Self-Centred Situations – Dead Deer

Self-Centred Situations

They say it is selfish. Cowardly, the easy option. An act of revenge. What wicked perversion of reality is this? People who have never been close, never stared it in the eye. Surely taking this viewpoint, merely to absolve ones-self, is the truly self-centred situation, the belief that your own being is at once more and less important than any other.


To be. To be here. To be here, not.


Meanwhile the truly easy option, perhaps, is to take that step. Convince yourself, with the aid of literature and song, that it is a noble, difficult thing to do, to move on, to start again. This is as selfish as it gets. No matter who or what is damaged around you, your ‘moving on’ is more important. Leaving what behind? Well, do not look back, only to sigh at how hard a thing it was for you to create that destruction, how hard it is on you. Yet you do not suffer, you continue, leave the wreckage behind for others. You remain.


So who cares the least? The one who stays, or the one who goes. To be, not, now that is an act of bravery. To be, elsewhere, that is the act of the spineless. To do that, yet berate those who take the difficult step into darkness; what manner of arrogance can that take? It is beyond me.


It is beyond me.

Today I wrote between 11:45  and 11:55. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.


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Mar 3rd – Panicky and peculiar

March 3rd – Panicky and peculiar


They were odd names for dogs.

To be fair, they would be odd names for anything, but they were particularly odd names for dogs, and more than once she had regretted their decision to let their five-year-old daughter, Maisie, name them. Twin huskies, they were neither particularly panicky or peculiar, but that was what Maisie had wanted, and that was what they had promised, and now here she was, with two officially registered and microchipped dogs: Panicky and Peculiar.

She dreaded people coming up to her when she was walking them, and asking what their names were. She tried to laugh it off, dismiss it with an Oh, it was my daughter that named them…they’re her dogs really, but it never really worked out the way she wanted it to, and she’d scuttle off, embarrassed, conversation over. The dogs, it has to be said, seemed blissfully unaffected.

She’d tried shortening them. Pan worked, that was actually a good dog name, or it would have been if Panicky, potentially Pan, had been male. But she wasn’t. She was unequivocally female, and Pan was a male name, wasn’t it? A god of some sorts, she seemed to remember, with some pipes or other, frolicking in the woods and generally making a nuisance of himself. Pan would be an excellent name for a male dog, but for this one? She wasn’t so sure.

And then there was the other one, who was male, but what could you do with Peculiar? Pec? Was that even a word? Muscles, or something, wasn’t it? Which would kind of work, but was…well…a little peculiar. Which wasn’t really what she was after, in the circumstances. Culi was possible, but a weird diversion from the original, and couldn’t that be seen as offensive, somehow? Coolie? She would have to look it up.

She made herself a coffee, and sat in the kitchen, the dogs resting quietly at her feet. She would take them out again later, but for now they were happily worn out after the long morning walk, and would let her have her coffee in peace, which she was grateful for. They really were beautiful dogs, and she had no regrets, other than the whole thing with the names, which she was sure she would solve somehow.

Her morning reverie, though, was interrupted at that moment by the postman, ringing the doorbell. At the sound of the bell one of the dogs immediately shot up, dashed towards the door, ran back again, turned, ran to the door, stopped, looked around, and ran back into the kitchen. The other was trying to get into the washing machine.

Panicky and peculiar it was, then.


Inspired by a prompt from here.