben snorted. “What does pac-man have to do with anything?”

“Pac-man is like a legend. An iconic representation of all things fun. And it was one of the first video games. Look at where we are now because of that pellet-eater!”

Ben reached for another slice. “Well, now there’s only half a pizza. How’s that representative of ‘everything?’”

“Because half a pizza looks like a smile. And when life is half gone, you’re old enough to look
back and see everywhere you’ve been and realize how much has happened. At the same time, if it hasn’t been good, you’re young enough you can make changes and get on track to get that smile; there’s half a pizza left, after all.”

“Half a pizza... or a pirate hat.” Ben stated sarcastically, turning the pizza box around.

Eliot rolled his eyes.

Ben continued. “Okay, smartie-pants, what about when there’s only one slice? Let me guess. It represents you’re about to kick the bucket, but there’s one good morsel left?” Ben shook his head. “That’s depressing.”

“No, no, no. When there’s one piece left, it like a spike or a stake. You’ve got one last shot at revenge before it’s all over.”

“That’s dumb. One slice is the shape of a triangle. That means it’s like the Triforce. Link’s
ultimate achievement. He saved the world! You know Zelda was the best game ever made. Now that’s everything explained!” Ben congratulated himself.

Eliot shook his head. “I’ll give you the triangle bit. But not for another game. We already
explained those. An upright triangle is representative of spirit, divinity, fire, life, prosperity and harmony. And the reversed triangle is denotative of mother earth, water, rain and grace. Triangles are often used for God and the holy trinity. When upright and downward triangles are put together, they form the Star of David, symbolizing balance and knowledge.”

Ben stared at Eliot in surprise. “Are we still talking about pizza?” Eliot just smiled. Ben nodded his head. “This is pretty crazy, but I like it.” He thought for a moment. “Hey, I got one.” He turned his slice of pizza around and took a few bites out of the crust. “If you bite out the middle, ad nibble the edge, it sorta looks like a heart. That’s what everything is all about, right? Love?”

Eliot nodded. “Now you see what I’m talking about. Pizza explains everything.”

30 Days: "Satan's Bad Day" by Emily Simmons

Satan’s Bad Day

By Emily Simmons

Satan woke up Thursday feeling out of sorts.  He didn’t get out of bed for breakfast but picked at his bowl of Lucky Charms until the marshmallows got soggy and turned the milk an unnatural blue-gray color.  

Hector arrived with the day’s schedule.  “Good morning!  And how’s the Lord of the Underworld today?” Hector opened the window; the rotten-egg odor and the screams of the souls drowning in eternal torment in the nearby lake always brightened the day.  He spied the devil’s uneaten cereal and listless expression.  

“Boss, what’s the matter with you?  You look like your dog just got reincarnated.”

“Nothing.  I don’t know.  I don’t feel like myself today.” Satan sighed deeply.

“Well, I’ve got today’s schedule and it’s guaranteed to cheer you up.” Hector took the cereal bowl and put it on the bedside table.  “There’s going to be a riot in Manila this afternoon.”

“Meh.” Satan looked out the window.

“Meh?!  You love riots!”

“Been there, done that, got the commemorative plate.  What else do you have?”

“A refugee boat from Cuba is going to sink and there’s only three life jackets on board.  It’s going to be chaos!” Hector grinned widely, anticipating the grisly scene.

Satan shrugged his shoulders.  “What else?”

Hector glanced at the clipboard in his hand.  “The usual – urban unrest, drug warfare, domestic violence.  The Hate-o-Meter is running pretty strong lately – must be an American election coming up.”

“If that’s all you’ve got, I’m going back to bed.”  The Father of Lies fluffed his pillows, then snuggled into them, pulling the worn comforter around his shoulders.

Hector had never seen his boss look so depressed.  He decided to pull out his big guns.  “Wait!  I’ve got a project I’ve been working on and it’s almost ready.  We could do a trial run today.  It’s called the Wheel of Havoc – spin one wheel to determine the disaster and the other wheel to pick the place.  So we can finally have a tsunami in Tulsa, or a blizzard in Bermuda.  Isn’t that great?!”

“It’s okay,” Satan said, his voice muffled by the pillows.

Hector frowned.

“But I don’t care.  In fact, I feel sorry for them.”

“Sorry for them?  Sorry for who?!  Since when does the Prince of Darkness feel sorry for anyone?”

Satan sat up in bed and looked at Hector. “For all of them.  For the refugees and the rioters and the Bermudans who will have no idea how to drive in the snow.  It’s weird, but I feel bad.”

“You are bad.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Boss, don’t talk like that.  You’re Beelzebub, the Master of All Evil! You wreak misery and despair!  You destroy faith and crush hope!  It’s what you do!”

Satan sat back against his pillows. “Maybe I’m just having a bad day.”

Hector jumped on that.  “Yeah, a bad day, that’s all this is.  You know what you need?”

“A shrink?”

“A vacation!  You’ve done nothing but work, work, work for centuries.”

“That’s true, I guess.”

“So get out of here!  Take the weekend off and by Monday you’ll be ready to stick it to those mortals again.  Plus it’ll give me time to put the finishing touches on the Wheel of Havoc.”

Satan looked wearily at his assistant, then reluctantly heaved himself out of bed.  “All right.  I’ll be at the summer house if you need me.”  He walked slump-shouldered from the room.

On the Strip, humans hurried from one air-conditioned casino to another, but on the gritty back streets of downtown Las Vegas, the Son of Perdition strolled with the August sun beating on his face.  The 110 degree heat should have warmed his spirits, but he felt as sad and confused as he did on arrival three days ago.  Sin City was one of his favorite places on Earth but the sight of old ladies dragging their oxygen tanks around as they deposited their retirement pay into slot machines didn’t make him giggle with glee like normal.  The depraved men and debased women spending Sunday afternoon in a strip club didn’t make him gloat at his masterful perversion of nature.  Instead, his stomach felt heavy and his heart felt sick.  Was this more than sympathy he felt for these humans who had so easily fallen prey to his temptations?  Was this guilt?

Satan sat on the steps of a building and put his head in his hands.  How could he go back to Hell and continue leading the souls of men to their eternal doom if he felt sorry for them?

“Something I can help you with?”  A man with solid gray hair and a face that was both hardened and kind looked down on Satan.  Here was someone who had seen life.

“I’m okay,” Satan sighed.

“Are you sure?  People I find sitting on the steps of my church are usually here for a reason, even if they don’t know it.  Looking for a Gamblers Anonymous meeting?”

“No, I’m just…having a bad day.  But I’ll be okay.”  Satan stood and started to walk away, but the man stepped in front of him.

“Wait.  Sit with me for a minute.  It’s my job to listen to people and I bet you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

Satan hesitated. “I’ve never talked to a priest before.”

The man smiled.  “Pastor.  Call me Pastor Mike.  And I won’t bite.”

Against his better judgment, the Tempter found himself sitting on the steps and pouring out his problems, albeit vaguely.  

“…and now I’m feeling lost, I guess.  The job I’ve done for ages isn’t fulfilling and I’m starting to question if I’m even doing the right thing with my life.”

Mike nodded.  “That’s a hard place to be.  Tell me, is this job something that used to speak to your soul?”

“Yes, totally.  I used to jump out of bed in the morning to see what was on the agenda.  Now everything feels rote and mechanical.”

“Your heart isn’t in it.”

“Exactly.” Satan nodded.

“How’s your relationship with God?”

Satan thought for a second.  “Well, we’re on speaking terms, but I don’t think He’d invite me over for dinner, if you know what I mean.”

Mike laughed.  “And do you think you are doing what God wants you to do with your life?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then my advice would be to stay the course.  It sounds to me like you’re more bored than anything.  Liven things up a little bit.  Add some variety.  The job has gotten stale and made you question your purpose.  I want to tell you that God has a purpose for everyone.  You have a role to play in God’s kingdom – we all do.  Maybe it’s not fun right now, but if you can focus on the important part you play in the lives of those around you, you’ll get that spark back.  And if I can paraphrase Paul, ‘…all things work together for good to them who are called according to his purpose.’ You’re a lucky man to know God’s will for you – now you’ve got to do it.”

“I have an eternal role?”

“Yes, you do,” Mike said.

“I make a difference in the world?”

Mike looked the Destroyer in the eyes.  “The world needs you.”

Satan smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Mike smiled back, satisfied with himself.  It felt good to help people get their lives back on track.

Satan stood.  “Thank you, sir.  I better be off.  I’ve got work to do.”

“Go with God, son.”

Satan turned to walk away, then turned back.  “Do you have a card or something?  I want to send you something special when I get back to work.”  Pastor Mike handed Satan his card.

Chuckling, Satan walked away, his steps feeling lighter than they had in a long time.  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and hit speed dial.
“Hector, it’s me.  I’m heading home early.  Warm up the Wheel of Havoc – I’m ready to do some damage.”

30 Days: "Upside Down" by Cathy Witbeck

30 Days: Poetry by Brooke Wilson

Sometimes I Run

Sometimes I run

not to get in shape

but to get away from all the shapes

in my life.

Sometimes I run

and I race my shadow

but I always let it win

because if I came face to face with my shadow

after all these years of chasing

what would I say to it?

Sometimes I run

until time slows down

stops

goes backward.

And I don’t want to stop running

until time has gone back far enough

to where hugs enveloped you

and cares were lighter than a robin’s egg

and death

was just a rumor

vacationing in a far-off land.

Sometimes I run

to wrap myself in the cool green mist

and soak up as much fresh life as I can,

to store for later.

Sometimes I run

until I feel the blood pound in my head

and my muscles scream

and my lungs burst

and it feels so good

to know for certain

that I am

painfully

wonderfully

beautifully

alive.

It Began with Ivy

It began with the ivy

curling up the side of a church

in a small abandoned parking lot.

It began with the rain

landing softly on the two faces,

cleansing the ivy.

It began with two hands.

Ten interlocked fingers

growing together gently.

It began with the dance,

more beautiful than music,

quieter than the rain.

It began with hope.

Braided fingers twirling in slow circles,

fresh water kissing their faces.

It began with whispers

from an inclination, feeling, need,

conviction.

Eventually, the entwined fingers

and cooled wet faces

danced on from the parking lot.

But the church,

and the ivy,

and the hope

Are there yet.

Brooke Wilson - liningthecloudswithsilver.blogspot.com