Congratulations on Catching All Those Fireflies!

When you place the last one in the jar and seal it, you'll shake the jar ever so gently.  The bugs inside will flit about suddenly, lighting up their tails, shimmering briefly inside their confines.  You'll smile as you walk from your backyard to your daughter's bedroom and open the jar, permitting the fireflies to float out one by one until they fill the room with furtive spurts of luminescence.  You'll step back to a corner to watch your daughter awake, slowly at first, suddenly sitting up, rapt, upright, potently aware of the world around her.

She'll smell the prey.

Her tongue will roll over her lips, exposing rows of pointed teeth, perfectly formed for cracking the carapaces of various insects.  She'll roll to the balls of her feet with unexpected agility and suddenly leap to the ceiling, where she'll land, hands sticking to the top of the room, firefly clutched between her teeth.  She'll bite down just a little, applying just enough pressure to burst the bug's torso and send a spurt of cascading juice down her jaw.  The juice will not glow, but it will make your daughter look all the more animalistic until her too-long tongue swirls out from her mouth again to clear the giblets of bug off her face.

The ritual of this practice is unpleasant, but it's a lot more pleasant than apologizing to your warlock father in law.  So each day you catch fireflies and each night you release them in her room, not for comfort or succor, but for sustenance, because even if she is a horrible monster from a hell dimension, she's still your little girl.

Congratulations on Catching All Those Fireflies!

Congratulations on Speaking Your Mind!

At 7:37 PM tonight, seated around your dinner table with your wife to your left and your daughters arranged to your right, counterclockwise according to age, you’re going to slam your glass of milk down so hard it shatters and splatters everyone there.

“GrrrrAAAAHHHHH!” you’ll scream.

Your wife and children will stare at you, befuddled.

“Honey?’ your wife will ask, over the growing tide of your wordless scream.

“AHHHHHHHHHH!” you’ll continue, still trying to make your point.

“Was it the casero-“ your wife will begin before you hurl a plate at her head and she leaps out of the way just in time, leaving the plate to crash against the wall behind her.

“Jesus Christ!” she’ll say, taking care to capitalize each word.

“Mom!” your younger daughter will say, concerned for her well being.

“Dad!” your older daughter will say, impressed that you still possess the passion necessary for physical violence.

“RAAAAAAAAHHHH!” you’ll continue to shout, until everyone at the table quiets down and just stares at you, still covered in milk, waiting to see what you break next.

You’ll let the scream die and then take a few deep breaths, giving them a chance to interrupt you just in case you don’t really have their attention. When they don’t you’ll speak in a collected tone, your brief, crucial piece.

“I’m gay,” you’ll say.

Your wife and daughters will look at one another. The older one will snicker and the younger one will look puzzled.

“What’s gay mean?” she’ll ask. Her older sister will snicker and whisper in her ear and her eyes will widen. “Oh!” she’ll exclaim. “Like Uncle Teddy!”

She’ll be referring to Theodore, your lover of the last three years who both your daughters and wife have met on multiple occasions and once even visited the opera with.

Your wife will shake her head and stand up.

“No shit, honey. We’re all fine with it.” Your daughters will nod their assent and you’ll apologize for making such a mess and go get a new place setting from the kitchen so you can all finish dinner in peace.

Congratulations on Speaking Your Mind!