WARNING PG -13 Story

The following story is fiction and was the first I ever submitted for
publication, its was soundly rejected...............................


It wasn’t the first time I’ve ever been asked that question, but at this

seemingly eternal second my mind began playing ostrich by burying

any speech function I had deep into the gray matter of my past.


I never have really thought much about why I tell lies. I have always

figured that most men are gifted, or cursed depending upon one’s

moral codes in the truthfulness arena. Some tell the truth always, and I

think those are the one’s we end up seeing as they argue with

themselves about whether the voices really meant it. I would believe

that since we, as a whole are still repopulating our planet that the

majority of men do lie, regularly. It is a survival skill that I believe is

past from generation to generation. I am not making this stuff up

when I say that, but I am also not able to point you towards proof. As

far as my own lying goes I have found it to be a very covenant method

of staying alive. What I mean is that some lies were created to keep me

out of jail, divorce court or from that line at the local Unemployment

Department that always seemed to have such an above average

number of unretained people all clustered together in such close

proximity. This is not a happy place and I want to do everything I can



to not make the lines bigger for those who suffer there. Most of my lies

have just been your run of the mill, standard white lies. There have

been a mix of a few half-truths, and some quarter half-truths, but my

stories have never killed or harmed anyone that I liked. I first started

by telling the easy ones, and then later I worked up to the creative

ones that I could formulate at 3:00 in the morning after being woken

up out a very satisfying deep sleep. Say, perhaps by a woman asking

me if I love her, or quite possibly questioning me on just whose panties

these were now twirling from her finger. Sometimes I lie because the

truth seems so bland, and my version is much more vivid. Sometimes

my lies became truth, and that is kind of strange but as long as I am

not affected why fight it. White lies live inside my head, and they

bloomed and have reached a state where no one can tell lie from fact

anymore. It is an art form to be able to convince an Eskimo to buy the

extra ice trays with his new refrigerator.



I can remember the very day that I learned in school that not only was

it bad to lie, but that it was very very bad. I often wondered how much

more the two verys might add to a punishment, but I never asked

anyone who ever found out. My third grade teacher had attempted to

explain to her wide assortment of young minds that once you told your



first lie that you then had to remember who, and what you had told

someone. I soon found it was much better for me to make up an even

bigger whopper when confronted with a past; telling of fabrication

then admitting I had lied. While some had nodded in agreement with

that teacher, and others begin breaking down, even weeping, I can

remember thinking, so, we’re talking what, two sets of memory books

here? Please understand that up until that very moment, I had never

knowingly told a lie.


I was a good kid growing up, and I did what I was told. I understood

that death was a socially accepted punishment for bad children. Many

of my friends had been sent away to “live with Grandma.” I never did

bad things, because I also knew that if I did, someone else’s parent

could jump out and catch me doing stuff when my folks weren’t

around. They could accuse a kid of anything remotely resembling a

crime. Adults had it down. They ran a tight ship and we children rowed.

They watched each other’s backs, and they could, according to some

ancient code of parenting, chew your butt until your Mom or Dad

wondered onto the scene.


I spent the rest of that day staring off into my A.D.D. distance, soaking

up the possibilities of just what this exciting new understanding held. I



knew that from this moment on, the boring existence of those past 8

years of my life wouldn’t be repeated. I saw flashing images of a

potential life on the run. Spent lying to get all my needs met. Sort of

like running with scissors and pinning the blame on some sap all

rushed into my mind. It was as if there was a dance of good and evil

battling, all taking place inside me with a polka band soundtrack. I saw

the plus side of both leg and wool pulling, and that made me feel like I

might be able to make it through not only 3rd grade, but through life

itself.


I spend the rest of my life honing those skills. I practiced them until my

timing was flawless. I could make up stuff effortlessly on the spot.

Stories were told even when my neck wasn’t out on some line, they

just popped out, and my lips were powerless from my imagination. My

reputation as a man who never lost a battle of words grew. My own

Mother believed me when I concocted the story of my adoption. Life

was like an abundant feast from where I could dine and drink from the

nectars of the gullible that I encountered each day. Words became my

sword, and my swift use of it ended any fight before cuffs could be

rolled. Those whose paths I crossed accepted my elephants as mere

decoration in my living room. My naked kings paraded freely with no

willing accusers, and this time would be no different. I took an


undetectable breath, turned towards her, and looking her straight in

the eye, and said, “No, you are not fat.” I then turned my head and

watched as the little boy in my mind began to run with his scissors,

laughing and jumping on the good furniture.

I am not proud of what I had to do to survive, but survive I have. I

know what my inner voices mean, their just never very true.