Writing My Life

Now and Then

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… 50-word fiction: Truth Among the Lies …

“I love you,” he whispered between kisses.

I didn’t buy the words or believe the kisses. So I laughed.

“You don’t believe me?”

“How often do you say that to girls you kiss?”

He stood and started for the door.” Does it matter as long as I’m telling the truth?”


Note: This 50-worder is in response to NaBloPoMo’s August 8th prompt – “Do you always tell the truth?”


… the monkey bites again, part 2 …

If you read part 1 on this topic – which really isn’t about monkeys but about lying – you will know I suffered a truth-telling disorder when I was young. And while I work very hard to be completely honest now that I’ve reached the ripe old age of 62, I find that once in a while I slip into that bad habit.

The most recent blatant lie once again involved a monkey. This past June I was driving home from work, not feeling well at all. In fact, I had suffered through a lingering yuckiness for a couple of weeks. G.E. also felt under the weather with many of the same symptoms. (Perhaps this weakened physical state can justify my lapse into immoral turpitude.)

As I neared home, I received a call from my California son. (Or maybe I called him; I honestly can’t remember.) While talking to him, I also heard Arctic Circle calling me. It was screaming something like, “A chunky-MONKEY milk shake will really make you feel better. It’s waiting for you NOW.) With hardly a thought, I turned my P.T. Cruiser, aptly named Cream Puff, into the drive-through lane of this popular restaurant.

Remember, I am still chatting with my son Andy who is healthy, fit, and fine! As I draw closer to the intercom where patrons order their goodies, I heard myself saying, “I’m here at Arctic Circle to order Dad a chunky-MONKEY milkshake because he’s not feeling very well either.”

Andy replied, “Oh, that dad and his junk food! He’s just gotta have it, doesn’t he?”

“Uh, yeah, he does,” I answered, feeling the twinge of guilt and the revelation that this little deception would come back to haunt me.

Sure enough it did. A couple of weeks later when we visited our California kids, we were barely in the door when somehow or other the topic of milkshakes appeared out of nowhere. And wouldn’t you know, I was caught with my mouth on the straw. No babbling or rationalization could halt the accusations that pelted me.

All I could do is bow my head in shame and confess, adding that the chunky-MONKEY made me do it: the ice cream, the banana, the cashews, AND the bits of cookie dough. YUM! Who could blame me? …. well, I can think of a few. Sigh.