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"Pack Of Lies" (the ninety-ninth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Pack Of Lies" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Nov. 15, 2009 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Pack Of Lies By Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com (Entry #4) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| The year he led the league in home
runs, which was back in the fifties, Big Tex Dunbar was the idol of every
freckle-faced, sandy-haired kid in America. A Big Tex model first baseman's
glove, the kind with the facsimile signature along the side, sold for twelve
dollars and change at Culpepper's Department Store. A full five bucks more than
any other glove they had. Of course, first you had to find one in stock. And
then you had to have the money to buy it. No one I knew had that kind of money.
It was the same with a Big Tex model baseball bat, said to be an exact replica, to within one-sixteenth of an inch, of the bat Big Tex used when he hit all those home runs that year. Why even Jimmy Danzinger, whose father managed the sporting goods section at Culpepper's, couldn't get his hands on one of those beauties. It wasn't until the last week of August, when the rec league summer season was almost over, that I even laid eyes on one. Some kid from over Fenton Springs way had one. Story was that Tommy Shelton offered him twenty bucks for it, but the kid wouldn't sell. Not that I think that's true, mind you, because I never knew Tommy Shelton to have that much money in his whole life, so it probably was just a story after all. To the kid's credit though, he did let us all look at the bat. And for a penny a swing, anyone who had the money could heft it and take a practice swing with it. But the kid wouldn't let anybody use the bat in the game. And he wouldn't let anyone actually hit a baseball with it, either, not even during practice. The way I figured it, the whole thing was pretty much a waste of some mighty fine lumber since the kid himself wasn't any good and never hit one out of the infield. Lemme tell you though, the nickel I paid that kid from Fenton Springs that day so's I could have five swings with an official Big Tex Dunbar model baseball bat, well it was probably just about the best nickel I ever spent in my whole life, even if they were just practice swings and I didn't get to hit nothing except some hot, dusty Jersey air. Just to hold that baby in my hands. To feel the weight of the barrel as it rested on my shoulder. I closed my eyes and imagined the pitcher going through his exaggerated double-pump windup and uncorking a high, fast one. And almost like magic, that official Big Tex Dunbar model baseball bat would whip itself around my scrawny little body to meet the old horsehide, and together, me and that bat would send that ball sailing deep into the upper deck in some stadium in Boston or New York or Philadelphia, just the way Big Tex himself was doing all summer long. Well, I tell you, for a dirty-faced kid from New Jersey who wore hand-me-down clothes and carried a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to school every day in a brown paper bag which he needed to fold up and put in his back pocket when no one was looking so he could use it again tomorrow because paper bags cost money and money doesn't grow on trees, it was just about the closest thing to heaven that I could imagine, swinging that official, down-to-a-sixteenth-of-an-inch Big Tex model baseball bat. Not only that, but for the first time in my life, it made me the envy of my brother. Now you have to understand that my brother, Denny, was four years ahead of me in school, which meant he was bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, and just about anything else you can think of, so it wasn't like there was much left over for him to envy me about. He had his learner's permit, he shaved, he dated girls, he played first base for the Scotchwood High School baseball team, and when no one was looking, he smoked cigarettes. Castles. The same brand as Big Tex Dunbar. In fact, I think it was Big Tex that got Denny to start smoking. Not directly, of course. I mean, it wasn't like Big Tex called him on the phone one day and said how he thought Denny oughta smoke Castles or something like that. But he might as well have. Maybe you remember it. There was this ad that came out about that time in a couple of the big, glossy magazines, the ones with all the pictures in them. And it showed Big Tex standing by the dugout with his bat slung over his shoulder. His cap was pushed back on his head a bit, his sleeves were rolled up to show off his muscles, and he had this real friendly-like grin on his face. Down at the bottom of the ad, in quotation marks so it looked like Big Tex was talking, it said, "Hi. I'm Big Tex Dunbar, and I'm a Castle smoker. Not only do they help my digestion, but they calm my nerves so I can focus on the job at hand, if you know what I mean. Say there, Pardner, how'd you like a Castle?" Now at that time in our lives, with me being all of about twelve years old, there wasn't a one of us that thought we needed help with our digestion. Besides, we were already eating Wonder Puff cereal and Honey Bee bread, each of which was personally endorsed by none other than Big Tex Dunbar himself, as anyone could plainly see just by looking at his picture on the package. And as for nerves, well except for stumbling all over our tongues when we had to read a book report out loud in front of class, I don't think we knew what they were anyway. And whatever they may have been, they sure as hell never showed up when playing ball. But I guess it was different for Denny. Maybe it was because he was in high school. Maybe it was because he played first base, just like Big Tex. And maybe it was because he had a girlfriend named Bobbie Jean, and she smoked. Or maybe it was because, in a couple more years, he'd probably be drafted into the army. Whatever it was, and maybe that ad had nothing to do with it at all, but there was something – something about life or growing up or nerves or maybe even digestion for all I know – that struck a chord with Denny, and he took to wearing his cap pushed back on his head and rolling up his sleeves real high and calling me "Pardner." And he began smoking Castle cigarettes. I don't think he believed it, though. Not completely. Not the bit about digestion and nerves. Or if he did believe it, I think there was a part of him that knew there was more to the story than that, and what there was wasn't good. I say that because I asked him one time – when he was taking me to get a haircut and it was just the two of us walking down the street, with him smoking a cigarette and me kicking an old soda can along the gutter – I asked him if I could bum a smoke. And I said it just like that, "bum a smoke," 'cause I wanted him to think I was cool enough to handle something as grown up as a cigarette. It didn't do any good, though, except that it made him laugh. And then Denny said something like, "No way, Pardner. Don't you know them things'll stunt your growth?" Of course, I'd heard that sort of argument before. In fact, we'd all heard it before. It was like it was the unofficial battle cry of every adult in America. Teachers, parents, aunts, uncles, strangers on the street. They all said smoking cigarettes would stunt your growth. And more often than not, they said it just the way Denny said it to me back then – while smoking a cigarette. I argued back, of course. I told Denny how I ate Wonder Puff cereal every morning because Big Tex said it was what gave him the strength and energy to hit all those home runs. And then I explained how I wouldn't eat a sandwich unless it was made out of Honey Bee bread, not even if it was a tuna fish sandwich, because Big Tex said that Honey Bee bread was the best bread made. Why, it was like Big Tex was giving his personal approval that Wonder Puff cereal and Honey Bee bread were good for me. The way I figured it – and I told Denny this, in a flash of logic far beyond my years – it had to be the same with Castle cigarettes. They were good for me, too. So he needn't be worried about me stunting my growth because Big Tex wouldn't advertise a product that would do something like that. Besides, I was already the third biggest kid in my class, and the way I figured it, that gave me some leeway in the matter of growth that might not have been as available to someone like Chester Thompson, who lived across the street and was pretty much regarded by everybody as a peanut. And if that weren't enough for him – just in case the me versus Chester relative size argument didn't hold water – Big Tex Dunbar smoked. And at six-four or five or whatever he was exactly, there was no way that smoking Castles had stunted his growth. It was too late, though. Sometime during that summer when Big Tex was hitting all those home runs and my brother started wearing his cap pushed back on his head and rolling up his sleeves and smoking Castle cigarettes, things changed between us. It was no longer the two of us against the world, sneaking off to the movies when we weren't supposed to and doing stupid things like seeing who could spit watermelon seeds the farthest. No, those days were gone. Denny had become one of "them." He'd become an adult. It was like he went to sleep one night and woke up the next morning, and all of a sudden, he knew what was best for me. And cigarettes were not part of that package. Not even if I was the third biggest kid in my class. The next year, right at the end of spring training, when all the teams were heading back up north from Florida to start the season for real, Denny and Bobbie Jean broke up. And it wasn't but two weeks after that, with Big Tex Dunbar in a slump and having not yet hit his first home run of the year, when Denny turned seventeen and chose to mark the occasion, if that's what you want to call it, by dropping out of school and enlisting in the army. We didn't see much of each other in the years after that. Though every three or four years or so, back when Mom and Dad were still alive, the whole family would get together at Christmas time. I remember one time, there was Denny, sitting on the back porch with his feet propped up on the railing. He had that army hat of his pushed back on his head and the sleeves of his uniform were all rolled up even though it was the middle of December, and he was showing some of his medals to my oldest boy, Davey, and telling him what all they were for and the like. And then old Uncle Denny, which was a role he fit into more naturally than I would've ever imagined, unbuttoned the pocket of his uniform and pulled out a pack of Castles. And right away he saw the look of curiosity on little Davey's face, saw how the boy was intrigued by what his uncle was doing, and he picked up little Davey and set him on his knee. "Listen, Pardner," he said, "I don't care how many home runs Big Tex Dunbar hits or what he tells you about smoking cigarettes and how they're good for you. 'Cause the truth is that those things'll stunt your growth. You got that?" Big Tex Dunbar died a couple years ago. It was during the off season. Nonetheless, it was still the lead story on all the TV sports shows. They showed highlights from his playing days and interviewed some of his former teammates. To a man, they all said what a great player Big Tex had been, how he'd been an inspiration for youngsters everywhere with his dedication to hard work and his love of the game. Young people today needed a hero like Big Tex, they said, someone they could look up to as a role model, not just in terms of how to play the game of baseball, but in how to live life. It was the day after that, the day after Big Tex Dunbar died, when Denny called. He said he'd just been diagnosed with lung cancer. |
| Pack Of Lies By kstaley@gmail.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Letters from The Earl. We buried Great Aunt Emily today. We could scarcely picture Aunt Emily without Uncle Hugh, her husband of more than seventy years. They were a matched set, like those collectible salt and pepper shakers. Withered and hammered by age, as long as they could reach out and touch each other, the world could crumble around them and they wouldn’t even have noticed. There’s was an unspoken love. Hugh’s look was always for Emily – and he never once strayed or glanced away. Now and then, he’d reach out for her hand, but the ravages of arthritis accompanied age and even a gentle touch from a gentle man became painful and he settled for their special look. Of course they had there moments. Which married couple doesn’t? Who hasn’t had a sharp word or a cross thought about a spouse? Now and then, especially when I visited them as a child, I’d hear her speak sharply to Uncle Hugh but I don’t think I ever saw an angry moment from Hugh. Then one day, when I heard her cross words, what I saw in his face was pain. At first I thought it might be something he ate, but it dawned on me later, in bed that night, that Uncle Hugh took her sharp words to heart and they cut him far more than any implement could have done. I wondered, as I heard him walk through the house for a final check, how he could bring himself to sleep in the same bed with Aunt Emily. She’d been so mean after all. I listened carefully, but the only sounds coming from their side of the hall was his bathroom ritual, a soft pad into the bedroom, a soft close of their door and bed springs that squeaked gently under his slight weight. At breakfast the next morning, I learned more about love than at any other time, before or since. I guess I thought Hugh had forgotten her sharp words, or perhaps he was going to ignore them. I think, given half a chance, he would simply have let things go. He was a gentle man as well as a gentleman. While I expected a cold table with few words, they had other plans – well, Aunt Emily did, at least. “I’m so sorry,” she said as he sat at his place and unfolded his napkin. “About last night. I ... I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I paused. What would Uncle Hugh say? Me – I think I’d have lashed back – gotten a bit of my own back perhaps. Not Hugh. He never said a word. He simply reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She grasped his hand in both of hers, a tear leaking gently from the corner of one eye. I knew that her hands, bent and twisted with eight decades of labor and love and arthritis hurt like the dickens, but I also saw she wasn’t going to let go. Hugh didn’t want to let go either, it seemed to me. Now I realize that that simple physical touch was just about all they were capable of doing. Both were well into their seventies and hurt in places I had yet to discover. He stood then and gave me another lesson. Never before had Uncle Hugh stood so tall in my eyes, seemed so strong, so virile, as when he stood and pulled the chair away from the table so his bride could sit down. She kissed him gently as she sat, tracing his jaw line with a touch so intimate that I blushed. Hugh went quickly. Over the years, they’d taken pieces of; a melanoma here and his prostate a few years back. Eventually they simply ran out of pieces they could take and leave him alive. Aunt Emily stayed in the hospital when Uncle Hugh was there. She could be very determined and stubborn when she wanted to be. When they put Hugh down in the bed for the last time, she insisted it be large enough for her to join him at night. I think Uncle Hugh knew he wasn’t coming home again and deep inside, he couldn’t bear to part with Emily. By that time, with a wife of my own, I understood. Emily lingered. At first, she insisted that we let her stay in the small Cape Cod that she and Hugh shared for nearly forty years. Everything familiar was in that house. In those first few weeks after his death, whenever I had a chance to stop by and check on her, I would find her talking to Uncle Hugh as though he were standing right next to her. Hugh’s death was ugly and painful and its final stages dragged on for an eternity. Aunt Emily died peacefully in her sleep. She put on her best flannel nightie, did her hair up in a scarf, crawled between the sheets, closed her eyes – and died. Personally, I think she simply didn’t want to continue without Hugh and went to meet him. Mom couldn’t come into their house without going to pieces and crying over each and every item. Uncle Hugh and Aunt Emily had been almost as close as her own parents and their now vacant house left the empty place in her heart, too. April, Jackie and I sorted through seventy years of marriage, deciding what the family wanted and what should be donated. It took several weekends of hit and miss as we had our own lives after all. Jackie went almost every day, straight from her third grade class. She’s the one who found them. We gathered around their kitchen table one Saturday morning. Jackie sat three very old, fancy shoe boxes, with decorative metal reinforcements at each corner, in the middle of the table. Each box showed a picture of an open toed, high heel pump. Once the lid came off, bundle after neat bundle of letters waited inside. Jackie had already opened a bundle and a few of the envelopes slipped from the bundle to the table. “She obviously cherished these and stored them in the best thing she had. Are they all from Hugh?” I asked when I glanced at the letters. “You know, like love letters from over seas during the war. She certainly would have kept anything he wrote to her.” “I don’t think any are from him,” April said as she examined the return address carefully. “Postage and post mark say London.” “Did you ever see Uncle Hugh’s writing? It was pretty bad,” Jackie said as she examined another envelope. “There were times his hand writing was so illegible only Auntie Emily could decipher the words.” “Who are they from then?” I asked as I pulled one of the ornate boxes closer and peered inside. Each box contained at least twenty tightly wrapped bundles. April removed two sheets of velum from an envelope, paper so thin, so light that it quivered under her gentle touch. Two sheets. I could see that whoever wrote the pages numbered them, dated them, and the hand writing so neat as to be a work of art in itself. “Edward,” April said as she gently lifted the first page away from the second and scanned to the end. “Your loving Edward,” she read as she looked up into our dumbfound faces. “Earl of Rochford.” We sat stunned, unable to move. “We should tell Mom,” April was all business as she folded the letter carefully and put it back in position in the bundle. “It would kill her,” Jackie said. “We can’t tell her. We need to throw all of these away. Now.” She started to do just that, picking up the box in front of her as April and I grabbed our boxes and moved away from the table. “Not on your life!” April said. We argued for an hour. Showing them to Mom was no answer, but neither was destroying them. Someplace in between, there had to be a way to compromise. “Look,” I said. “This is too much for any of us to handle right now. Let’s just step back.” Finally, we decided that we would each take a box and read the contents, meeting again in a week to share what we learned. “But keep this to yourself!” Jackie said. “Discuss it with no one!” “Just promise you’re going to read yours,” April said. “Don’t make any decisions based on some knee jerk reaction.” My resolve lasted through the weekend. In fact, I was strong until late Tuesday night. “What’s the matter?” Patty asked sleepily as she lifted her head and peered at me. “Ricky? You’re crying! Why are you crying?” Suddenly, I no longer wanted to carry the burden alone. It was easier just to read her the letter in my lap. 10 May 1953 My darling Emily, I’ve closed my office door and left strict instructions that I’m not to be disturbed for the next half hour. Your letter arrived yesterday and, although my staff may wonder, your perfume now helps bring me closer to you. With the shades drawn and only the small light on my desk, I’ve taken out that most special of gifts you sent. This lock of your hair - these wonderful curls - wrap around my fingers and, if I close my eyes, I can pretend that you’re here. You cannot know how your love sustains me, sees me through the trials of the week and gives me courage and reason to go on. I know my heart would be lost without your sweet love. You are the reason I get up mornings, the reason I can face each sunrise, bless each sunset. My love, although so many miles and so many moons separate us, in my heart you are just a beat away. What more can a man say to the woman who opened her heart to him, allowing him to feel the warmth of her love across the great distance? I have no other words to describe the way you make me feel. Of course, my darling, rush to London and into my arms, please, whenever you are able. Lady Rochford retreats up country during the summer months and nothing could prevent me from showing you my country. I see now that my moment of respite has evaporated and I must tuck this gentle piece of you away, in my vest pocket, close to my heart where you always, always rest. I’m pressed now to get this letter to the post today, my love, to rush it into your hands. Forever yours and most lovingly Edward. “Emily,” Patty seemed lost – in our own bed. “Great Aunt Emily? You’re kidding! Who was Edward?” For the rest of the night, we shared Edward’s words of undying love. Alternately, my wife wept, laughed, smiled and sighed. Our Saturday morning gathering had all the makings of a prize fight. As we cautiously settled around that kitchen table, I noticed even Jackie, who was hell bent to destroy everything, kept her box of letters close to her. Silence filled the kitchen and we looked, one to the other, each lost in down private roads. I sat in my own silent world, feeling slightly dirty, like a voyeur suddenly caught in the act. At times, each of us started to say something, but nothing really intelligible came out. Then Mom came in, after all her protests that even entering that house would be more than she could handle, there she was. “What’s this?” She asked as she set her purse and a small packet of her own on the table. “Why so glum? So silent? The funeral was last month and you three act like it’s tomorrow.” She pulled up a chair and saw the boxes. “What are these?” She asked and before I could stop her, she shifted my box and lifted the lid. “Where did these come from?” We hemmed and hawed and looked away, but there wasn’t time to hide the other two boxes. Then she picked up one of the bundles and brought up her glasses, studying the first envelope. “Why would Em write letters to herself?” I think she said that mostly to herself, but she surely didn’t expect the reaction from the rest of us. “What?” “To her ... I don’t understand.” “They’re from England,” I pointed out. “Well, I don’t care where they’re from,” she said as she opened the first envelope and scanned the letter. “But this is your Aunt Emily’s writing. No mistaking that penmanship. She won several prizes for her beautiful penmanship – when they used to give prizes for such things. But what are these?” We sat silently as she read the first letter. She started smiling half way through the first page and suppressed a giggle as she read the signature. “What?” Jackie demanded. “I’ll bet you didn’t know Emily had a sister,” Mom began, “Alice, who lived in London. Alice met and married some earl or duke somebody – I’ve forgotten. It’s been ages since I thought of her. Once she got the title, we were too low on the social scale for her to recognize. Still, Emily began sending her ‘care packages’ sometime early in the blitz. That’s the first thing you should know. “Emily always had the desire to be a famous writer,” Mom smiled and waved the packet. Suddenly, the fog began to clear and I saw my sisters smile as well. “A romance writer to be specific. Don’t you see? She created this character – what? The Duke of Rochford? – and had Alice send back these letters.” She picked up a bundle and absently fanned through the lot as a card player might fan a new deck of cards. “In those boxes, too?” She asked. We nodded. “Looks like she got her wish after all. Must be enough here for two or three juicy books.” “But what about Hugh?” April asked. “Oh he probably knew,” Mom said. “You knew those two. Can you imagine them keeping anything from each other?” We laughed at the idea and relief sped around the table. The little old devil. Even from beyond the grave, sending us a pack of lies. The world and the cosmos could continue unabated. “What are these?” I asked as I picked up the packet Mom brought with her. “Oh, cards from the funeral,” she said. “I’ve been putting off sending thank-yous out long enough.” Most of the cards meant little as they came from strangers. Inside the bag Mom managed to paperclip a small group of cards from flower arrangements. I remember Emily’s casket awash in a sea of pastel colored flowers. I flipped through the first half dozen and froze. A blank card, no imprint of a local florist, no decorative edge, just a signature: Edward. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #3 Second place (tie): #4 & #7 Fourth place (tie): #1 & #5 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Pack Of Lies David Griffin www.windsweptpress.com copyright by David Griffin, 2009 |
#1 of 8 |
| 1028 words | |
| It’s a wonder my lungs survived Thanksgiving
dinners at Aunt Margaret’s home in the 1950’s. Coal miners might have
cleaner chest x-rays than any of us kids and adults who together inhaled at
least a carton of cigarette smoke throughout the festive dinner and long
afternoon of televised football games. My mother smoked. Grandma, Aunt
Margaret, and Uncle Jim, too. Great Aunt Rose, Uncle Bob and the Geary’s
who lived next door. On their way out to dinner, the Geary’s stopped by to
wish us Happy Thanksgiving, leaving behind their contribution to the growing
toxic plume of tar and nicotine. We thought nothing of it. No regard to the health hazard marred the celebration of the day. The Surgeon General was asleep through the ‘50’s, or wasn’t born yet, and the danger of first or second hand cigarette smoke was somehow not important to the media moguls who depended so much on tobacco for their advertising revenue. A favorite magazine ad of the day pictured a physician smoking, while he held up a pack of his favorite cigarettes, a pack of lies. The meal began and the smoking lamp dimmed and flickered out. The air cleared slightly as turkey and giblets and mashed potatoes and gravy and squash and rutabaga and peas and cranberries and biscuits and mint jelly were brought from the kitchen and heaped on the dining room table. As the smoke abated and the food arrived, my eyes stopped watering, but my mouth took over the job. I sat in famished anticipation, waiting for my mother to let go of my arm and allow me to reach for whatever dish came my way in the merry-go-round of food about to be set in motion. Uncle Jim pronounced the blessing. He was given the task because he was a bachelor. True, the logic of that is not apparent, but neither were a hundred other family traditions I’d always meant to ask about. Uncle Jim’s way of “saying the grace” always intrigued me, especially when he was drinking. Now, polishing off his third high ball before dinner at half past noon, he stubbed out a Camel cigarette in the gold inlaid ashtray beside his dinner plate and began his invocation. Voices around the table subsided as he raised his arms above his head, bringing them about in a great circle to touch his finger tips together, as if he was performing an impromptu field sobriety test. His arms then dropped to his chest, his hands folding in prayer. “And now,” he intoned, “we thank the Great God Jehovah and all his angels. And His son, Little Baby Jesus. And all the saints, from Albert to Zachary, as well as all the Prophets, too numerous to name, but they know who they are. And, uh … we wish everyone around this table a joyous Christmas shopping season. And we wish all of you a fine dinner on Margaret’s fine China. Eat hearty and stop when you get to the plate. Uh … live a long life. Amen, and please pass the turnips.” The food now began to travel around the table and I practically inhaled a serving from each dish as it arrived. I loved every kind of food and wasn’t at all picky. I was always a good eater. I still am. Dinner over, the Luckies and Camels and Chesterfields and Pall Malls and Old Golds came out. The snaps and clicks of all the Zippo lighters firing off at once sounded like a company of riflemen cocking their weapons. As I worked on my dessert of pumpkin pie, smoke rolled across the table and reminded me of a Civil War battle film I had seen in our fourth grade class. My mind’s eye saw soldiers stumbling through the woods, banging into trees, hacking and coughing as they struggled to find a breath of air. There were no casualties here on this day, but the long-term effects of all that smoke would have consequences. Despite his command to live a long life, Uncle Jim did not himself survive to a ripe old age. He suffered a fatal heart attack at age 50. The week before, he told my Mom his chest felt tight and he would switch to a milder brand of cigarettes. But that didn’t halt the rush of the prophets coming to meet him at heaven’s gate, nor all the saints from A to Z following closely behind. At his funeral, old friends and relatives gathered to remember a dear friend and brother and uncle. They slapped each other on the back in greeting and told the same old family stories, a harmless pack of lies that glossed over the hurt and loss and struggle and stumbling of all human life. Most of this hail-fellow camaraderie took place outside, where they could smoke. Inside, by the casket, were those of us too young for tobacco, but old enough to learn from our elders. Or from the dead. Because right before our very eyes was a lesson that few of us were noting. For Uncle Jim, the lies had come twenty to a pack. |
|
| Pack Of Lies brigid@lorienwood.plus.com |
#2 of 8 |
| 79 words | |
| We met on a Monday, a speed dating meet. I fell for your smile and your fabulous feet! We strolled in the park, skipped in puddles of rain. I purchased a ring - asked if you'd take my name. I gave you my heart, my bank card and my flat. With wedding plans laid, I bought you a cute cat. But his hidden collar held a shocking surprise! You, in bed with my friend! Pack your bag... and your lies! |
|
| Pack Of Lies kstaley@gmail.com |
#3 of 8 Runner-up |
| 2480 words | |
| Letters from The Earl. We buried Great Aunt Emily today. We could scarcely picture Aunt Emily without Uncle Hugh, her husband of more than seventy years. They were a matched set, like those collectible salt and pepper shakers. Withered and hammered by age, as long as they could reach out and touch each other, the world could crumble around them and they wouldn’t even have noticed. There’s was an unspoken love. Hugh’s look was always for Emily – and he never once strayed or glanced away. Now and then, he’d reach out for her hand, but the ravages of arthritis accompanied age and even a gentle touch from a gentle man became painful and he settled for their special look. Of course they had there moments. Which married couple doesn’t? Who hasn’t had a sharp word or a cross thought about a spouse? Now and then, especially when I visited them as a child, I’d hear her speak sharply to Uncle Hugh but I don’t think I ever saw an angry moment from Hugh. Then one day, when I heard her cross words, what I saw in his face was pain. At first I thought it might be something he ate, but it dawned on me later, in bed that night, that Uncle Hugh took her sharp words to heart and they cut him far more than any implement could have done. I wondered, as I heard him walk through the house for a final check, how he could bring himself to sleep in the same bed with Aunt Emily. She’d been so mean after all. I listened carefully, but the only sounds coming from their side of the hall was his bathroom ritual, a soft pad into the bedroom, a soft close of their door and bed springs that squeaked gently under his slight weight. At breakfast the next morning, I learned more about love than at any other time, before or since. I guess I thought Hugh had forgotten her sharp words, or perhaps he was going to ignore them. I think, given half a chance, he would simply have let things go. He was a gentle man as well as a gentleman. While I expected a cold table with few words, they had other plans – well, Aunt Emily did, at least. “I’m so sorry,” she said as he sat at his place and unfolded his napkin. “About last night. I ... I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I paused. What would Uncle Hugh say? Me – I think I’d have lashed back – gotten a bit of my own back perhaps. Not Hugh. He never said a word. He simply reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She grasped his hand in both of hers, a tear leaking gently from the corner of one eye. I knew that her hands, bent and twisted with eight decades of labor and love and arthritis hurt like the dickens, but I also saw she wasn’t going to let go. Hugh didn’t want to let go either, it seemed to me. Now I realize that that simple physical touch was just about all they were capable of doing. Both were well into their seventies and hurt in places I had yet to discover. He stood then and gave me another lesson. Never before had Uncle Hugh stood so tall in my eyes, seemed so strong, so virile, as when he stood and pulled the chair away from the table so his bride could sit down. She kissed him gently as she sat, tracing his jaw line with a touch so intimate that I blushed. Hugh went quickly. Over the years, they’d taken pieces of; a melanoma here and his prostate a few years back. Eventually they simply ran out of pieces they could take and leave him alive. Aunt Emily stayed in the hospital when Uncle Hugh was there. She could be very determined and stubborn when she wanted to be. When they put Hugh down in the bed for the last time, she insisted it be large enough for her to join him at night. I think Uncle Hugh knew he wasn’t coming home again and deep inside, he couldn’t bear to part with Emily. By that time, with a wife of my own, I understood. Emily lingered. At first, she insisted that we let her stay in the small Cape Cod that she and Hugh shared for nearly forty years. Everything familiar was in that house. In those first few weeks after his death, whenever I had a chance to stop by and check on her, I would find her talking to Uncle Hugh as though he were standing right next to her. Hugh’s death was ugly and painful and its final stages dragged on for an eternity. Aunt Emily died peacefully in her sleep. She put on her best flannel nightie, did her hair up in a scarf, crawled between the sheets, closed her eyes – and died. Personally, I think she simply didn’t want to continue without Hugh and went to meet him. Mom couldn’t come into their house without going to pieces and crying over each and every item. Uncle Hugh and Aunt Emily had been almost as close as her own parents and their now vacant house left the empty place in her heart, too. April, Jackie and I sorted through seventy years of marriage, deciding what the family wanted and what should be donated. It took several weekends of hit and miss as we had our own lives after all. Jackie went almost every day, straight from her third grade class. She’s the one who found them. We gathered around their kitchen table one Saturday morning. Jackie sat three very old, fancy shoe boxes, with decorative metal reinforcements at each corner, in the middle of the table. Each box showed a picture of an open toed, high heel pump. Once the lid came off, bundle after neat bundle of letters waited inside. Jackie had already opened a bundle and a few of the envelopes slipped from the bundle to the table. “She obviously cherished these and stored them in the best thing she had. Are they all from Hugh?” I asked when I glanced at the letters. “You know, like love letters from over seas during the war. She certainly would have kept anything he wrote to her.” “I don’t think any are from him,” April said as she examined the return address carefully. “Postage and post mark say London.” “Did you ever see Uncle Hugh’s writing? It was pretty bad,” Jackie said as she examined another envelope. “There were times his hand writing was so illegible only Auntie Emily could decipher the words.” “Who are they from then?” I asked as I pulled one of the ornate boxes closer and peered inside. Each box contained at least twenty tightly wrapped bundles. April removed two sheets of velum from an envelope, paper so thin, so light that it quivered under her gentle touch. Two sheets. I could see that whoever wrote the pages numbered them, dated them, and the hand writing so neat as to be a work of art in itself. “Edward,” April said as she gently lifted the first page away from the second and scanned to the end. “Your loving Edward,” she read as she looked up into our dumbfound faces. “Earl of Rochford.” We sat stunned, unable to move. “We should tell Mom,” April was all business as she folded the letter carefully and put it back in position in the bundle. “It would kill her,” Jackie said. “We can’t tell her. We need to throw all of these away. Now.” She started to do just that, picking up the box in front of her as April and I grabbed our boxes and moved away from the table. “Not on your life!” April said. We argued for an hour. Showing them to Mom was no answer, but neither was destroying them. Someplace in between, there had to be a way to compromise. “Look,” I said. “This is too much for any of us to handle right now. Let’s just step back.” Finally, we decided that we would each take a box and read the contents, meeting again in a week to share what we learned. “But keep this to yourself!” Jackie said. “Discuss it with no one!” “Just promise you’re going to read yours,” April said. “Don’t make any decisions based on some knee jerk reaction.” My resolve lasted through the weekend. In fact, I was strong until late Tuesday night. “What’s the matter?” Patty asked sleepily as she lifted her head and peered at me. “Ricky? You’re crying! Why are you crying?” Suddenly, I no longer wanted to carry the burden alone. It was easier just to read her the letter in my lap. 10 May 1953 My darling Emily, I’ve closed my office door and left strict instructions that I’m not to be disturbed for the next half hour. Your letter arrived yesterday and, although my staff may wonder, your perfume now helps bring me closer to you. With the shades drawn and only the small light on my desk, I’ve taken out that most special of gifts you sent. This lock of your hair - these wonderful curls - wrap around my fingers and, if I close my eyes, I can pretend that you’re here. You cannot know how your love sustains me, sees me through the trials of the week and gives me courage and reason to go on. I know my heart would be lost without your sweet love. You are the reason I get up mornings, the reason I can face each sunrise, bless each sunset. My love, although so many miles and so many moons separate us, in my heart you are just a beat away. What more can a man say to the woman who opened her heart to him, allowing him to feel the warmth of her love across the great distance? I have no other words to describe the way you make me feel. Of course, my darling, rush to London and into my arms, please, whenever you are able. Lady Rochford retreats up country during the summer months and nothing could prevent me from showing you my country. I see now that my moment of respite has evaporated and I must tuck this gentle piece of you away, in my vest pocket, close to my heart where you always, always rest. I’m pressed now to get this letter to the post today, my love, to rush it into your hands. Forever yours and most lovingly Edward. “Emily,” Patty seemed lost – in our own bed. “Great Aunt Emily? You’re kidding! Who was Edward?” For the rest of the night, we shared Edward’s words of undying love. Alternately, my wife wept, laughed, smiled and sighed. Our Saturday morning gathering had all the makings of a prize fight. As we cautiously settled around that kitchen table, I noticed even Jackie, who was hell bent to destroy everything, kept her box of letters close to her. Silence filled the kitchen and we looked, one to the other, each lost in down private roads. I sat in my own silent world, feeling slightly dirty, like a voyeur suddenly caught in the act. At times, each of us started to say something, but nothing really intelligible came out. Then Mom came in, after all her protests that even entering that house would be more than she could handle, there she was. “What’s this?” She asked as she set her purse and a small packet of her own on the table. “Why so glum? So silent? The funeral was last month and you three act like it’s tomorrow.” She pulled up a chair and saw the boxes. “What are these?” She asked and before I could stop her, she shifted my box and lifted the lid. “Where did these come from?” We hemmed and hawed and looked away, but there wasn’t time to hide the other two boxes. Then she picked up one of the bundles and brought up her glasses, studying the first envelope. “Why would Em write letters to herself?” I think she said that mostly to herself, but she surely didn’t expect the reaction from the rest of us. “What?” “To her ... I don’t understand.” “They’re from England,” I pointed out. “Well, I don’t care where they’re from,” she said as she opened the first envelope and scanned the letter. “But this is your Aunt Emily’s writing. No mistaking that penmanship. She won several prizes for her beautiful penmanship – when they used to give prizes for such things. But what are these?” We sat silently as she read the first letter. She started smiling half way through the first page and suppressed a giggle as she read the signature. “What?” Jackie demanded. “I’ll bet you didn’t know Emily had a sister,” Mom began, “Alice, who lived in London. Alice met and married some earl or duke somebody – I’ve forgotten. It’s been ages since I thought of her. Once she got the title, we were too low on the social scale for her to recognize. Still, Emily began sending her ‘care packages’ sometime early in the blitz. That’s the first thing you should know. “Emily always had the desire to be a famous writer,” Mom smiled and waved the packet. Suddenly, the fog began to clear and I saw my sisters smile as well. “A romance writer to be specific. Don’t you see? She created this character – what? The Duke of Rochford? – and had Alice send back these letters.” She picked up a bundle and absently fanned through the lot as a card player might fan a new deck of cards. “In those boxes, too?” She asked. We nodded. “Looks like she got her wish after all. Must be enough here for two or three juicy books.” “But what about Hugh?” April asked. “Oh he probably knew,” Mom said. “You knew those two. Can you imagine them keeping anything from each other?” We laughed at the idea and relief sped around the table. The little old devil. Even from beyond the grave, sending us a pack of lies. The world and the cosmos could continue unabated. “What are these?” I asked as I picked up the packet Mom brought with her. “Oh, cards from the funeral,” she said. “I’ve been putting off sending thank-yous out long enough.” Most of the cards meant little as they came from strangers. Inside the bag Mom managed to paperclip a small group of cards from flower arrangements. I remember Emily’s casket awash in a sea of pastel colored flowers. I flipped through the first half dozen and froze. A blank card, no imprint of a local florist, no decorative edge, just a signature: Edward. |
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| Pack Of Lies Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#4 of 8 Winner |
| 2220 words | |
| The year he led the league in home runs, which was back
in the fifties, Big Tex Dunbar was the idol of every freckle-faced,
sandy-haired kid in America. A Big Tex model first baseman's glove, the kind
with the facsimile signature along the side, sold for twelve dollars and change
at Culpepper's Department Store. A full five bucks more than any other glove
they had. Of course, first you had to find one in stock. And then you had to
have the money to buy it. No one I knew had that kind of money. It was the same with a Big Tex model baseball bat, said to be an exact replica, to within one-sixteenth of an inch, of the bat Big Tex used when he hit all those home runs that year. Why even Jimmy Danzinger, whose father managed the sporting goods section at Culpepper's, couldn't get his hands on one of those beauties. It wasn't until the last week of August, when the rec league summer season was almost over, that I even laid eyes on one. Some kid from over Fenton Springs way had one. Story was that Tommy Shelton offered him twenty bucks for it, but the kid wouldn't sell. Not that I think that's true, mind you, because I never knew Tommy Shelton to have that much money in his whole life, so it probably was just a story after all. To the kid's credit though, he did let us all look at the bat. And for a penny a swing, anyone who had the money could heft it and take a practice swing with it. But the kid wouldn't let anybody use the bat in the game. And he wouldn't let anyone actually hit a baseball with it, either, not even during practice. The way I figured it, the whole thing was pretty much a waste of some mighty fine lumber since the kid himself wasn't any good and never hit one out of the infield. Lemme tell you though, the nickel I paid that kid from Fenton Springs that day so's I could have five swings with an official Big Tex Dunbar model baseball bat, well it was probably just about the best nickel I ever spent in my whole life, even if they were just practice swings and I didn't get to hit nothing except some hot, dusty Jersey air. Just to hold that baby in my hands. To feel the weight of the barrel as it rested on my shoulder. I closed my eyes and imagined the pitcher going through his exaggerated double-pump windup and uncorking a high, fast one. And almost like magic, that official Big Tex Dunbar model baseball bat would whip itself around my scrawny little body to meet the old horsehide, and together, me and that bat would send that ball sailing deep into the upper deck in some stadium in Boston or New York or Philadelphia, just the way Big Tex himself was doing all summer long. Well, I tell you, for a dirty-faced kid from New Jersey who wore hand-me-down clothes and carried a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to school every day in a brown paper bag which he needed to fold up and put in his back pocket when no one was looking so he could use it again tomorrow because paper bags cost money and money doesn't grow on trees, it was just about the closest thing to heaven that I could imagine, swinging that official, down-to-a-sixteenth-of-an-inch Big Tex model baseball bat. Not only that, but for the first time in my life, it made me the envy of my brother. Now you have to understand that my brother, Denny, was four years ahead of me in school, which meant he was bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, and just about anything else you can think of, so it wasn't like there was much left over for him to envy me about. He had his learner's permit, he shaved, he dated girls, he played first base for the Scotchwood High School baseball team, and when no one was looking, he smoked cigarettes. Castles. The same brand as Big Tex Dunbar. In fact, I think it was Big Tex that got Denny to start smoking. Not directly, of course. I mean, it wasn't like Big Tex called him on the phone one day and said how he thought Denny oughta smoke Castles or something like that. But he might as well have. Maybe you remember it. There was this ad that came out about that time in a couple of the big, glossy magazines, the ones with all the pictures in them. And it showed Big Tex standing by the dugout with his bat slung over his shoulder. His cap was pushed back on his head a bit, his sleeves were rolled up to show off his muscles, and he had this real friendly-like grin on his face. Down at the bottom of the ad, in quotation marks so it looked like Big Tex was talking, it said, "Hi. I'm Big Tex Dunbar, and I'm a Castle smoker. Not only do they help my digestion, but they calm my nerves so I can focus on the job at hand, if you know what I mean. Say there, Pardner, how'd you like a Castle?" Now at that time in our lives, with me being all of about twelve years old, there wasn't a one of us that thought we needed help with our digestion. Besides, we were already eating Wonder Puff cereal and Honey Bee bread, each of which was personally endorsed by none other than Big Tex Dunbar himself, as anyone could plainly see just by looking at his picture on the package. And as for nerves, well except for stumbling all over our tongues when we had to read a book report out loud in front of class, I don't think we knew what they were anyway. And whatever they may have been, they sure as hell never showed up when playing ball. But I guess it was different for Denny. Maybe it was because he was in high school. Maybe it was because he played first base, just like Big Tex. And maybe it was because he had a girlfriend named Bobbie Jean, and she smoked. Or maybe it was because, in a couple more years, he'd probably be drafted into the army. Whatever it was, and maybe that ad had nothing to do with it at all, but there was something – something about life or growing up or nerves or maybe even digestion for all I know – that struck a chord with Denny, and he took to wearing his cap pushed back on his head and rolling up his sleeves real high and calling me "Pardner." And he began smoking Castle cigarettes. I don't think he believed it, though. Not completely. Not the bit about digestion and nerves. Or if he did believe it, I think there was a part of him that knew there was more to the story than that, and what there was wasn't good. I say that because I asked him one time – when he was taking me to get a haircut and it was just the two of us walking down the street, with him smoking a cigarette and me kicking an old soda can along the gutter – I asked him if I could bum a smoke. And I said it just like that, "bum a smoke," 'cause I wanted him to think I was cool enough to handle something as grown up as a cigarette. It didn't do any good, though, except that it made him laugh. And then Denny said something like, "No way, Pardner. Don't you know them things'll stunt your growth?" Of course, I'd heard that sort of argument before. In fact, we'd all heard it before. It was like it was the unofficial battle cry of every adult in America. Teachers, parents, aunts, uncles, strangers on the street. They all said smoking cigarettes would stunt your growth. And more often than not, they said it just the way Denny said it to me back then – while smoking a cigarette. I argued back, of course. I told Denny how I ate Wonder Puff cereal every morning because Big Tex said it was what gave him the strength and energy to hit all those home runs. And then I explained how I wouldn't eat a sandwich unless it was made out of Honey Bee bread, not even if it was a tuna fish sandwich, because Big Tex said that Honey Bee bread was the best bread made. Why, it was like Big Tex was giving his personal approval that Wonder Puff cereal and Honey Bee bread were good for me. The way I figured it – and I told Denny this, in a flash of logic far beyond my years – it had to be the same with Castle cigarettes. They were good for me, too. So he needn't be worried about me stunting my growth because Big Tex wouldn't advertise a product that would do something like that. Besides, I was already the third biggest kid in my class, and the way I figured it, that gave me some leeway in the matter of growth that might not have been as available to someone like Chester Thompson, who lived across the street and was pretty much regarded by everybody as a peanut. And if that weren't enough for him – just in case the me versus Chester relative size argument didn't hold water – Big Tex Dunbar smoked. And at six-four or five or whatever he was exactly, there was no way that smoking Castles had stunted his growth. It was too late, though. Sometime during that summer when Big Tex was hitting all those home runs and my brother started wearing his cap pushed back on his head and rolling up his sleeves and smoking Castle cigarettes, things changed between us. It was no longer the two of us against the world, sneaking off to the movies when we weren't supposed to and doing stupid things like seeing who could spit watermelon seeds the farthest. No, those days were gone. Denny had become one of "them." He'd become an adult. It was like he went to sleep one night and woke up the next morning, and all of a sudden, he knew what was best for me. And cigarettes were not part of that package. Not even if I was the third biggest kid in my class. The next year, right at the end of spring training, when all the teams were heading back up north from Florida to start the season for real, Denny and Bobbie Jean broke up. And it wasn't but two weeks after that, with Big Tex Dunbar in a slump and having not yet hit his first home run of the year, when Denny turned seventeen and chose to mark the occasion, if that's what you want to call it, by dropping out of school and enlisting in the army. We didn't see much of each other in the years after that. Though every three or four years or so, back when Mom and Dad were still alive, the whole family would get together at Christmas time. I remember one time, there was Denny, sitting on the back porch with his feet propped up on the railing. He had that army hat of his pushed back on his head and the sleeves of his uniform were all rolled up even though it was the middle of December, and he was showing some of his medals to my oldest boy, Davey, and telling him what all they were for and the like. And then old Uncle Denny, which was a role he fit into more naturally than I would've ever imagined, unbuttoned the pocket of his uniform and pulled out a pack of Castles. And right away he saw the look of curiosity on little Davey's face, saw how the boy was intrigued by what his uncle was doing, and he picked up little Davey and set him on his knee. "Listen, Pardner," he said, "I don't care how many home runs Big Tex Dunbar hits or what he tells you about smoking cigarettes and how they're good for you. 'Cause the truth is that those things'll stunt your growth. You got that?" Big Tex Dunbar died a couple years ago. It was during the off season. Nonetheless, it was still the lead story on all the TV sports shows. They showed highlights from his playing days and interviewed some of his former teammates. To a man, they all said what a great player Big Tex had been, how he'd been an inspiration for youngsters everywhere with his dedication to hard work and his love of the game. Young people today needed a hero like Big Tex, they said, someone they could look up to as a role model, not just in terms of how to play the game of baseball, but in how to live life. It was the day after that, the day after Big Tex Dunbar died, when Denny called. He said he'd just been diagnosed with lung cancer. |
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| Pack Of Lies glenlee10@sky.com |
#5 of 8 |
| 1119 words | |
| Feather light fronds of sound stroked my attention, and I was surrounded by whisperings, wherever I went. Their sinister sibilance oozed from taps; babbled from the kettle; seeped from the walls and the ceilings. The toilet cistern insisted I was insane and a pigeon on the roof sighed its guilty verdict down the runnel of the chimney. I sought deliverance in the garden but falling leaves rustled my secrets; denunciations rose in volume as their calumny increased. Nearby a door slammed, punctuating the lies and a motorbike roared down the street, underlining their malevolence. I was driven back inside by a storm. but hailstones on the window hammered home the mendacity of the condemnations. “But it’s not true,” I sobbed. “I’m not mad. I’m not.” The whirlwind of voices ceased for a moment, heard me out. Then from a small hiss, they started all over again. |
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| Pack Of Lies justmonicainwf@yahoo.com |
#6 of 8 |
| 118 words | |
| Tell me that you love me Even if you don't; Promise that you'll stay with me Even if you won't. Cause that's what liars do They are never true; They tell their pack of lies And leave when they are through. Guess what day it is No the calendar's not a clue; It may be January But it's my Freedom Day from you. Yeah I learned what liars do They are never true; They tell their pack of lies And leave when they are through. The phone rang late last night I should have known it was you; You told me that you loved me And you vowed you would be true. Yeah, well, that's what liars do They are never true; Tell someone else your pack of lies Cause I'm not in love with you. |
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| Pack Of Lies A. Wyatt Crain crain.adam@gmail.com |
#7 of 8 |
| 992 words | |
| My best friend, Raquel only slapped when she knew she
had to. She slapped me once when I made out with someone’s girlfriend at a
dance; once when I cried hysterically over the girl I cheated on; and once when
I got incredibly sappy when talking about a girl. I knew she would slap me
right now if she knew what I was thinking, what I was doing. It was hot, just
enough to make a thin layer of sweat form on my upper lip. The room was quiet,
too quiet; I looked beside me to find him with his eyes closed. I cleared my
throat, and he opened them, not groggy from sleep quite yet. He looked at me,
brown eyes calm and serene. “You ready?” He asked. “I’m a little nervous,” I squeak. And I was. I had never been in this position before, even if I had lied to him and told him I had been. He was assuming that I knew everything from here, but I didn’t! I had no clue where to proceed. “Have you ever been with anyone before?” His left eyebrow arched as he asked the question that I was terrified to answer. I swallowed and nodded, figuring a simple non-verbal answer didn’t count as lying. I was shaking as I slipped under the cover, heading for the great unknown. I hoped it’d be just like in the movies; everything should flow smoothly, no questions now. He was wearing white boxers that smelled like detergent, and his stomach smelled like soap. He must’ve showered before coming here. He must’ve known exactly what he was coming here for. When he called, I’d been calm, secure, and now it felt like that was years ago. I felt like a completely different person. I took in a breath, and mustered up the courage that I needed. “Kiss me.” I said softly, hoping he would hear me. “Hmm?” he replied. “Please?” I quietly begged, staring up at him from under the quilt. He rose up slowly, just staring back at me. He told me that my blue eyes reminded him of Lake Ponchatrain, the summers he spent playing on its shores. He told me stories, but he elaborated when he needed to. I knew that the lake was simple, man-made, and had no accessible shores. But in his mind it did, so my eyes stood for his imagination, just like Lake Ponchatrain. My face was tiny compared to his hands yet it fit ever so perfectly in them. I felt self-conscious all of a sudden, and broke eye contact in fear that I’d done something wrong. My eyes travelled down the patchwork of the quilt, past the threads and fabrics in their intricacy. My eyes hazed over like when I drive at night, like light gauze being held over them. I was only awoken by the feeling of his lips, chapped, and perfect. He didn’t pressure me like the others did; he was perfectly fine with a kiss that was simple and old-fashioned. He pulled my body up towards his and we were just laying there, skin against skin, staring into each others arms. All of a sudden, she didn’t matter any more. Oh, I knew she’d be waiting for him when he left here, but until then I was his. I was the single living thing that he cared about in that moment, and if she had any problem with that, fuck her. I’d walk into class tomorrow and look at her, wishing she knew what he did to me. But I wouldn’t. I told him I wouldn’t. Would I? “Do you love me?” He whispered into my ear. “Hmm?” I replied, not knowing if I heard him correctly. “Please say you do.” “I love you, so much that it hurts to see you walk away.” As I said this, his big brown eyes filled up with tears. It was in that moment that I really, truly, head over heels fell in love. I had grown up trying to be a real man, playing football, shying away all homosexual thoughts until I had convinced my body to be straight. The lies eventually became my life; they consumed me until I was a character in a play that I had written. The moment I met Him I knew that entire struggle was for nothing. With him, the straight lie never existed. He was the only truth in my world. We lay there holding each other and suddenly his phone rang, and I saw who it was. Her. “Hello?” He answered gruffly, and I heard her tinny, annoying voice reply, trying to win him over again. “Listen babe,” he explained, “I gotta go. But we need to talk later; I really need to explain some shit to you.” He talked for a few seconds more, but I just watched him. I admired him, and took notes; after all I’d be doing this same routine with my girl when she called in a few minutes. He hung up, and dropped his phone to the ground, smiling at me. “I’ve never been with a guy before.” I confessed, giggling into his chest. “I know, kid. That’ll change.” He smiled, brushing his hands through my hair. I wanted Lake Ponchatrain just then. I wanted Her to go away into its depths and never come back. I wanted Raquel to slap me and make me think straight. No, I wanted her to slap me and make me think like her. She would never lay next to a boy with a girlfriend. She would never kiss him; she would never let him into her heart. But I guess that's the beauty of friendship, isn't it? I'd ask her opinion tomorrow, and she'd slap me then. Maybe even twice. And for once in my life, I wasn’t nervous about it; about him. I knew that the pack of lies that separated me from my true self could be buried in the back yard. I stopped shaking, and just laid there listening to his heart. Beat. Beat. Beat. |
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| Pack Of Lies Colin W Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#8 of 8 |
| 602 words | |
| "They're not pets, so don't get too attached to them."
The Commander spoke gently for he remembered his own first time in Earth orbit.
And the second, and the third, and what it means to be posted here for a
lifetime. He took his hands off the controls suddenly. It was just enough to
start a little high speed wobble for the auto-assist to correct. A sideways
glance at the cadet in the co-pilot seat showed the young reptilian was now
fully focused on the re-entry protocols. He could relax as he said, "You take
the ship down." Cadet 402 replied briskly and correctly, "Sir, yes Sir. Not pets. No Sir. What we think about them is in no way mission critical. Taking us down now. Sir." Just for a moment, the Commander reached over and gently touched the firm young scales where the uniform revealed a glimpse of glistening upper body. They had been together, alone in deep space for a long time. "Listen to you now," he said. "No more problems with your English. You sound just like something from these old movies you watched over and over again, until you got it right." "Okey," she said without taking her eyes off the controls. "I know it's not completely natural, but it doesn't need to be. We're not here to negotiate. I guess I'll be one of the last majoring in English. The cadets in the cohort below me in Space Academy were getting Mandarin. They said the Earth can change quite a lot in a century." "And a week's a long time in politics." "What?" "Remember your cultural orientation." The Commander smiled as he spoke. "It's not only about knowing how to speak. It's what you say that counts." "Like telling them about you-know-what by saying we might have a few friends coming. It's a silly language anyway," said Cadet 402. "But it was you who volunteered for the mission and for the language." There was a hint of disapproval in his voice so the cadet leaned over to touch him ever-so-gently on the knee. She knew that always worked. "Rising to the cultural challenge she said, "But can you name me an Earth politician you would buy a used car from." "Oh any of them," he said, "The few that think they know about us, do what they're told. And the ones who don't know, don't matter." And then they were setting down on the surface of the deep blue ocean. She was pleased they were perfectly positioned above the under-sea base. It was getting dark. The cadet thought that later she might come up topside to enjoy the fresh breeze. Something really natural after being in deep space for so long. Just as they were slipping below the waves the Commander turned and said, "And there is something I need to tell you. My wife is stationed here beside me. So we'll need to forget about what went on in deep space. I'm sorry I should have told you before, but you know what it's like in deep space." "How could you," said Cadet 402. She spoke with a chill hiss. She had a forceful look in her eyes that the Commander had never seen in there before. It was a look she had kept hidden as they traveled through deep space. Like she had hidden the fact that she had known all along about the wife waiting on Earth. Most of all, she had hidden her ambition to rise rapidly through the ranks. And now she had the leverage to do just that. |
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