Before my father invented the white lie, people could only conceive of the largest deceptions. Extramarital affairs. Campaign promises. The moon landing. Went down easy as pineapple pie. Like a prophet, Dad fashioned a whole new way to lie out of fresh earth. Formed it between smooth palms, like a golem. His fortunes changed after this epiphany. His resume bloomed. People stopped giving him the jaundiced eye, started giving him that one extra beat of their fluttering heart. He said the key was to bury truth in a lie, like the baby in a king cake. He said people want you to paint their eyes with fiction. Let myth cradle them like a newborn. Tongue their bodies with legend. But once the masses started sprouting their own tiny untruths my father began to lose interest. Maybe he’d sprinkle a little bit of fraud if it was a special occasion. Bake some type of layered falsehood when he felt blue, as a treat. He kept his promise to never lie to us. He never said a word when he left.
Ben is a reader for Dishsoap Quarterly and his work has been published or is forthcoming in Bending Genres, Bruiser Mag, HAD, Maudlin House, Gone Lawn, Scaffold and other journals. Find more of his work on X @benjaminstarr and at benstarrwrites.com
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