The Liar

Every time she lied it crept up on her and latched on with its needlepoint teeth. It was as if she lived over a swamp, the way her lies came out of the soggy ground. They were the size of teacups, flesh-colored and insidious.

She lied about everything, and for each lie a new creature would start seeking a fresh patch of her flesh. It hurt. She couldn’t stop.

The final lie came on a sunny day in June. By then she had been lying for years, and the lies had covered her so completely that even her cheeks bore tiny monsters, dangling by their silver mouths. Her gown was full and white and misshapen, made to order in a shape that would cover the layers of lies that crept up her legs like tumors, covered her full belly, and swung from her upper arms.

“I do,” she said. “I do.”
The final lie came out of the grass and began its long climb up the ladder of its fellows, drawn to the only place on her body as yet unbitten. It was going to hide inside her mouth, swollen and angry.

It was the answer to her problems.

View this story's 1 comments.