No one could ever call her a liar. Prevarication and fabrication were never her drinks of choice; they were bitter and spoiled the senses. Plus, she had a bad habit of wearing the falsehood on her face - in her averted eyes, her twisty mouth, and the flush that always rose up to her fair cheeks. The physicality of the lie was her overt damnation and to cope, she became an exquisite story- teller.
"Tell the truth, but tell it slant," Emily Dickinson told her once in high school. She had been sitting in her class reading the dark poems and finally, she reached a line that lept off the page and smacked of pragmatic usefulness.
Honesty is a tricky thing, she had muttered to herself, even at that young age. She never wanted to hurt anyone; incriminate herself; bring things to light that must always stay shadowed. Truth is twisty, bendy, like a silly straw in a child's drink cup or the frayed sleeve-end on a torn up GAP sweatshirt - at the end of the swirling or ragged line is something larger indeed, substance well beyond the fray.
From that day on, she focused hard on staying true to people, making life's little wonders (both bad and good) real, but always protecting from the wicked hammer waiting in the wings to smash the rest to bits. She began to gloss over everything, injecting facts into the tale that at times, verged on exaggerated, but could still identifiably be proved.
She carried the half-truths around in her purse, sealed in a little bag she kept in the side pocket, in case she ever needed one. They were various shapes, but always small, edited, easily tucked in a pinch. To the untrained eye, they may even look like candies with their vibrant little colors and exciting forms. To be blunt, they looked like Runt candies, all shaped appropriately like hearts or bananas or grapes. And they tasted better than either the entire drought of verite serum or the lie concoction that always soaked her in punch-drunk vulnerability.
No one could call her a liar. The little reliabilities always saved her from having to admit things; having to hurt someone's feelings; hell, they made her a proverbial social martyr in that no one could ever pin a wicked snap on her. She never outted herself; never made waves; never pushed the truth out far enough to do damage.
And so she kept inventing - kept writing - kept protecting - kept nurturing.
One day, her purse got heavy. She dropped it on the floor and some of the heart shaped ones rolled out clumsily onto the floor. They looked so tiny, so vulnerable lying there on the cold stone. They tipped a bit on the ragged edges and looked so tired and wounded having been in that bag so long, denied oxygen in that zipped up pocket. They were too old to use anymore. No one believed.
And on her way out, she put the purse in the Good Will box, pocketing only three she refused to abandon yet. The rest were at least ten years old and out of style anyway.
"Tell the truth, but tell it slant," Emily Dickinson told her once in high school. She had been sitting in her class reading the dark poems and finally, she reached a line that lept off the page and smacked of pragmatic usefulness.
Honesty is a tricky thing, she had muttered to herself, even at that young age. She never wanted to hurt anyone; incriminate herself; bring things to light that must always stay shadowed. Truth is twisty, bendy, like a silly straw in a child's drink cup or the frayed sleeve-end on a torn up GAP sweatshirt - at the end of the swirling or ragged line is something larger indeed, substance well beyond the fray.
From that day on, she focused hard on staying true to people, making life's little wonders (both bad and good) real, but always protecting from the wicked hammer waiting in the wings to smash the rest to bits. She began to gloss over everything, injecting facts into the tale that at times, verged on exaggerated, but could still identifiably be proved.
She carried the half-truths around in her purse, sealed in a little bag she kept in the side pocket, in case she ever needed one. They were various shapes, but always small, edited, easily tucked in a pinch. To the untrained eye, they may even look like candies with their vibrant little colors and exciting forms. To be blunt, they looked like Runt candies, all shaped appropriately like hearts or bananas or grapes. And they tasted better than either the entire drought of verite serum or the lie concoction that always soaked her in punch-drunk vulnerability.
No one could call her a liar. The little reliabilities always saved her from having to admit things; having to hurt someone's feelings; hell, they made her a proverbial social martyr in that no one could ever pin a wicked snap on her. She never outted herself; never made waves; never pushed the truth out far enough to do damage.
And so she kept inventing - kept writing - kept protecting - kept nurturing.
One day, her purse got heavy. She dropped it on the floor and some of the heart shaped ones rolled out clumsily onto the floor. They looked so tiny, so vulnerable lying there on the cold stone. They tipped a bit on the ragged edges and looked so tired and wounded having been in that bag so long, denied oxygen in that zipped up pocket. They were too old to use anymore. No one believed.
And on her way out, she put the purse in the Good Will box, pocketing only three she refused to abandon yet. The rest were at least ten years old and out of style anyway.
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