The Problems with Ritual Suicide

Thoughts on weakness, bullying, and parenting… This post could have been written by me. Head over to Stories That Must Not Die and show your support and share your thoughts on the newest article:

Stories that Must Not Die

Usually vomiting makes one feel better, yet sitting in a pool of warm alcohol that I had just violently expelled out of what felt like every orifice on my face only made my head spin faster. Surely, this would get me out of this torture my brother’s drinking friends called Caps.

“Did you just throw up your last round?” asked one of my blurry competitors.

“Yeah, I think I’m done,” I answered the identical twin images in front of me.

“You softie. Now you have to drink two shots in the next round,” yelled another competitor.

Then the whole table chanted a derogatory word at me as they placed their hands on their heads in the shape of female genitalia.

The sad part of the story is that these are men that I considered my friends. For many men, this is a common experience—we anticipate compassion, yet we are…

View original post 1,039 more words


The President looked around the room, catching the eyes of the nervous, the stoic, the despondent.  In the end, the decision was his alone to make.  Punching in the code, and running through the rest of the verification protocols, he armed the device, and with a quick word of “good luck” he threw the switch.


Herb was one heck of a technical wizard, but he was also extremely lazy.  So, he had known about a potential defect in the First Alert system for quite some time but hadn’t bothered to getting around to fix it.  He’d planned on finally adjusting the programming that morning, but the accident on the expressway had stalled his progress towards work.


Rachel swerved to avoid the speeding bus, spilling her morning cuppa in the process.  As she cursed and reached for her glove box to pull out a handful of napkins she took her eyes off the road.  And, so, she completely missed the red lights stamp on as traffic halted in front of her.  The sound of crunching metal alerted her to the problem before she even felt the impact, but it was far too late and then she knew nothing more.


Carl pressed his foot into the floor, trying to coax the bus to go a bit faster as he accelerated onto the expressway.  He was late, again.  A bus full of kids late for school.  It was unacceptable.  He knew that, but he couldn’t help his nature.  He’d seen Jacob walking towards the bus stop as he’d wound his way through the residential neighborhood, so he’d known the child would show up eventually.  He just hadn’t expected Jacob to show up so late.


Jacob skipped and laughed as he watched the morning bloom around him.  It was going to be another beautiful spring day.  He saw his bus pass him and knew he needed to hurry up so he broke into a jogging run, carefully placing each elongated stride to avoid stepping on the plethora of cracks in the sidewalk.  And then a butterfly, gorgeous in oranges and purples, erupted with a flutter of lazy darting movements off a fence to his right and his feet skidded to a halt.  He was transfixed by the beauty of the moment and completely forgot about school and the waiting bus.


Thus proving that the movement of single butterfly’s wings can change the course of the world.

in the middle of the night

I’m awake again.  Why am I awake again?  It’s dark.  It’s very dark.  I can sense that mom and dad are nearby but they aren’t moving.  I hope they are okay.  What if they aren’t?  That.  Would.  Be.  Terrible!

*whimper whimper*

Oh, okay they are stirring, so they are okay.  But, they still aren’t awake.  And I’m still awake.  Why am I awake?  Why aren’t they awake?  Something must be wrong.  Something must be horribly awfully wrong!


Oh, they are okay.  Mom is comforting me now.  And Dad has rolled over completely so he’s okay too.  And they are both awake.  That’s good.  Everything is good.  I feel okay now.  I’m not sure why I’m awake.  I guess I could go back to sleep.  Maybe I’ll just close my eyes again…


Uh oh.  The little hairless kitty is awake again.  How come the two big hairless cats aren’t better at telling when he is awake.  I can tell.  I know my sister can tell too.  I think the big hairless cat that pets us can almost sense when he wakes up, but not like we can.  The big hairless cat that feeds us is pretty much useless.  But, he’s always up first, and he always makes sure we have food and clean water, so I guess he’s not entirely worthless.

Though, if one of them doesn’t wake up soon, the little hairless kitty is going to start screaming.  He has already started squirming and making that weird mewing sound.  He sure doesn’t sound like a cat.  But, then neither do the big cats most of the time.  But, that’s off point.  One of them needs to get up now, or…  Too late.  There he goes.



*licking paws*

*slinking off the bed to disappear into the darkness*

I think I’ll find someplace else to sleep for a bit.  I’ll come back so I can snuggle up with the big hairless cats again after they get the little one settled down and sleeping again.  I wonder where my sister is?  Maybe I should go find her.


This bit of silliness brought to you in part by the Weekly Writing Challenge, my ten month old son, and one of my two cats.  The challenge this week was to “consider things from a different point of view — to walk a mile in someone’s shoes. Leave your moccasins and bunny slippers at the door, and tell us a tale from a fully-immersed perspective that is not your own.”

I opted to tackle the challenge using a combination of two of the suggested prompts: I picked a family member (or two) and went with split perspectives.  I probably went a bit sillier with the whole thing than was being asked for, as I didn’t really dive all that deep into how my characters view the world around them.  But, I did offer a glimpse into how they could see the very specific occasion of my son waking up the house in the middle of the night.  So, hopefully it’s close enough that nobody will call me on it.

What about you?  Did you link up to this week’s writing challenge?  Are you normally adept at seeing things in your life from different perspectives?  Do you think I stayed within the guidelines of the challenge?

A Ten-Month-Old’s Letter To Santa

This was so funny, and rang so true for us, that the Queen and I were laughing reading it until tears ran down our cheeks. True story. Read. Laugh. Enjoy.

The Ugly Volvo

Dear Santa,

 I am a ten-month-old baby and I write because my mother has been sending out my “Christmas List” to people, and her list does not in any way represent the things I really want.  I could give two s#*ts about receiving stacking cups.

And I know you’re ready to make the joke about ten month-old babies and how all we want is the wrapping paper and the boxes.  Touché, SantaTouché.   We do, of course, want those things.  But I have a number of additional things I want very badly.

My list is enclosed below.  Have a lovely holiday.

-Ten Month-Old Baby

*          *          *

A Comprehensive List of The Things I Want For Christmas:

*          *          *

1.) This Laptop Cord


I want this laptop cord more than I have ever wanted anything.   Please.  I also want the power strip with…

View original post 609 more words