Glasswalker: Reflections

The Lie

Frankie struck the mirror. In his mind, he was thinking of the other mirror he'd just exited from. But he also held the memory of the mirror he'd just struck. Two mirrors, their memories held equally in his mind. Somehow, he felt his mind stretch. He gave a mental push. Something popped.

Steam misted, sound muffled, then he stumbled back out the other side. Two images were in his vision, like he was seeing cross-eyed. It brought a wave of nausea, but Frankie shoved it down. With that shove, he was back to seeing only one image . . . yet he could still sense the other, could still direct it in a tucked away corner of his mind.

There was the Parasite, standing directly ahead in the hallway. Not a mirror image this time; the real monster. And, beyond the Parasite, there was someone else. It was Frankie.

"You see the whole," Frankie said. "And I'm a part of that whole, so you can always see me. But now I've made myself two parts."

The Parasite shrieked: a wrathful, rising sound. "No!"

"Oh I'm sorry," Frankie said. "Was I not supposed to do that?" He gave his cheekiest of grins.

Honestly, he wasn't sure exactly how he had done it, or why. It had just felt right. Instinct. The instinct of the fae, perhaps. Could he do it again?

The Parasite launched itself at the alternate Frankie. Frankie's mind focused into that one's body; controlling it, he sidestepped. But the Parasite wasn't going for him. It struck the mirror, slammed itself against it, the mirror that this alternate Frankie had stepped from. A spiderweb of cracks shattered its face. The alternate Frankie exploded into jagged fragments of light that melted quickly into the air.

The real Frankie gasped. He mind zoomed back into his body, and he vomited from the inertia and the sudden sense of loss. His puke splattered the floor.

"No matter," the Parasite said to him. His chilling smile had returned. "I've fought those of you capable of making reflections. You weren't supposed to, but I can deal with this. It is nothing more than an annoyance."

"No," Frankie said. He gritted his teeth. "The mirrors are mine." He launched himself at another mirror, creating another reflection across the hallway from him. He reached up a hand; his fingertips met the fingertips of the reflection for the briefest of seconds. They both looked at the Parasite as he charged.

Frankie stepped back into the mirror. Another reflection, who stepped out behind the Parasite. And then again, creating another ahead of him. And another . . . and another . . . .

The reflections began to fight, Hammering the Parasite from all sides. He went for their mirrors, shattering them and their bodies. Sometimes he sank his claw-nails into a reflection's chest, and it shattered along with its mirror. As fast as he killed them, Frankie created them.

A purple bruise blossomed on the Parasite's cheek. Blood dribbled from his lip.

He ripped a reflection's heart out. Sank his teeth into a reflection's heart. Smashed one's head against its own mirror.

Frankie felt each death, like losing a part of himself. And he could still feel them. Phantom limbs: he'd heard them described this way. But he was gaining them quickly, and the birth of a new reflection did nothing to assuage the passing of an older one.

All the reflections closed in; the real Frankie joined them. An all-out assault, pressing against the Parasite, trying to crush him with bodies. Then he forced a circle of space around himself and he screamed.

It was like before, but the scream rose higher, raged longer, filled the labyrinth like a coursing river of ice. Mirrors shattered. Reflections vanished in blinding light. The real Frankie covered his ears and found himself yelling.

The Parasite's face drained even whiter, if possible, and he fell to his knees. He and Frankie locked eyes. Then Frankie stabbed him.

He left it in the eye socket: a broken fragment of glass. It had sliced the skin of Frankie's palm when he grabbed it. In a way, it was a sliver of one of his own reflections.

The Parasite tumbled over.

Frankie jerked gasping breaths into his lungs. He blinked, and the hallway returned to normal. All the mirrors were fixed. Little sign of the recent battle.

But Frankie's hand still bled. The Parasite's body still lay on the floor, blood pooling under it.

Frankie knew instinctively that he would be able to escape, now. He wanted to leave. But he had one thing left to do.

He stumbled down the hallways, not mirrorwalking, using his regular legs. The stench of rot grew stronger. Finally, he came upon the body of the girl. Another mirrowalker, the Parasite had said. A dead one. Although the stench was overpowering, Frankie stooped, hoisted her onto his shoulder, and slowly stood. She deserved a proper burial. Then, looking no more at the maze of mirrors, he stepped into the wall ahead of him.

He walked away from the Parasite's lair.

The Truth

All done with the mirrorwalker story. Thanks for reading! Sorry it took so long; another idea has seized me. It is simple and sad and insistent. I don't think I'll be posting any of it to this blog, however.

Whew! Have a good night.

Glasswalker: Seven Years Bad Luck

This is the third part of the short Glasswalker story I've been writing as a spin-off to the Daily Lie section. If you want the other two parts, links to all the Lies can be found here. The previous Glasswalker links are numbers eleven and twelve.

Enjoy!

The Lie

Steam misted in front of Frank Gossamer's vision. Then it cleared. He was staring at a hundred copies of himself.

He let out a startled yell before he realized what he was staring at. A mirror. Mirrors, actually, a long hallway of them, leading to his right and left. Mirrors ahead and mirrors behind. What more could a glasswalker want?

Well, home, for one thing . . . .

"Hello, Frankie."

He yelped again and whirled. A man in a bowler hat was standing there, one who definitely hadn't shown up in the reflection a moment ago.

"You know those stories," the man said, "where the monster makes friends with the unwary traveler, first earning his trust, then luring him to his death? Well, I'm not going to do that. You should count yourself lucky. Isn't that gracious of me?"

Frankie blinked. The man leapt.

His face twisted and warped, the eyes becoming larger, the skin becoming tighter and more waxen. His teeth elongated and curved into vampiric fangs. His fingers reached for Frankie, each of them sprouting a wickedly long, yellow nail. Frankie screamed and ran.

He'd been around mirrors all his life, learned to take comfort in them. Young Frankie, tossle haired and with tear-stained cheeks, running his fingers over a mirror's cool surface. The night his parents died. Blackness, then . . . .

"No," Frankie whispered. Mirrors were his. His safety. His refuge. When the world scared him, then were what he had. They were the only thing he had.

"Please run faster, Frankie," the man said. His voice rebounded off the corridor as Frank sprinted away. "I am The Parasite, and I am coming to feast on your marrow, twist in your gut. You haven't even started glasswalking, yet!"

Frankie ran. With all the mirrors surrounding him, distance lost perspective. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Where was the Parasite? His reflection wasn't right. It showed up on different mirrors, but not mirrors across from each other, and with different poses and different expressions for the reflections. Here the parasite was sprinting forward with a snarl, here it was standing with a smirk, arms folded . . . .

What was that awful smell?

Frankie turned back around, and smack. His head struck a mirror. His only warning had been a brief glimpse of his own reflection growing larger as it ran towards him. Ordinarily, Frankie could run through mirrors, but to do that, he had to know about them first and had to have a jumping location fixed in his mind.

Blackness . . . and the smell of rot . . . .

"Break a mirror, seven years bad luck!" the Parasite's voice called. It seemed to speak from right beside Frankie. "Though in your case, I think the time will be significantly shorter . . . ."

There, to the left! An opening! Frankie dashed through it, forcing himself not to gag at the rising smell. It reminded him exactly of the smell on his first mirror-jump. He ran down a straight hallway till he came to an intersection with another hallway. He took the first left, and . . . Oh, Lord.

A body lay slumped against the mirror, partly decayed. A girl. The source of the smell, with brown claw marks across her through. From finger nails.

Frankie was back, seven years ago, vividly remembering his first-ever jump.

His parents' funeral, earlier in the day. He went home, no more tears left, ran his fingers over the cool glass of the bathroom mirror . . . a flash of mist . . . blackness, and the smell of rot . . . he'd mirror-jumped to inside his parents' joint coffin. The reflective black siding had made an excellent doorway.

No. He wrenched himself from the memories. He couldn't panic. He forced himself to stop. The mirrors were his. Running like this -- like a frightened rat in a monster's trap -- it wasn't right. He looked to the mirror wall beside him and took a breath, then stepped into it. In his mind, he fixed the first point where he'd entered the maze. It looked the same as every other point, but he differentiated internally.

He stumbled out of the mirror, and . . . the Parasite was standing there. No, that was just his reflection. But it smiled, and it spoke.

"I am always so amused by your mad scrambles. Every time I bring one of you here, you think you can outrun me. Out-jump me. Hide from me. But I am above you, looking down, and so I see the whole, and am in every part of the maze. What do you hope to accomplish?"

Frankie started. The Parasite saw the whole . . . but . . . .

Frankie took off running for a mirror. Laughter echoed around him. It pursued him.

The Truth

I don't have time to really edit any of these lies, so the quality is crummy, but I quite like the ideas and mythology that went into these Glasswalker ones. Maybe I'll do something longer with them, if I ever get the chance. I think one more left!

Glasswalker: Through a Glass Darkly

The Lie

The door opened. A silver-haired woman stepped in.

Her face was lined and grandmotherly, but somehow still hard. Her skin was stretched taunt over the sharp angles of her cheeks. As she entered the room fully, she did not smile.

Frankie remained standing, eyes widening as he looked her over and edged back. She wore a deep blue skirt and a loose, silver, long-sleeved shirt. It somehow looked medieval. Though she didn't appear to need it, the woman also carried a cane, undecorated and made of some light-colored wood. It bent as she flexed it against the floor.

Frankie shuddered. It all crashed into him -- the fear and clouding confusion at someone who knew more about Frankie's powers than he did. All he really knew was that he had them. Was this how others felt when Frank mirror-walked in front of them?

"I swear," Frank said, "I was always going to put those batteries back. I didn't want to steal them. I --"

"Shut. Up."

He did.

The woman walked a half-circle around him, eyes flicking over him. Face cold. Impassive.

"Do you know what you can do?" the woman asked.

"I . . . I can jump through mirror. Through reflections, I mean. This . . . it's something like that movie Jumper, isn't it? Like I've been misusing the stuff, and you're this secret society, sort of like police, that hunts us and wants to--"

"If I must silence you again, I will beat you within an inch of your life." She raised the cane-tip off the carpet. Frankie paled.

"Better," the woman said. She seemed to finally finish her inspection, then moved back to the center of the room, hands folded over the cane's straight handle. "You are, of course, a glasswalker."

Frankie shook his head and shrugged.

"Someone with fae blood who can use their old roads. It doesn't mean there's anything noble or magical about you. You've already proven that, as if we needed proof. Your sort always do. There's precious little of the old blood left, and nothing special about it anymore except the occasional manifestation of glasswalking, a penchant for sleepwalking, and some rare infant disappearances. It would be better for everyone if those bloodlines vanished entirely." She sighed. "Ah, well. Old promises to keep until that day comes, I suppose."

"Excuse me, but the fae, what does that . . . ."

Her arched eyebrow silenced him.

"You will be offered the same contract I give to all the others. Asylum for the span of one-hundred years. You will not age, will not decay, will never enter danger."

"Wow, really? That doesn't sound so bad."

"You will remain locked in this chamber of the barrow. You will never leave and will never touch or communicate with the outside world. You will have no visitors. All mirrors will remain closed to you."

"You're kidding."

She narrowed her eyes. "You may, of course, choose to reject the contract."

"What, you mean rather than stay locked in a room for -- what did you say -- one hundred years? That's ridiculous, lady!"

"Very well." She turned away. "You may go."

Frankie blinked. "What did you say?"

"I said you may go. I wish that the scavengers would have all of you, filthy degenerates that the bloodlines have become. Leave. The road is open."

Frankie looked at the black mirror on the wall. It looked the same, yet . . . something had changed. Shifted. It seemed more ordinary.

He took a step towards it, then glanced back. He'd heard a few stories like this as a kid. This was the part where the mentor stopped the hero with a last, parting comment. But when he looked at the room, the lady was already gone.

He stepped through the dark looking-glass.

Not quite how I imagine the chamber in this story. Should be more medieval, with cloth draped over the walls.

The Truth

A continuation of yesterday's story. I think one, maybe two more parts. Thanks for reading! If you want a much better story about this sort of mythology, read the wonderful Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.

Glasswalker: Other Side of the Glass

The Lie

Frankie Gozzomer sprinted down the Walmart aisle.

"Stop, thief!"

He chuckled at the puffing security guard jogging after him. He'd been working on his chuckle; he was rather proud of it. Smug without too much throat, and just a touch of ominous.

Frank was being careful not to run too far ahead, which was tricky. This security guard was seriously out of shape. That, and . . . he didn't seem to be trying.

Frankie's eyes widened for an instant. Then he smiled.

Directly ahead, another blue-shirted guard stepped into the aisle. This one wasn't as portly as the other: it was a muscular woman with stiff features and a serious scowl. She'd better be careful. If she kept that look on her face it might stick that way.

Frank twisted on his heels, sliding a few feet on the slick floor. The woman's fingers actually scrambled to clutch his shirt. But too slow . . . he sprinted sideways, down a frozen goods aisle. Ice-cream cartons and the like. A shelf full of frozen peas. He ran full throttle, both guards colliding and now running behind him down the aisle.

They were gaining, and he was running straight for a reflective glass door. Five feet. He could see the logo on the Moose Tracks behind the door. Four feet, three feet, two feet . . . he leapt.

Frankie's body slammed into the door, and he barely heard the startled exclamations of the security guards before all sound muted. Like plunging underwater. And the world sort of . . . well . . . frosted over, like looking through a steamed up window.

He came out the other side.

It wasn't, strictly speaking, the other side. But sure felt like it. Felt like he'd run straight forward through a puff of steam, and had come out of the glass he'd fixed in his mind: the door in front of the frozen peas he'd seen earlier.

The guards gasped and stared at the door for a good five seconds. After Frank stumbled out, he stopped to catch his breath and lean against the door. He fixed his cheekiest smile on his face. At least he hoped it was cheeky; he hadn't had much time to practice that one.

"Hey!"

The male guard must've caught sight of Frankie's grinning reflection, because he whirled and pointed a trembling finger in Frank's direction. Frank waved, then held up the carton of cheapo batteries he'd nicked earlier.

"Stop! . . . please."

That made him laugh, and then he took off again. The guards jogged hesitantly after.

He leapt through glass cases and came out of countertops, leapt through TV screens and came out of household mirrors, ran into the bathroom and came out of the tile floor, right behind the male guard. Apparently the chick was shy. Finally he grew bored and set the batteries down on a toy shelf as he jogged by. Then he headed back for the mirror section in the household goods. He'd discovered around age thirteen that using a solid reflection allowed him to travel further distances than a simple opaque reflection, like a window. Jumping through this mirror, he should come out a good distance away, in the full length mirror he had set up in the back of his minivan out in the parking lot.

He leapt. But didn't enter any minivan.

He stumbled to a halt in utter blackness, gasping. A dim, pale light flickered on above his head. His vision spun, and remained clouded; somehow, he wasn't able to quite shake free the frost that covered his eyes whenever he jumped. He tried blinking rapidly, hoping that would help, and looked back the way he'd come. A spike of worry grabbed him.

The entire wall was a mirror: a black mirror, still dully reflective but not enough to see himself in. Tentatively, Frankie placed a hand against it. Cold. Colder than it should've been. Like it was draining the heat from his skin.

Frankie shivered and pulled back, then took a running start and jumped at the mirror. He smacked his head. He turned back to the room, which was all unreflective cloth except for the mirror. Then the door opened.

The Truth

I might or might not continue this as a mini-series. It comes from an adventure my aunt had at Walmart today: she reached a door at the same time as someone else on the other side, then tried opening it for them, but realized it was actually the reflection of a person behind her. That's where this comes from.

Would you like to see this continued as a short, three or four episode series? Let me know in the comments!

Have a good night!

Time Flies

The Lie

Time in the factory ain't reliable. What I mean by that is, five minutes on the clock can be an hour's weight in blood, sweat, and tears. Greenhorns is always complaining about this, which I never did understand. The factory has always been like that, for as long as I . . . I can . . . remember . . . .

What were I saying?

Anyway, there's this new Hoss we just hired, real green, first week on the job. I decided to show him a bit of the ropes, you foller me? After I taught him the proper way to unjam the stirrers, I ain't really too sure how he handled it, so I figured I should take it upon myself to educate the little greenhoss on the makin's of time. One afternoon, I went over to his table where he was busy foldin' and sortin' -- nothing I love more than the sound of a factory full of busy, hard-workin' employees all foldin' and sortin' -- and told him to foller me. His eyes got real huge like big ol' lug nuts. Maybe he thought it was gonna be something like what I showed him with unjammin' the stirrers. Weren't anythin' like that, though. This were regular stuff.

I took him down to the room where it all gets made, all the time. To get there, we had to go down through the three levels of the factory. I have the Masterkey, which I used to let us in through the airlocks. The first airlock hissed open, and we walked through hallways with green potted ferns on every shelf. Some greenhorns have asked what those is good for, but how else are we supposed to hide the chameleons?

We got to the elevator and took it down to the next floor, where I let us through the airlock again. This floor is where we have the scales that measure the blood, sweat and tears. All that comes from the employees, and it seeps down here through pipes, then they weigh it and decide how to pay those hardworkin' Hosses.

The last level is where it gets made. Time. I gave little Hoss a Zoot suit to protect himself, then put on one myself and opened the door. With a puff of gas the airlock hissed open, and there they were. The time flies. They was zippin' around, weaving little green strings behind them. We collect those strings and spin 'em up into balls of fabric and sell them in different increments. It's only one of the ways to make time for things, but it's a good 'un. People call it the string theory of time.

Like I say, we sell them balls in different increments. Say a company comes to us and wants to order a certain amount of time. They can order it in anything from hours to minutes to seconds. Of course, enough hours adds up to days which become weeks and months and years and so-on, but we don't sell it like that. Hours is as high as we go.

The little green Hoss pointed to the pipes juttin' from the ceiling of the fly room.

"What do those do?" he asked me.

"Why Hoss, that's where the waste comes down."

"Waste?"

"Sure. That's what we feed the flies on. Wasted time, wasted lives, wasted dreams." I nudged a pile of somethin' brown and splotchy with my foot. Looked like a deflated soccer ball that'd started to melt. "This right here was made by a parent who didn't go to her daughter's game. What a waste. But the flies love it."

Right as I said it, a whole swarm of the little critters buzzed over and started feastin.'

"So . . . what was all the soap for?" greenhorn asked. "The soap that the gnomes were stirrin'? I mean, stirring."

"Why Hoss, you don't expect people to make use of this time just as it is, do you? It comes outa flies and waste, boy! Naw, all this time has gotta be cleansed. Made new. Time redeemed, if ya speak like that."

Little greenhorn nodded, eyes still huge. What is it with these kids? Anyhow, I took him back up and sent him back to work.

An you know, it hadn't even been a minute since we'd gone down. I guess time don't always fly.

The Truth

This was a fun one to write. Work on Thursday seemed to drag exceptionally slowly, and so I wrote a bit of this in my head over the course of the ten-hour shift.

Factory Mother

The Lie

Mom and I walked through the big front doors of the factory. Well, I guess we didn't technically walk through them. That would be weird, like we were ghosts or something. But we walked inside. Together.

It was really warm in there, and there was this smell . . . a funny kind of smell. A bald man greeted us with a really big smile, which I guess is what happens when you're the daughter and wife of another foreman. I smiled back, although I felt shy, but Mom just nodded.

"Meredith and daughter," she said. "We had an agreement to work today."

The bald man's smile slipped a little, and his lips looked kind of stiff like when people are fake smiling for a picture. You know? But anyway, he guided us past tables to a big machine that kind of smelled like rubber, and showed us how to tug the lever, then press the button, then tug the lever, then press the button. That's how that machine worked, I guess.

He said it took two people - one to tug the lever and press the button and the other to count how many lever-tugs and button-presses the other one made. He gave Mom and notebook and a pencil for the recording. He brought both of us chairs.

"Comfortable, Misses?" he asked. "Alrighty, then. Now, just like I showed you."

I pulled the lever for the first time, and he gave me a smile before wandering away to swear at some workers. People really do swear a lot in factories. Mom put her phone on the chair arm and just sat there, slightly behind and beside me, making a scratch mark in her notebook every time I pulled the lever.

I guess we didn't really fit in. With the swearing, I mean, but also other stuff. Like we were both wearing gray company anniversary shorts and with black leggings, while all the other workers around us had on baggy jeans and uniforms with grease stains, stuff like that. One young man walked by, he kind of jutted out his neck to look at us -- it made me feel weird, for some reason -- and he had long blonde hair in braids, and blue-jeans that sagged down to here! You could see a wide patch of his underwear. It was gray. Mom gave me her look when she saw me noticing.

It didn't matter that we didn't fit in, though. Or that the boy with dreadlocks stared at us in such a funny way. I was there and Mom was there, and she'd come because of my idea. I couldn't believe it when she said yes. All she really thinks about now is money and how tight it is -- which I know I can't blame her for, she's just being responsible, but sometimes I really do with she would talk to me more or not be frowning when I try to tell her things. But that's one reason I had the idea and she agreed, because Daddy mentioned that one of his coworkers had his daughter do the same thing, that they pay you for coming in to help for a little bit. So when I suggested it, Mom really thought it was a good idea.

We worked there for, I don't know, maybe three hours. Then Mom said she was thirsty and it was hot in there and she needed a drink. So we stopped what we were doing -- I wonder if we were technically allowed to? -- and went to find the water fountain.

Well, it turned out there wasn't any water fountain, and when we finally got back, Mom was really frowning. It was that frown. And I felt a little bit bad, and after everything had been going so well! We hadn't actually been talking, but we'd been sitting together for three hours, which was really, really nice.

Then Mom gasped. She was staring at her seat -- especially at the arm of it. Her phone was gone.

"Thief!" she shrieked. It was really loud; everyone could hear. The Foreman froze where he was walking between the lines of machines and cranked his head around to look at us.

"There's a thief here!" Mom said. "Someone stole my phone! Check everyone."

"Now Mrs. Hursey," the bald man started to say, but Mom said "No, check everyone. I am not paying for a new phone."

My face grew warm, not just from the factory heat. He scratched his bald head and looked like he wanted to say something, but finally swore at the workers and called them all to stop what they were doing and stand in a line.

Mom marched up and down in front of them, demanding her phone. The foreman stood behind her, with a look on his face that wasn't sure whether to laugh or be irritated. I stayed back by the machine.

I kept my eyes low, trying not to watch, nudging around the cloths that'd fallen on the floor with the toe of my sneaker. Then I bumped something hard. From out of the pile, I pushed Mom's phone. It must've fallen.

"Mom . . . ." I said.

"Not now, Lisa." She whirled around to glare at me.

"Well . . . ." I said. Then I saw her face, all red and sweating. "It was nothing, anyway."

And I nudged Mom's phone back under the cloths.

The Truth

A mother and daughter did come in to work at the factory today, but none of what I just said happened. I tried for a slightly different style today. I've lately been interested in diverse viewpoints. As before, I haven't had time to edit.

Boss Hoss and the Jammin' Stirrers

The Lie

I stood in the factory workroom, a small cog in the healthy bustle of activity: hissing hydraulics, ringing bells, carts clattering as workers wheeled them to and fro. The whole place smelled like cloth, and oil, and all those other factory-ish smells.

Somewhere off in the building, an buzzer sounded. About seven seconds later, it was followed by a droning voice over the intercom.

"Luke Wildman to the main office, Luke Wildman, please report to the main office." I looked up from the table where I'd been working and headed off with a shrug.

Clint, one of the big bosses, was waiting for me when I arrived. "Hey there, Hoss! Come on, then -- we're gonna teach you how to unjam the soap stirrers!"

I followed him back through the workroom, winding between tables and around a forklift that beeped as it backed up. We eventually reached a wooden paneled of wall, but when I looked for a door handle, he shook his head and pointed to a small cubbyhole door. It was about 2x2 feet large.

"They're in there," Clint said.

I raised my eyebrows as he pulled a thin chain from around his neck, on the end of which swung a huge, brass key. It was all knobby on the end, like a key of old.

I raised my eyebrows even higher when Clint bent down on hands and knees, unlocked the door, and crawled in.

"Come on, Hoss!" his voice echoed back. "Why ya so slow today?"

I crawled through after his disappearing sneakers. They were white, and glowed luminous in the grime of the little service tunnel.

We crawled past pipes and wires. At one point Clint paused as a vent belted steam directly ahead of us. Even from where I crouched, I could feel the heat off it. Finally, the room widened into a slightly larger chamber, though still not large. Five different hose openings led downward from the floor. And twirling around the hoses, there were . . . gnomes. And they were dancing.

Each wore a pair of blue worker's overalls and a red cap low over the ears. One of them had a tiny guitar, made of a matchbox, toothpicks, and some frayed rubber-bands. Another gnome sat at a tiny drum-set, hammering away on bottle-cap symbols. I think I also saw a macaroni saxophone in there, too.

"Hoss, I hate it when the stirrers start jammin'! Here they are, supposed to be mixin' the soap, and instead they're dancin' and merrymakin'! But there's a trick, I'll show ya. When they get like this, ya just gotta show 'em who's boss."

He reached down and plucked the tiny needle off a tiny record swirling on its tiny record-player. The music scratched and then stopped as the musicians stopped playing and the dancing trailed off.

"Hey, what's the big idea!" said the miniature guitarist.

"Now little Hoss, you know you ain't supposed to be jammin' durin' work hours! Who's gonna stir the soap and pour it down them pipes?"

The gnomes hung their heads.

"I ain't mad at'cha," Clint said. "Just so as we understand each other."

He thrust his thumb over his shoulder without looking at me, and I squeezed around in the tight space and crawled back out. Hoss, I mean Clint, followed me. He slapped the dust from his knees.

"So that's watcha do, when the stirrers start jammin'. Think ya can remember that?"

I nodded. "How could I forget?"

He gave me and odd look and turned away. "Now, get yerself back to work, Hoss. What you so slow today for?"

The Truth

The generic factory setting and boss named Clint are both true. The gnomes probably are not. I did have a boss who constantly referred to underlings as "Hoss," though that was at the painting job I worked last summer.

Also, I really don't have time to edit, these days. I apologize for and ask you to please, please forget any errors.

Good Morning, Psychopath

It's a short one, today. Gotta get ready for bed. The morning comes too early.

The Lie

I yawned as I walked to my minivan, windshield glinting in the yellow light spilling from the garage. Five o'clock comes too early. But now that I have a summer job, that's when I have to leave for work.

The car locks all opened with a hard, mechanical click when I twisted the key. I tossed my lunch cooler onto the floor and clambered in.

I sat there for a few moments into the darkness, fiddling with the GPS. First morning on the job. I didn't know the route there very well.

Outside the car, everything was dark. Pitch black. The only light shone from those garage windows; above and around me, the already-black sky was blocked from sight by the thick oak trees overshadowing the driveway. Back here in the woods, there's nothing. Little sound, little light. Only my Aunt and Uncle's solitary house.

Someone knocked on the car window.

I won't pretend I didn't stiffen, or that my eyes didn't flick up. I scare easily. But still, I figured it was my Aunt, maybe come out to say goodbye. She'd already woken early to help me off, Lord love her.

It wasn't. It wasn't my Aunt's face pressing against the glass.

I yelped. I actually fell back in my chair, enough to make the seatbelt jerk, and you would've done the same. I swear you would've. I didn't get a good look at the face before falling, only a black profile and white eyes. But when I looked back up again, it was gone.

A trick of the light? A fantasy of my tired, overly-imaginative mind? Maybe.

Or maybe I'll find out, the next morning I leave for work.

The Truth

Work really does start at that sinfully early hour, and my lovely Aunt really did wake up, but no, there was no face. There can't have been. That had to have been my imagination . . . .

Sorry if there are errors in this one; I don't have time to edit.

Napalm in the Morning

The Lie

I scraped soil over the corn seeds, padding it down and moving on. Earth, moist and freshly churned, squeezed between my toes. Mosquitos buzzed my legs and face.

At least it wasn't too hot, yet. We'd started early in the family garden, and it was barely 8:30. I stepped over to cover dirt over the next batch of seeds. Then something snagged me.

I glanced down, and frowned. A small tendril of weed had somehow wrapped around my ankle. Then I noticed the rest of the garden. All across it, ground was churning and bubbling, tiny stems popping out every which way.

"Goblins!" Uncle Ron bellowed. He seized the weed whip that was jabbed into the earth beside him, then began laying about with the blade. "Defend yourself, Luke!"

"Uh . . . right . . . ."

An especially vigorous weed slapped my knee, thorn-scratches crisscrossing the skin. I yelped and squashed it, then began hacking away at the plants.

"It all began fifty years ago, when Grandpa Wildman contrived a plan to make sweet corn grow itself!" Uncle Ron said.

"Is this really the time for a dramatic backstory?"

"Stick to the script! All went well, until one fateful day when the wind picked up just as he was spraying his living corn potion!"

"'Living corn potion?' For reals?"

Uncle Ron whirled and hacked two plants in half as they snuck up behind him. In the air around us, a cloud of dandelion fluff drifted.

"The potion landed on some weeds, which came alive and strangled the corn! And it has been doing such every five years since, and only perilous battle can beat it back again, reclaiming this patch of earth by the sweat of our brows and the blood of our veins!"

"It's only a garden!" I yelled. Then, from somewhere out of sight, there came a drone. "What's that?"

"Air support!" Uncle Ron yelled. "Take cover!"

I looked up just in time to see a crop duster buzzing our heads, Aunt Sharon at the controls. She wore huge goggles and a pilot's jacket, with a scarf flapping in the wind.

"Napalm!" Aunt Sharon screamed. She laughed like a madwoman, then yanked a lever. The plane's bottom opened up; a glinting, churning liquid distorted the sky for a moment. Then it fell.

Uncle Ron grabbed me and dove, clearing the garden just in time. The weeds shriveled and died, curling and burrowing back into the sand. Uncle Ron looked up and chuckled. "Well, that'll beat them back another year! I love the smell of napalm in the morning!"

The Truth

Yes, we gardened this morning. No, the weeds did not turn sentient (though at times it seems that way), and Aunt Sharon did not release scalding napalm upon them. Really, do I actually need to clarify these things? By the way, I can't claim credit for the brilliant last line. You probably know this, but it comes from a well-known Vietnam movie, Apocalypse Now.

Off-Road Grandfather

The Lie

Today I visited my grandparents in their retirement community. It was raining heavily when I got there, and no one was outside except a couple of twenty-something landscapers digging up a latrine. I hurried in, hunched over the box of groceries my Aunt Sharon sent with me.

Grandma, Grandpa and I chatted for a few hours, he in his big armchair next to the window, watching the gray rain that slowly cleared away as the sun peaked through. The sky remained overcast, but the world slowly dried.

Grandpa and I went for a stroll, eventually. More of a roll -- he was in his motorized chair, and I walked alongside. We navigated the air-conditioned corridors, nodding greetings to old friends and eventually coming towards the end of a residential hallway. I expected Grandpa to stop and spin around. I'm telling you, he can turn that chair like a ballerina twirling in place. It's better than an amusement park ride. But instead of using those impressive one-point turn skills, Grandpa leaned the control stick all the way forward and headed straight for the exit, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

We were free.

He took it slow, at first. We cruised at moderate speed in a semi-circle around the building, coming at last to a division in the path -- one sidewalk continued on a nice, even slope, and the other zig-zagged its way down a steep hill, running along the edge of a drop-off. Don't ask me why they have frickin' Rainbow-Road at my grandparents retirement community.

Grandpa, of course, being the mild, sensible old fellow that he is, took the zig-zagging route.

He nudged his chair forward carefully, me chewing my lip and glancing frequently at the perilous plummet to our left. I finally relax when he seemed content to merely amble, and that's when he did it. He floored the wheelchair.

You'd be surprised at how fast those things can go. Not that fast -- I kept up at a jog -- but the fact that I had to jog should tell you something. He gathered speed as we descended, then banked sharply left when we hit bottom. The chair swayed precariously. My grandpa cackled like a speed-demon, kicking it up a gear and pushing it full-throttle, wheels spinning and little engine whirring.

"Grandpa . . . ." I tried, but he wasn't listening.

A huge puddle suddenly spread out before us, flat and glinting, and he charged through it, mud swirling in his wake. Directly ahead were the two latrine-diggers. One of them was just wiping his brow and straightening up -- and that's when he saw the off-road wheelchair bearing down on him, mad-eyed racer at the controls.

They dove out of the way.

We finally pulled back up to the front of the retirement community, and rolled in. Grandma was wiping a cup with a drying towel when we reached the apartment, standing on tiptoe to put it away.

"Did you boys have a nice walk?"

"Well I dunno, Betty," Grandpa said. "I think maybe this guy goes too fast for me."

I swear he winked.

My Grandpa is cooler than your Grandpa

The Truth

Everything is true up till grandpa floored the wheelchair, although he did seem to egg in on at points. It's also true that their retirement community has the Rainbow-Road of all sidewalks.

Nondisclosure Enclosure

The Lie

I finally found a summer job. This morning was orientation, mostly a time to sign some papers and learn about the work I'll be doing. I pulled into the parking lot about 7:50, wheels crunching on gravel, then waited ten minutes and went in. The receptionist called down the hall, and a woman in colorful clothes toddled out, holding a Chinese-style fan. She kept flicking it open and batting it at herself while we walked.

She guided me to a conference room at the end of the hall and told me to take a seat, and to please wait a few minutes while someone else arrived. Then she left. She shut the door behind her.

I looked around. It was a standard workplace meeting room. A kamikaze housefly bopped repeatedly against a fluorescent bulb, the scratched table was empty except for a landline telephone, rigged up for conference calls. It was a large room with two doors: the one I'd entered through and a second one.

The second door opened.

The strangest, most wrinkled little figure I've ever seen scampered in on all fours, hands and feet scrabbling for purchase on the thin carpet. He whimpered -- an oddly high-pitched sound -- and dove under the table. I shoved my chair back, leaning down to stare, but then jerked upright a moment later as the door banged back again against the wall.

Two men rushed in, cursing. They were wearing white hazmat-suits with full plastic visors. One of the men carried what looked like a heavy-duty butterfly net; the other had a kennel-like contraption, and he opened it and set it up in the doorway. Then he took out a retractable cane, like a blind man's cane, and started prodding under the table.

The wrinkled little man -- or whatever he was -- dove straight for my chair. I drew my legs up and hugged my knees. He wrapped his arms around one of the chair legs and curled around it, whimpering something awful.

"Come on, Mowgli," one of the hazmat men said. "You know you have to come back."

The one with the butterfly net unzipped a pocket in the arm of his suit, and held out a handful of food. It looked brown and squishy. I know I recognized the smell, but couldn't quite place it. 'Mowgli' sniffed the air and slowly uncurled from my chair leg, then moved closer to the men, half-circling them. He looked so scared.

Finally, he stuck his nose into the mushy substance in the man's hand, and the man screamed "Gotcha!" and whipped the butterfly net over Mowgli's head. I confess, by this time I was kind of rooting for the poor guy. Mowgli struggled in the net, but the other guy prodded him with the cane, and finally they got him into the kennel and locked it up. Butterfly-hazmat dude gave me a little salute as they carried it out of the room. Mowgli was still whimpering.

A few minutes later, the woman with the Chinese fan returned. She acted like nothing had happened. Did she know?

"Shall we get started?" she asked. "First thing, we have some nondisclosure agreements for you to sign . . . ."

The Truth

Job orientation was today. The business group I'm working for isn't nearly as weird as the company I just lied about, unfortunately.

The only true parts come up until the second door opens. I think I stole part of this idea from a prank show I once saw. A girl had been set up with a fake job as a secretary in a sketchy doctor's office, and an actor came in pretending to be an embittered former patient. He had a large kennel-like box with him. The secretary heard him accusing the doctor of botching a surgery on his brother, then, to get vengeance, he "stabbed" the doctor with a syringe and opened up the box, setting free the dwarf-actor who was playing his brother. The dwarf scampered around the room on all fours, attacking the doctor before rushing at the terrified secretary.

Why does anyone watch those prank shows? Oh, that's why.

Tippecanoe Indeed

The Lie

This summer, I've been staying with my aunt and uncle. It's a gorgeous stone-and-wood house, nestled back in the forest away from the road. The Tippecanoe river flows behind us, gentle and tugging. It was storming outside when I woke this morning, smacking the windowpanes of my bedroom, bending the trees and rippling the surface of the river. Gray rain danced and spat. Later in the day, with the Tippecanoe nice and high, I went kayaking.

I went with my aunt. We paddled our way upstream, past banks hedged with rushes and rotten logs, where mallards hunted for insects. We paddled about an hour, then reached the bridge where the road passes over the river and flipped our noses around to let the current carry us back. I dug an apple from my pocket. We'd both brought chilled Pepsi's, and my aunt hissed hers open while I slipped into the river, resting my stomach on the kayak and paddling gently with my legs, just enough to stay on course. I went slightly ahead, finding it surprisingly easy to navigate by sometimes trailing my body in the water and sometimes swimming alongside. But I glanced back when my aunt made a slightly strangled sound.

Somehow, her kayak had gone sideways and was being pressed against a log by the current, unable to move forward and unable to move over to the side. An easy problem, one that could happen to anyone. Aunt Sharon managed to thrust her kayak away from the log, but it was still sideways, and the river threatened to capsize it. It teetered on its edge for a moment, my aunt leaning desperately back the other way as she clung to her glasses, her oar, and her Pepsi . . . and then the kayak righted. It stabilized in the water for a moment.

Then something grabbed it.

Two arms, looking freakishly like rotten tree limbs, stabbed up through the water and seized my aunt's kayak. She gasped in a dignified manner, and I think I may be guilty of having shrieked like a little ten-year-old. A face and a body followed the arms, bearded in river-weed and garbed in scales of sodden leaves. Mud swirled around him from the torso down.

With his rotten arms, he seemed to be searching for something. He finally located the shining can bobbing upright in the river. Aunt Sharon's Pepsi. Both our eyes widened -- would the Rivergod punish us for dragging human pollution into his sacred domain? -- but he grunted, tilting his head back and pouring a gleaming amber arc down his throat. He wiped a sloppy hand over his lips, and said, "Catch that Pepsi Spirit," voice deep and vibrating like a bullfrog. Then the limbs and river-weed and rotten leaves tumbled apart into the river, all drifting away as separate pieces. Only a single, shining blue can remained, bobbing gently. My aunt and I looked at each other. She fished out the empty can. And we never spoke of it again.

Another lie: this pic is actually from several years ago, but same pic and same kayak.

The Truth

Aunt Sharon and I did go kayaking today. Everything happened up to the point where the kayak righted itself and the Rivergod arose. The kayak actually did flip over, and we spent awhile draining it and getting my aunt situated again. True fact, though: the can really remained upright and bobbing in the water. And unless my research is mistaken, "Catch that Pepsi Spirit" was the company slogan for 1980-1981.

Also, as I finish writing this lie, the sky has just turned an odd shade of orangey-gray and has started to thunder and storm. I rather like it.

Haunted by Memory

The Lie

I sat on the couch in the living room, fingers chattering away on my keyboard. Just half an hour left in my daily writing exercise. I paused, grasping for words, as so often happens. And, in the quiet of the pause -- I heard a voice.

I cocked my head, thinking it was Aunt Sharon. I'd kind of assumed she had lain down for a nap, but . . . no. Definitely not her voice. It was soft, cooing, slightly silly. I stood and walked into the office. No one there.

I could still hear the voice, though, and babyish laughter, like the echoes of a young mother teasing her infant. But I couldn't make out specific words. Then the sounds faded away. Nothing. I rubbed my ears, thoroughly shaken, and returned to my nest on the couch.

Just as I sat, I was jerked to my feet again -- more voices came, now from the kitchen. Although I still couldn't make out words, I knew as I drew closer that it was a young mother talking to her elementary-aged son. But all sounds of mother and son faded as I reached the kitchen, and then more sounds kicked up, calling from the garage.

I went out, looked at the disused skateboards hung on the wall. A barrel of deflated soccer-balls sat underneath them, abandoned for years. This time, in the garage, I heard the sound of a car purring to life, and a mother -- an older version of the same mother, I thought -- saying something about college. She sounded tearful.

I went back to my couch. I started to write. And half an hour later, as my aunt greeted me after her nap, I placed the voice. The voice of a mother with grown children.

The Truth

While I was sitting on the couch today, I really did hear the voices of a young mother and her infant. It was terrifying, especially since I'd thought I was alone in the house. Every time I tried to listen, the voices would fade. But it wasn't any specter of memory waiting for me in the office -- it was my aunt, on facebook, watching videos of a friend playing with her new baby.

But have you ever noticed how a home seems haunted by memories? I think it's more powerful when you return to a place after years away. The bathroom with the red splotch where your brother threw up strawberries on the wall. The hallway where you wrestled with your brother, and he bit you. The closet where you hid for hours to scare your sister.

I find it especially potent when I return to my old home in Nigeria. Any stories or memories that you'd care to share in the comments?

Lies about Lightning

So if I'm really going to do this Daily Lie thing, I guess I'd better get started, huh? Funny how that works.

The Lie

I rubbed my eyes, then continued scrolling on my laptop, perusing a blog post. I was reading The Monday Heritic, specifically a post about espousing opinions nicely. Outside, lighting cracked the gray sky and thunder rattled the windows. Rain drummed fingers on the river flowing beside my aunt and uncle's house.

"Unplug your laptop, Luke." I remembered Mom always saying that during thunderstorms. Of course, that was back home in Africa, with faulty wiring and real storms. The same problem couldn't be here.

BOOM!

My head jerked up, eyes widening, lips pulling into a silent "O. Quicker than an angry opinion, electricity leapt from the electric socket and jittered down my computer chord, winding and interlacing and spinning into my laptop . . . the screen flared . . . a POP, then everything went black!

Aunt Sharon shook me awake.

"Errrmmm. Kardashummum's ish shtupieed!"

"Ron, he's waking up! Luke, what did you say?"

"I don' ker aboud David Letterman'sh finalesh!"

"What say?"

"Ah!" My eyes popped open. Everything was blurry. But more than the returning vision, facts, ideas, and online convo threads churned through my mind. It all came back: a post about opinions, lightning, and now, I had superpowers! I was . . . Opinion Man, Champion of Truth, Battler of Bigots, Right about Everything! At least, it would've been nice, wouldn't it?

The Truth

Obviously, I'm not always right. Most times I eat my words as a side to my humble pie, after I take my foot out of my mouth. You really should read Amy Green's blog post, linked above. Wise words, much more meaningful than a lie about lightning. The truth was that there was a storm outside my aunt and uncle's house, but I actually did unplug my laptop, thanks to memories of mom. A shame. If not, I really might have superpowers!