(Based on the prompt "The Heat was On!")

The heat was on! It was on the deflector shields, on the connecting walkway between the engine room and the control deck, even on the robotic cat hissing at passing humanoids.

Captain Kirkland slid down his control chair, his drenched shirt and pants no match for the rich Corinthian leather. “Boy, it’s soooo hot….”

The crew sighed. “How hot is it, Captain?”

“It’s soooo hot, the shaved ice in my Margarita melted and took the salt with it.”

Weak smiles from the crew as they continued their work.

Lieutenant Shock stepped forward and grasped the railing to avoid skating on the sweat which covered the floor. “Captain, it was already risky enough taking on the first mission to Mercury, but if I can be frank, your idea of checking out the Sun was ill-advised.”

“Noted, Lieutenant. Hey, did you know that your ears are down now? You look like one of those lop-eared rabbits.”

Shock returned to his station, muttering something in Vulcan.

Kirkland called out “Sick Bay.” Lights flashed.

“Sick Bay, here,” said a tired voice.

“Skeleton, can you do something about this heat affecting us all?”

“Dammit, Captain. I’m a doctor, not an HVAC repairman. We need to turn around. We’re running out of SPF 3 million.”

The captain shook his head.

“Ok…Boy... You try to do people a favor. I was gonna buy each of you a Kohrs custard and then we were going to have a Skee-ball tournament.”

Kirkland waved to his navigator. “Solo, reverse engines and get us back toward Mercury.”

The crew cheered. 
​
The captain nodded. “Ok, Just don’t expect Manco and Manco on Mercury. We’ll be lucky if they even have clean restrooms there."

Every year, young men and women finish high school and join the military. They’re sent to hot, inhospitable places for training, then often posted to equally difficult environs.

Their willingness to postpone the chance to join the workforce and create a family is appreciated by a public who, mostly, has not made a similar sacrifice.

We, as a civilian society, stand in awe of their selflessness while wondering ourselves if we had the right stuff to have made that decision at such an early age.

Others join police and fire departments, become EMTs, or volunteer for service to society’s less fortunate. This is to be commended, but still pales to what these men and women do, for little pay, and sometimes disrespect.

On Memorial Day, we focus on lost military members, some not even citizens, who gave all as their gift to country and man.

There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. Imagine doing so for people you’ve never met, and those who don’t understand the decision to do so.

Yet, those hardened by life, and worrying about what comes next, still stop when they see those proudly wearing the uniform, and pay respect to them for choosing to serve so that we may be free to complain about our own lives.

Memorial day should never be an afterthought, like Labor Day, or even Christmas, sometimes. Here’s hoping it will always be celebrated for what it is: honoring the passing of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
​

Sam trudged through the sand, the grains assaulting his ankles. Thin flipflops protected the bottom of his feet while the big toes battled the long ones for social separation from the lesser digits.

He stopped, made a show of dropping chairs, cooler, and umbrella, and called to his spouse. “We’re here, Lana.”

Absorbed in her latest romance novel, his wife missed the warning and back-ended Sam, who toppled onto the white solar-heated quartz.

He grabbed a beach towel, stuffed the end into his mouth, and mumbled something that implied maternal intimacy.

“Sorry, Sam.” She looked around. “You know there are better spots.”

Removing the towel, he took a breath, and started setting up their afternoon residence. Lana picked up her turbochair, made sure the cup holder, book pocket, reading light, and overhead awning were sand-free, and sat, resuming her literary adventure.

---

The umbrella slid into the sand only after Sam applied his full weight. Lana repositioned herself for full protection, leaving her husband scraps of less- effective shade. He found a beer disguised as a vitamin water, and flopped onto his metal and plastic Lazyboy for the day.

“Sam, Fudgy Wudgy Man at three o’clock,” Lana called out.

He turned quickly and collapsed, chair and all, onto the solar surface. “Just kidding,” she laughed. Sam threw the towel over his head and muttered, not appreciating the joke.

“Now, Sam, loosen up. It’s a lovely day, the water looks calm, and we have nowhere else to be. Put on some sunscreen, and take a little snooze.”

---

Sam woke up, fully exposed to the flames of heat bearing down on the beach. Lana, comfortable in shade, looked over her husband. “Shudda moved, Sam. Hey, lookit your feet.”

He examined the area he missed with the Coppertone. Both extremities were pink on the front and toes. He opened another vitamin water and chugged.
​
Lana leaned back and closed her eyes. “Isn’t this fun, Sam. Don’t you wish we could do this every day?”

I always believed in taking the time to do a job properly. Frankly, my tendency to procrastinate, fed into this. However, we are all creatures of our surroundings, whether physical or  emotional, so its ok to make use of the good and bad building blocks to meet your goals.

I job-hopped early in my career, as did many of my colleagues, until I found an environment that would offer the rewards and satisfaction I sought. Being the youngest of my peers, I had the chance to build a foundation, refine my work, and learn from their experience.

These were bright men and women, who focused on achieving a goal through patience, a deliberate approach, and trusted methods. They taught me to see the forest for the trees, and encouraged an understanding of the goal, rather than the quick fix.

I carried these lessons onto subsequent jobs, and tried to impart this to those just starting up. Better to let the rabbit wear itself out and trip over unseen obstacles. The tortoise will do just fine.
​

The ocean pulls and pushes,

Depositing it’s treasure of crabs and seaweed.

Ready for human footprints which it will wash away like our sins.

Seagulls ponder the better treat, shells or popcorn thrown into the air.

Humans shop for fudge, t-shirts, and postcards.
​
Take your time, says the ocean, I’ll be here for a while.

(A limerick, haiku, epigram, and ode wrapped in a sonnet)
 
There once was a young man from Sewell

Who thought being a poet would rule
A haiku I’ll write

Late thru this thunderous night

Pen and pulp shall dual.

So, he scribbled and wrote

And changed, then steted

Till his hand was numb and his fingers bented.

A poet I’ll be, he thought, evermore.

He looked at his pen

Oh, mightier than the sword

Laying waste to evil with the written word.

Then switching to love and flying like a bird.
​
Now, I’ll end the sonnet, the final jewel.

During the eighties and early nineties, I would frequently travel to Munich to integrate my programming changes with our Siemens counterparts. Sometimes, on evenings and weekends, I walked the city and surrounding burgs, taking in the atmosphere, beer, and fatty meats.

I had instruction in German, and could speak well enough in restaurants, church, department stores, and beer halls. My German counterparts even suspected that I knew more of the language than I really did.

Common sense prevailed when faced with situations calling for lingual clarity. One later winter evening, I put on my worn coat and OJ-like woolen cap, and took a midnight stroll.

All was well until I wandered a little too far from my hotel. I was in a dark, uninhabited section of town when stopped by the Polizei. Two officers emerged from a van, which was empty except for a derelict in the back. Great, I thought, they’re rounding up suspicious characters tonight. Just my luck, since I look homeless.

The first officer asked me for my papers (in German) while the second stood guard. I immediately went into clueless visitor mode and told them (in German) that I only spoke English.

The first officer asked for my passport (in English), I produced the document and hoped for a quick dismissal. The officer leafed through the booklet. “Why don’t you have permission to stay? You’ve been here for six months.”

I explained that I had only been there a month, but that passport control hadn’t stamped my document when I had returned to the U.S. last year.

The officer seemed sympathetic. “Stay there,” he said, then returned to the van and climbed back to talk to the derelict and show him my passport. Apparently, this was an undercover detective. After some give and take, the officer returned and told me I had to go with them to the police station until I proved that I was only there for a month.

“How can I prove at midnight, in a police station, that I’ve only been here for a month.”

The officer pondered this. “Stay there,” he said and returned to discuss this with his superior (i.e. the derelict).

I remembered my boss telling me once that if I was ever stopped and questioned on my length of stay, I could show them my plane ticket. He was in town then and staying in the same hotel.

The office returned. “You have to go with us.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “ My plane ticket is in my hotel room. I can show it to you to prove I’ve only been here a month.”

“Stay there.” Another visit with the brains of the operation. He returned. “You have to come with us to the station.”

The derelict was driven away in another van. They loaded me into the back and took off. The two officers chatted. The one who had spoken to me turned and said, “We’ll take you to your hotel. If you can prove you’ve only been here a month, we’ll let you go.”

So there I was being lead into the hotel, an officer on both sides. Would my boss see me? What would he say? He wasn’t in sight. Thank God.

The officers talked to the front-desk clerk, who knew me. He vouched for my story and the officers let me go. I returned to my room, but couldn’t sleep, convinced every time the elevator door opened, that it was the police, who had changed their mind and were ready to batter down the door and lead me away.

I finally slept for about a half hour, dressed, and went to the lobby to have breakfast with my boss and the site rep who was also staying in the hotel. I told my story, which they thought was hilarious.

“We’re you wearing that goofy hat,” asked the rep. I nodded.

“I knew it,” he said laughing.
​
Moral of the story: Dress better for midnight strolls in Europe, and don’t expect a sympathetic ear from your peers.

George froze as his nose fell off, landed on the ground, and was carried away by a squirrel.

Martha gasped, causing a tooth to dislodge and avalanche down her torso. It hit her belly button, and both rolled to her feet.

Georgie chuckled at his parent’s misfortune, but then cried when his arm was bitten off by a dog.

A projectile smacked George on the forehead knocking off his hat. “Darn neighborhood kids,” George mumbled.

Martha nodded, and lost another tooth. The wind picked up and her scarf blew away, landing in an Azalea.
​
The sun came out and warmed the chill from the air. Then it got hot.

“Daddy, I don’t like this,” said Georgie.

“Don’t worry, son. Lean closer to your Mom and me. We’ll protect each other.”

George, Martha, and Georgie melted into each other’s arms and awaited the peaceful completion of their time together.

“The people are disappearing, Dad,” said the little girl. “That’s so sad.”
​
“I know, Honey. But, it will snow again tomorrow and we’ll build a new family.”
  

L is for licorice, the red ones, if you please

O is for Oreos, double-stuffed weakens the knees

V is for Valentines, let’s all raise our A1Cs

E is for every day, the best time to hug your squeeze.

Put them all together, they spell Mother. No, wait a minute, ‘tis Love for which we hark
​
This poetry isn’t easy. Better to check with Hallmark

Every time in entered my house through the front storm door, I was reminded of the paint ripped free due to a taped-on placard left by a plumbing inspector.

The underlying base paint was white and not far off in tone from what I applied to the door initially. Still, it mocked me, this careless bureaucratic gesture, as I continued to ignore the defaced entranceway.

During the imposed lockdown, I was looking for some task that I hadn’t planned on, to point to as my effort at staying engaged with household life. The door seemed a good candidate.

I have lousy luck matching paint to existing work. My grand plan of maintaining a spreadsheet of used paints never materialized. So, I rummaged through my vast store of half-empty paint cans, hoping to remember which I had used for the door.

The paint closest to my reach was Antique White. Could this be the matching color? The door looked more beige. Still, I swiped this paint on the damaged section to see how close it came. Then I saw other sections needing a touch up and covered those also. I stepped back to judge. No match, and now it looked like Zorro had decided to mark my house as his.

Checking paint hues at the hardware store, I found a color card containing both Sundance and Banana tones. I ordered a quart of Sundance, clearly stating that I didn’t want Banana. I added a coat of the concoction to my door and stood back to admire my work. Rats! A Banana door.

I opened the Antique White again, and decided on a solution. Adding a white coat to the Banana might give me a match. Close, but the Banana bled through. I added another white coat. Somewhat better, but still not quite there. The next day, I added a third cover. Much closer now.

Still, four coats of paint to cover a complete door to fix a section maybe two inches by six, seemed like overkill.

But the beast had been unleashed. What else could I paint? I remembered that when the attic stairs were installed years ago, the wood section, which sat flush to the ceiling, was unpainted. At that time, I ignored advice from the handyman to paint it to match the ceiling. Now was my chance. A few minutes of labor and this task would also fall by the wayside.
​
Armed with the white, and planning to leave more paint on the door than my pants or sneakers, I studied the section. Painting it directly overhead like Michelangelo at the Sistine Chapel, was quickly ruled out. Instead, I pulled the door open to a 45-degree angle and painted while insuring that it didn’t spring back.

Funny thing about unpainted wood. I sucks in paint like an Eagles fan does beer on a Fall Sunday. It took me about three coats, and an hour of twisting and turning, before the door was more white than wood. Still, I had finished and conquered one more delayed task.

After collecting the newspapers used as a drop cloth, I carefully went outside making sure not to trip and spill the remaining paint.

I stood in the fresh air, proud of my accomplishments. There was still a little Antique White left. I pondered what I should paint next? Wait a minute, where was that damn cat that keeps walking over my car?