The Eighth Deadly Sin or Who Makes The Rules Around Here Anyway?



Post A Day Prompt: Eighth Deadly Sin

It was something to think about: If you could create the Eighth Deadly Sin what would it be?

I felt like a kid in a candy store.

People do so many idiotic things that you could nail them for. I mean where to start?

Okay. Deadly Sin should do what it says. If you commit this sin the consequences are going to be deadly. Plus you’re for sure going to Hell.

So if I could pick a new one I’d stay with the theme. It’d have to be something people do at least one of every single day : wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony.

Ok. Here it is.


If you laugh you go to Hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200.00

 No more laughing when your trying to belittle someone and that laugh, that smile is just one more knife for you to stick in their eye and twist. No more laughing at jokes or movies or happy memories.

And if you do. Boom. You’re in a cuddle puddle with demons. And not the cute ones like they have on the TV show Supernatural.

And if you think so I’d agree: Yes indeed that is twisted and mean.

But isn’t that what the Deadlies are? Don’t we all get angry?  Love to eat too much ( Hello Christmas and Thanksgiving ) Aren’t there days when you just don’t want to wear anything but yesterday’s t-shirt and your favorite ripped up jeans or sweatpants? And on those days when you’re not fitting into your favorite outfit  don’t tell me you wouldn’t  sell a kidney to look like someone on tv.

It’s okay. We’ve all been there.

Seriously. Who decided to make being human not just a sin, but a deadly one?

But this is my blog and my post and my response to the prompt and I have made Laughter The Eighth Deadly Sin.

You just laughed at that didn’t you?

Uh Oh. Uh Oh For You To The Max.


Temporarily Yours

cemetery iowa

Before he died my friend and I talked about writing.

To be exact, he told me he was dying and then  he told me he had about a year if he was lucky and then we talked about writing.

As a writer and in his conversations he didn’t toss off clever phrases and he didn’t put little spins on the language. He didn’t play with the language to impress.

What had was the gift ot undertand  people. He understood how we were connected together through our experiences  and friendships. He could map them and tell stories about them.

He could have been another F Scott Fitzgerald I think.

I was not in a position at the time to do much writing. But what I was still able to do was face death.  I hate death and I won’t let it chase me away from being near the ones I love who I am soon to lose or have lost. So sure, I can talk about the future with a dying man.

So like  I said we were talking about writing.

He wanted to write the next great American Novel and I said I was writing a story about Werewolves because I wasn’t brave enough to write about Racism. I told him I didn’t think it would fly because every time I brought it up I heard the same thing. ” I’m not racist. I hate everybody. Racism doesn’t exist anymore.”

” You know who says that? ” I asked my friend.

My friend, who was a big burly Scotsman who could tell one hell of a good story said. ” Sure. Racists. The ones with their heads up their…”

” Yeah well. I’ve already been tracked by Homeland Security and harassed by White Supremacists . It’s not fun. I’d like to avoid it in the future. So. I’m going Rod Serling and I’m going to write about Werewolves instead.”

” So what’s the problem? You tell a good story about monsters.”

” I think my problem is it should be about racists. Human ones. And the story isn’ t going to let me make it into something else. So I set it aside.”

” Don’t. Write it Anita. Whatever it takes. Just write it.”

My friend died a few months later.

I am still trying to finish that story.

Because I can.

And I won’t stop until I stop.