lie

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Question For The Day 4-7-2021

Is it possible to live a normal life and never tell a lie?

Not even a little white lie. Why would you want to do this, you ask. Well, think of how much better the world would be if there were no lies.

“Why did you attack my country?”

“I had a bit of bad beef.”

“Why don’t you like me?”

“You are a bit too outgoing for me.”

Think of it. No lies forever. For anything. For anybody. They say the truth hurts, but in the end it hurts less than the lie.

The real reason I’m asking this is because I have been trying over the last years of my life to live a lie-less life. And, I have to admit, it is hard. I think as human being we are programed to lie because we don’t want others to see what we consider the dark, the bad, the weak, inside each of us.

After all, what do little white lies hurt?

“A lovely dress.”

“I love your hair.”

“You did fantastic up there.”

All white lies under the assumption the dress is not lovely, the hair is horrible and the person bombed in front off whatever audience was present. But are they bad, these lies? They spare the other person’s feeling, but at what expense? Would we be better to tell the honest truth each and every time?

I find the white lies coming to my tongue even when I know they are white lies, when I know they are wrong, and when I know the truth would be a better option. It is so much easier to just blur out the white lie and move on. No hurt feeling. No tears. No explaining.

But is it right?

The big lies are something else and I have a much easier time avoiding them. When I make a big blunder, I own up to it and move on, no matter how dark and bad and weak it makes me feel. I can stomach the big stuff, but the little stuff is still too hard. We all want to be liked and accepted. Would we be liked if we always told the truth? In today’s world, I think not.

Sadly, it is true. We don’t want people who tell us the honest truth. We want the white lies and the mis-truths, the lies of omission. Who wants to be told their dress is horrible or their hair is a wreak or they bombed.

I don’t. Do you?

So then how do we handle the little white lies? Because in the end, they do hurt us. Eventually we find out the truth and it hurts. Truth or not, we don’t always want the truth. It is more comfortable, in the moment, to live with the white lie.

But, what would it be like? To live in a lie-less world. Would we hate each other more or less? Would we fight more or less? Would we kill each other at the alarming rate of the modern world?

We will never know the answers to these questions until, if, we banish all the lies. It is a beautiful dream. Do you think it is possible?

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Sunday Photo Fiction 12-19-2017

220 12 December 17th 2017

He’d been walking forever, carrying his bed-roll, sack at his side. Had ceased to wonder why he’d been cast in the role of a hobo. Wasn’t a normal occupation for a snowman.  Look at Frosty. But then, he wasn’t Frosty. Wasn’t even of the same snow.

The world shook and the snow started to fly, distorted face starting down at him from above.

He’d gotten used to that, too, though he still didn’t like being watched, not even by the huge Snowman in the sky. Watching for what, he didn’t know or care.

He just carried his bed-roll and sack, and walked. Waddled really, not having feet.

Damn Frosty. Couldn’t the Big Guy have given him shiny black boots, too?

As snow slowly settling around him, the world gave another jerk, a tilt and then he, and the world, were falling.  Exploding. He found himself lying on his back, world draining away around him. He couldn’t breathe.

“Johnny! Look what you did. You broke the globe! How many times….”

Sweeping up the mess, Mother tossed the shattered remains into the trash bin.

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Sunday Photo Fiction 12-6-2017

219 12 December 3rd 2017

He watched the hotel draw closer as the boat slipped through the water, studying the almost-blank face of the building. To be honest, it looked more like an apartment building on the steadily-growing-seedy side of town than a five-star hotel.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, coming up beside him and sliding an arm around his waist.

He’d seen better, but didn’t say so. This was special to her, even if it wasn’t to him. It should be special to him, but he just couldn’t make it so in his own heart.

Truthfully, he loved her but he didn’t much like her anymore. Her neediness; her desperation to fit into his world when she didn’t. The band tolerated her because of him.

And that was a bad sign.

Because he loved her, he’d arranged this last weekend. It was gonna hurt like hell to walk away, but he would. Family was more important and the band was his family.

Turning to her, he smiled, determined to give her one more happy memory.

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Sunday Photo Fiction 11-25-2017

“Did you know praying mantises used to be worshiper as Gods?”

“God of bugs?”

“The harvest.”

“Harvest? Don’t they eat the harvest or something?”

He shook his head. “That’s grasshoppers. They eat insects.”

“Others insects?”

“And each other.”

“So why did they worship them as Gods?”

“Because, see it’s front arms. It looks like it is praying.”

“Well, sort of.”

“It does.”

They were silent for a few moments, watching the insect on the wall; filled with the wonder of life all around them, thick with the scent of fresh-cut hay and horses.

The shadow of their father fell over them, hands folded in prayer.

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Sunday Photo Fiction 11-14-2017

 

Mission Scrappy-Scramble

“Pssst.”

“Quiet.”

Rodney moved his binoculars back and forth.  “They’ll hear you.”

“Who’s they?”

“You know, them.”

“So who’s them?” They had a they and a them and that was too confusing for him.

Rodney growled under his breath. “Doesn’t matter.  Just hush.”

They both fell silent as Rodney scanned some more.

“All right,” Rodney finally said.  “After this monster, run! And, Andy, I mean run your tail off.”

“It’s an awful long way, Rodney.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure. Just… get ready….. One….”

A huge gust of wind almost dumped them backwards as the monster flew past, metal sides gleaming in the sun.

“Two….”

The last of its wheels passed.

“Three!”

Grabbing Andy by the scruff of his neck, Rodney threw him out of the sewer drain. With all the speed two rats could muster, they fled across the pavement, reaching the far side and diving into a ditch as another monster flashed behind them. Collapsed in the grass to catch their breath.

“Are we going to the feast now, Rodney?”

Rodney slowly rose on his four feet.  “Yeah, we are. Come on.”

Rodney led the way as they scampered through the woods towards the houses beyond.

 

 

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Sunday Photo Fiction 11-7-2017

“Don’t,” he said, glancing over at the camera.

“But…”

“Pick up the camera and I’m gone.”

“But nobody will believe me.”

“Tough shit.”

“Bastard.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I bet.”

Shrug.

“So, tell me what happened.”

“Pinkert lied.”

“About what?”

“Promises. Platform, whatever you wish to call it.”

“And….”

“And, his past.”

“What about his past?”

“I’m not sure I want to talk about that.”

“Isn’t that what you called me to talk about?”

A long silence.

“I suppose.”

“So talk.”

“He …. abuses little boys.”

“Were you one of those boys?”

A longer silence.

Finally, “Yes.”

“So….”

“No more details.”

Silence.

“If I hadn’t come forward, nobody would know, now would they?”

“The political atmosphere is pretty vicious these days. He would have been found out eventually.”

“Eventually isn’t good enough.”

“You have proof?”

“Proof?”

“Without details to check, I need proof for my Editor to print this.”

“Pictures?”

“Pictures are good if they are authentic.”

“They’re authentic, all right.”

They both rose, neither offering to shake hands.

Darkness and shame walked one way.

Pulitzer Prizes and glory walked the other.

 

It seems fitting this conversation came up today, Election Day. Make of that what you may:) Thanks for reading.

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JSW Prompt April 10, 2017

Feel free to jump in and tackle the prompt yourself. Please keep your posts under 300 words. If you link back to this post, I will re-blog your post to my site.
379de43224356cbee129641b0882a5af

 

I’ve always wondered how one’s life can flash before one’s eyes in six minutes, but it can. Doesn’t seem possible but I was there. I knew.

Six minutes. Did that mean my life hadn’t been worth more than six minutes? Or is that just the time angels give you to make amends, get your name upgraded from hell to heaven? Or downgraded.

It’s like there is a suspension of belief, those six minutes when you can’t accept that, yes, you are going to die. That all the pain and suffering of your life is almost over. No one can hurt you any more. You’ve got hurt enough to last six minutes and longer, but all you have is six minutes.

Still, you have time to regret those things you did wrong, and those you did right. I like to think I did more for the right than the wrong, but I know better. I’d killed people, people I didn’t even know. People with sons and daughters; wife and parents and friends.

Killed them for no reason except the man in power told me so. Ship out and kill some of those bastards. Kill as many as I could, truth be told.

Now, I know better. Killing doesn’t make things right. Not for the winners or the losers. Whoever said war solved problems didn’t know shit about war. You can’t solve your problems with fighting. It just makes more fighting. More death.

I’m about gone now. The pain is gone completely and I can feel my body going, death rolling up my frame like ocean waves.

The ocean. I used to love to go to the ocean. Swim. Play on the sa…..