Sad little miss little Sally Conformity
So afraid to offend; to stop and take a stand
Spineless, gutless, cannot draw the moral bead
Will side with the snipers, hiding in their nest

Sad little sick little Sally Conformity
In your quest to not offend, you offend, and greatly
You lacquer your subservience with a veneer of civility
And place yourself in the middle until it’s time to choose sides

Sad little lickspittle Sally Conformity
Shining the jackboots ’til your mouth’s almost dry
Wagging your tongue, counseling the reasonable to “have reason”
Shove that tongue back in your asp.

Sad little poor little Sally Conformity
You betray honor and nobility and that to survive
You shall not be punished but your rewards will wear thin
You may find collaboration to be comfortable… so go and have comfort!

But do not pretend that what you do is noble… civil… right… good… honorable… just.

They exchanged words. The words themselves were harmless. However, the ones doing the exchange meant little good will for the other.

It had already been ten years since they left each other. When it comes right down to it, they split over the apple. They would give you many other reasons, but it all boiled down to the apple.

She was afraid; he was too proud. They split, both leaving the godforsaken apple behind.

The apple only had two bites taken from it, one on each side. It did not turn brown, nor was it rotten inside. It was that same apple that joins us all in disarray. It is the one thing that we all share–and that divides us all from each other.

He never forgave her for taking that first bite. She never forgave him for not facing up to it, and on top of that, blaming her for the whole thing.

The stayed together for a short time–long enough to bear two sons–and then they parted.

I was only a fly on the wall when they met up last. They were full of venom each for the other. Ask them, and they’d tell you, “I bear no ill will,” but they do not speak soundly. Their actions thwart their lips.

So here they are, ten years later. Each one has their own life now. He has a wife and family; she has a boyfriend and is building towards a good pension. And they meet, but only because their son exists do they ever see each other.

They bicker over the water. She had a glass of water and commented on its taste. He then said that should wouldn’t ever be happy with what he had to offer anyway, so it didn’t really matter. She hesitated, cut the tension with a quip and left.

Meanwhile, the son was left behind to muse, to think about what had happened to his parents. Certainly he could not condone either one’s behavior. He could have taken his father’s side, since he was in the right in a few things–she had picked up and left, she had sworn him off, and so on. But the son could also have gone to his mother’s defense–he is always overbearing, he always has to be in control, and so forth.

The son shook his head. There was no way to truly reconcile these two. After all, their lives had brought them in different directions and a true reconciliation was out of the question. But what about his father’s children by his new wife? What will they ever know of this? Likely nothing. And what of his relationship with his new wife? Will it end like the first? And what of the mother? She does not know God–she refuses to know God.

So the son thought. He thought that there might be a chance to reconcile these two. “All I really want,” he thought, “is for them to not be hostile towards each other.” He then thought of what bitterness was. The initial sweetness of that apple had turned their stomachs bitter and raw. They refused to let that go. The mother and the father kept their stomachs filled with other things, but they would not let go of that wretched maw in the pit of their abdomens.

“Forgiveness,” said the son, “sounds easy enough. But it doesn’t seem that I can be the one to bring this to them. They don’t look up to me–they look down on me at best.”

So the son locked the door to his room and wept.

“What’s it like?” asked the little boy.

“Well,” the blue-green dragon replied, “there’s this fire in my belly. I know that it’s there, but a lot of the time it is pretty small.”

“So that is why your nostrils don’t smoke?”

“Exactly,” returned the dragon. “In fact, my nostrils hardly ever smoke, even when the fire gets big.”

The little boy looked puzzled. “But where does the smoke go when the fire gets big?”

The dragon could only shake his great head. “I don’t really know. I guess that it must stay inside.”

The boy turned from the dragon and looked at the sky. The dragon heaved a great sigh and gazed over the lush valley below.

The boy suddenly turned towards the dragon and said, “If there’s no smoke, then how do you know that there’s a fire?”

The dragon smiled sadly and, still gazing at the valley, replied, “I can feel it in my belly. Sometimes when the fire is small, I forget that it is even there. But when the fire gets big, I cannot contain it. I have to get rid of it somehow, usually by spitting it out. I don’t like when that happens, but there’s no other way to get rid of it.”

The little boy looked at the dragon quizzically. “Does the fire… hurt?”

The dragon looked the boy in the eyes. He didn’t answer, but the boy could tell from the way the dragon looked at him what the answer was.