On H.P. Lovecraft's birthday: For all he birthed into this world.

"Hey, Zelly, guess what?" I said shortly after I had woken up and checked the date. Nightshift forever messes with my sense of time. "It's H.P. Lovecraft's birthday."

He blinked and stared at me blankly. "WHO?"

"Oh, that's right. You never knew him as that. You knew him as that weird guy who used to live above your garage back in R'lyeh."

He sat up excitedly and flapped his wings a few times. "OH! YOU MEAN HOWARD! HOW'S HE DOING?"

I didn't have the heart to respond with "Buried somewhere in Rhode Island," so I suggested instead that he make him a birthday card.

Zelly quickly got to work. I let him use my good writing notebook and the sole art supply I could dig up: A red marker. The text is in ancient cuneiform. I had my doubts that even Mr. Lovecraft could read it, so I added a translation -- you know, just in case.

Zelly was awfully proud of his work, and you know what? So am I. I think it's a touchingly sentimental tribute from a thing that's destined to devour us all.

And, well, who knows? Maybe in some strange way, H.P. Lovecraft's soul resides underneath the waves in a dusty, unused room above the two-car garage in R'yleh, where he mostly keeps to himself. Every so often, he comes out, gives Cthulhu's kids some candy, and tells them a few stories. That's how I like to think, anyway.