the lie and how we told it: Where Did It All Go Wrong? by Zuhair Abdulla

Where Did It All Go Wrong?
by Zuhair Abdulla

"It's not working out. I'm not in love with you, and to be honest I'm not sure I ever was or ever will be. I know this sounds rough, but I'm just trying to be honest with you. I can't pretend to love you, and even if I could you wouldn't want me to. Trust me." Julia took a step back from the mirror and smiled a little bit. She decided this is what she would say. "It's perfect," she thought. She smiled not because she enjoyed the idea of possibly hurting this boy, but instead because she felt it was honest. She believed that every word she was rehearsing over, and over again was true.

Julia pulled open her drawer and grabbed a cigarette she had stolen from her father's pack and lit it with one of them cheap, disposable, orange Bic lighters. She had found it in a field behind school and decided to keep it when she realized it still worked. Julia pulled her chair up to her open bedroom window as she smoked. Out of the window she could see little Bobby Miller pulling up in his father's Town & Country. She didn't realize that the words she chose would cause irreparable damages. She was, however, wondering whether it would be best to deliver the news before or after they had eaten dinner. Having had no previous experience with matters of the heart made this the only difficult decision she felt she had to make tonight.

As Bobby Miller got out of the passenger side of his dad's mini-van, he smiled a smile like never before. These are the things that excited him:

1) Avatar. He couldn't believe he was finally going to see Avatar! In 3D no less!

2) The implied possibility of holding Julia's hand. Perhaps a kiss? Maybe not tonight.

3) Mancat. This was a superhero he thought of earlier in the day. He figured this to be the perfect boyfriend for Catwoman. He never did understand the relationship a bat could have with a cat. I mean, sure, the animal names rhyme, but beyond that? To Bobby Miller there just wasn't a believable relationship there.

He walked the entire length of the long driveway with that goofy smile on his face, and kept it on as he took the short, concrete path across the lawn that connected the driveway to the front door. It did, however, fade as he knocked on the door, excitement instantly replaced with nervousness about going on his very first date.

Zuhair Abdulla is...well hey! That's me! I'm a Zuhair Abdulla!

To read the other stories in "the lie and how we told it," click here.

the lie and how we told it: Spring Time Bus Stop Bench by Kelly Mahoney

Spring Time Bus Stop Bench
by Kelly Mahoney

Liquid grey and let it pour. Clouds appear around noon and soon rain floods the streets of my city. Each drop mumbles a secret to me as one by one they crash down onto my bare, pale skin, giving my freckled shoulders goosebumps. "Calm down, love," says one. I do what I'm told. I twist my neck and face my left, touching my chin to my shoulder. Young, ill-prepared businessmen sprint down sidewalks to parking garages and I close my eyes. The air is warm and wet and sweet. "You don't always have to accept the things you're faced with," it drips down my eyelid to my lashes, "Sometimes things are unacceptable." My damp cotton shirt sticks to the front of me. Leaning forward from painted wood, I let them tickle my back. "You know the colors you see when you close your eyes? That is what's real. Nothing else." I smile. "The words you hear are just tiny hairs picking up vibrations." Bite my lip. "You're here. Don't get gone yet." I laugh and look up at that bright, cinder block grey. The grey that I crave when my blue fades away. All I can ever see are those Prunus dulcis eyes. My lids close as I tilt my head back and let their words wash over me.

Kelly Mahoney is a student in Riverside. Read her blog, I Am Watching Naomi, Full Bloom.

the lie and how we told it: The Flower Fields by John Kelly

The Flower Fields
by John Kelly

“Time to wake up, Kid!” my grandfather shouted, yanking the covers off me. “We got lots to do, and less time to do it.” Every day we worked together began in this abrupt fashion; and in moments I was in his truck, huddling near the heater for comfort while the engine warmed.

“Hold on to your socks, Squirt,” he’d say, and begin down our paved driveway, which gave way to a steep, dirt road. I remember watching him in awe as he held his full cup of coffee motionless, the truck shaking wildly down the hill, without spilling a drop.

Before work we often went to the airport for breakfast. He’d drive west on Palomar Airport Road, past the Carlsbad Race Track, until we crossed El Camino Real: here, he would tell stories of how, hundreds of years ago, the Spanish had traveled this very road along the length of California and established the missions, some of which still survived. And just beyond this sudden crossroads of past and present, we arrived at Palomar Airport.

The café was located at the top of an old, remolded communications tower, where we usually sat in a booth with a panoramic view of the runway. As I watched the planes land and takeoff, he would order me pigs in a blanket, my favorite. I learned many things in that booth, like how he’d manned a bomber during the Korean War, the history of our side of the family and their emigration; and also practical things, such as table manners. “You see, Kiddo,” he’d explain, “manners aren’t just silly little rules, they’re a way of showing respect to those around you.”

After breakfast we would head west again, toward the flower fields. In the summer, the fragrance came first, and then they would come into view: rolling hills, stretching endlessly to the horizon, blanketed in patches of red, yellow, orange, and blue flowers. It reminded me of the patchwork my grandmother knitted me for Christmas, which kept me warm in the winter.

The work we did together varied greatly. I learned how to use tools properly, how to lift with my legs and not my back, and the gratification of physical labor. “Hard work is character.” he loved to say.

In the evening, when we arrived at the base of the hill, he’d sometimes put me in the drivers seat. “Now take her nice ‘n easy.” he’d warn. I’d drive up the hill slowly, completely focused on keeping the massive truck under control.

We’d spend the rest of the evening casually, and after dinner, he would see me to bed. “Good job today, Kiddo.” he’d whisper once I was comfortably in bed. ”Love you. Goodnight.” Then he would close the door and turn off the light.

*******************************
My grandfather passed away a couple of years ago. Recently I was driving south on the 5 Freeway, and, seeing the exit for Palomar Airport Road, I decided to make a quick visit to the flower fields. I exited and headed east, towards the fields – and my heart sank: here, where the fields once began, I now found car dealerships, gas stations, strip malls, and industrial buildings; the landscape of my childhood had been swallowed by the inexorable march of progress.

When I was a child, I saw as a child, and now, years later, at this impasse between remembrance and presence, the things I saw were unfamiliar, and my memories gave no solace.

John Kelly lives in Costa Mesa and is a wonderful man.

To read the other stories in "the lie and how we told it," click here.

the lie and how we told it: Kat in Heat by Dayla Zdunich, Steven Xavier Torres Armas, Tracey Whitford, Kelly Mahoney, and Erin Mahoney

Kat in Heat
by Dayla Zdunich and Steven Xavier Torres Armas
Click on that guy to make it a readable size

This is normally where I would write a little bit about the authors, but I don't actually know them, so I can't. Instead, just make something up about where they're from and what they do while they're there.

To read the other stories in "the lie and how we told it," click here.

the lie and how we told it: Time Again by David Layden

Time Again
by David Layden

If I had a name tag (and I sometimes wish I did) it would say HENRY. I only know because that is what this girl hovering above me – not at all angel-like – keeps saying. “Henry, where were you last night?”…”Henry, why do you look and smell like toasted dog shit?”…”Henry, get in the fucking shower and think and clean and think real good because you have some explaining to do.”

Even with this hangover I remember that dad accidentally switched the hoses under the faucet in the bathroom sink. It has been years now and I have just never bothered to switch them back. The routine: Turn on the cold tap (which is really the hot), check! Sit down on the toilet for five minutes with head in hands and go over list. I was yelled at today, this is how I woke up. I smell, check! My back hurts so I must have either slept on the floor or started out on the bed and was pushed onto the floor, check! There is a woman in my house I barely know, check! I have both hands and both feet, check! My name is... shaking my head in disappointment doesn’t make the answer come any quicker. I keep telling myself “I need a damn name tag."

I see steam rising from the sink, turn off the faucet and step into the shower. For two whole seconds my body is shocked by very cold water and then scalded as I fumble to turn the knob in the opposite direction, then I am shocked so I turn it again. It usually takes me a good minute to remember to turn by degrees, that small movements will yield pleasant results. I must be in here for a long time because every once in a while as the water beats down, as the toothpaste makes a trail out of my mouth, down my belly and collects for a few seconds moisture-like in my pubic hair then follows on to the floor, down the drain, as this happens I keep hearing through the soap and water in my ears, a dull pounding and that goddamned voice again. “Henryyyyy,” oh yeah, that’s my name... ”Henry you motherfucker you better not be avoiding meeee!!” And then the dissonance is gone and then it returns. The pounding gets louder, the words more cruel, the voice more sharp, then it retreats. What on earth could I have done to attract all of this anger? Thank God my house has good water pressure. Maybe it's strong enough to wash away all this dirt, this skin, these bones, that shrill cunt pounding on the door, this house, the block I am on, whatever it is I did wrong and the rest of my memory.

I grab my humongous salmon-pink towel and wrap myself, reach for the bathroom doorknob and hear a lot of quiet. I panic; she must be either distracted or waiting. My mind does not work in split seconds so I do my best. I unlock the bathroom door and hurry toward the bedroom. From somewhere not so distant I hear bare feet on wood floor heading toward me. Lock both bedroom doors, check! “Thump! Thump! Thump!”

“Why are you doing this to me?” With all the clarity I could muster I say in a very loud voice “May I please have some alone time, I have not had a good week and I need to sort things out and I cannot do it with you up my ass every waking moment!" And then there was a pause. I felt a fullness inside of me growing, an uncomfortableness. A quiet, then another quiet. And then, from behind the door, a muffled holocaust of words. “...shit...fuck you...son of a...fuck...do you think you are talking to...I have been nothing but nice...fuck...” And then I open the door to see her wide-eyed, ugly. Anger made her not pretty at all. I started feeling a cramp and stopped. I looked her in the eye and said “We have only been dating for a goddamned month and already this is the grief I get? You act like a fucking wife!!” As the blur of her hand motioned towards my face I felt a cramp and then an easiness and then, sunshine. The look on her was absolute puzzlement. My face still stinging from her slap, I followed her gaze down past her breasts to her skirt, legs, socks, and shoes, which along with the floor were covered with lukewarm piss. I looked down at my cock which was halfway hard and dribbling urine now on my own foot. I paused then and heard rustling. When I looked up I saw half of her overcoat slip past the front door. I went over to the door quick and locked it, check!

David Layden can often be found in Santa Ana with a magical bag filled with magical whiskeys. This might just be a man who actually likes whiskey more than I do.

To read the other stories in "the lie and how we told it," click here.

the lie and how we told it: Musings of Monsters by Joe Zavella

Oh boy, it's been a while since we posted a story up here. Sorry for that. What with all the moving I've been doing and the sickness with the coughing and the spitting and the mucus and the headaches. Not to mention all the birthdays, oh! The birthdays! So many birthday's last week (and today)! Also, I didn't realize (quite stupidly) that my new apartment would not come with built-in interwebs. Anyhow. I will be posting when I can, hopefully everyday again. We still have quite a few stories left so I hope you're still reading! Anyhow, sorry for the interruption in service, please carry forward to read a new story by Joe Zavella.

Musings of Monsters
by Joe Zavella

My body jerks to the left and I am ripped out of a good dream, probably my last . My eyelids close tighter before opening into tiny slits. Blurs of color and shape begin to focus in front of me. I bend down to rub my eyes and let my head rest in my hands for just a moment. First I notice the chains that bind my wrists to my ankles. They jingle as they sway. I lift my head and I remember, sometimes it takes me a minute to remember. Orange jumpsuits. Another jerk to the left. This bus ain't made for four-wheeling like this. Only thing making this a road and not a trench is that we're driving in it. They welded a bird cage to the outside of this bus, s'pose they got hip to folks jumpin' out the window. Course the guards would just shoot you down, more bullets on this bus than there should be. All for us. On the other side of the glass the rain and dirt mix to blur my last glimpse of the outside world. They locked me next to some billy-goat punk kid. A degenerate and a thug. He belongs here. Most of them do. Mad and vicious, hooligans. Rapists and murderers. Hissing and spitting when they laugh. They better not spit on me, dammnit this dog's still got bite! They don't care what they leavin' behind, they dont think about it. Not me though, I think about it all the time. Playing with my kids, two girls, laughing and running, playing chase around an old stump we had in the yard. Every time I would catch them they would start screamin and laughin'. My wife, my beautiful wife. Sometimes I close my eyes and remember times when she would come from behind and wrap her arms around me, thin and delicate. Her hair laid gently against the top of my head, her warm breath on my neck, the feel of her cheek against mine. The smell of her lips. I like to think about the little things with my wife.

This is not my first time in a bus like this. I been on the inside of a cell. I have even been in this very trench before, too many times, each time with a new lie for my girls. Daddy’s going on a business trip for a few months. Don’t worry girls, daddy is gonna go take care of a friend for a couple years. Daddy got a job for the summer. Don’t worry honey, daddy is just gonna be gone for the weekend. I s'pose I didn’t want my lil' girls to know the nature of their ol' man. But that’s just the thing about girls; The day comes when you don’t have to get down on one knee to talk to them. The day that they realize all the lies you told, all the holes in their lives that you've dug. That one more is coming, and this time I won’t be coming back to fill it. Everyone's crying while trying not to. Lil' Mary hugs me so hard I think she's gonna break her arms. Allie slaps me with all the hate her little heart can hold. My face stings as tears stain both our cheeks. And I know that at least one of them gave me what I deserved. My beautiful wife, she tells me they're moving, that they won't visit. She cries through her words. The tears stream down her face, aged with a lifetime of worry and struggle. I try to memorize every line.

They say I done terrible things. That I used up all my chances. It's true. I hurt too many people and now must spend my life in a barred cell. Finally going to put this old monster in his cage. Where he can sit and think bout what he's done, all the things he's destroyed. That billy-goat punk neighs another punch line and everyone is laughing and spitting. Fangs disguised as teeth, horns combed back like hair. Claws like fingers. A carriage of monsters who look like men, given only so many chances to hurt anyone who would love them before being sent away to howl and grunt and beat their chests. The bus comes to a stop and as I emerge I feel the rain on my face. It feels good. I wonder if this is what a man feels when the rain falls on his face. I s'pose there is no point on wonderin' how a man feels in the rain. This is not a place for men, only monsters who once were given the chance.

Joe Zavella lives and studies in Riverside, CA. In fact, I'm his new neighbor. Read his blog, it's wonderful: Joe Zavella, Man Shaped Gorilla.

the lie and how we told it: Junk by Taylor Lewis

Junk
by Taylor Lewis

He stood in the doorway and stared inside, listening to the soft tapping of rain on the roof and remembering. In spite of what he was about to do, he still loved the smell of grease and oil. Loved the feeling of holding a wrench. Loved bringing broken objects back to life. He was good at what he did, or at least he thought so. Still, he had no other choice.

He would double-check to make sure he had set up everything correctly. It had to look believable or else they wouldn’t pay and that wouldn’t do. After all, he was now worth more dead than alive and they wouldn’t give his family a dime if it looked like suicide. He knew they would probably think that anyway, since everybody knew about his money troubles. They would know that hardly anybody ever came into his shop anymore. And with the bank getting ready to take his house, a business just about ready to go under, and his wife having already left him, suicide would be the first thing they suspected, which was the reason why he was being so careful. It has to look believable, he kept reminding himself. Besides, the equipment was old. Of course, even though it looked old and worn it was always expertly maintained, but they wouldn’t know that.

He walked slowly past all the machinery, running his callused and leathery hands lovingly over each one. He sighed, and felt bad that they would soon perish by his own hand when it was he who had cared for them for so long. Still, it was necessary.
Spending a few moments looking at each of his tools, with every step his chest slowly filled with both dread and excitement as he carved his way further inside. He felt guilty because of the excitement. Then again, he felt guilty about a lot of things.
At last he reached the back of the room and stopped next to where he kept the welding tanks. The cart that held the oxygen and acetylene used for welding had been sabotaged and if any traces of his handiwork were found, it would appear as though the tank had been dropped and developed a leak.

While the room filled with the highly flammable gas, the rain continued to pelt the roof overhead. Then, an air compressor nearby kicked on.
A violent explosion rocked the building.

Standing on a small rise half a mile away, he watched the explosion through a set of binoculars. Flames ate at the roof and snarled out of the shattered windows. He turned and took a step but looked back at the rising flames again. Then, with all the effort he could muster, he turned and began walking down the hill, toward the rail yard. Soon he would be just another vagrant riding the rails.

He had thought about actually going up in flames along with everything else, but he wasn’t ready to die yet, and he could still be useful. And he would find a way to keep an eye on his family somehow. Maybe someday he could return to them and offer an explanation for what he had done. Or maybe not. He still had to learn how to look at himself in the mirror.

Taylor Lewis lives in Orange County where he "accepts ridiculous amounts of money for toys." Check out his tumblng tumblr, Rust in Pieces

the lie and how we told it: Tiles and Tribulations by Erin Mahoney

This is Erin Mahoney's second entry in the series. She also wrote this one, which served as the introduction to this string of fiction we've been posting. She hand-wrote and scanned the following story and sent it to me late last week. I love it, and I think you will too.

Tiles and Tribulations
by Erin Mahoney
Click on that guy to make it a readable size.

the lie and how we told it: First Knowledge by James Park

First Knowledge
By James Park

The first emotion that DH630-3M felt wasn't love, or happiness, but jealousy. It began when he noticed that DH630-4M and DH630-5M were being installed with full-motion hands while he was left with the ancient pointer. Without knowing what he was feeling, he noticed that his sensors kept following their hands as they tested their range of motion. After he was shut down at night, he would intentionally power back on and replay the recorded video of that afternoon’s testing sessions, silently watching as -4M and -5M picked up small rubber balls, waved to the testers and even reached out for each other.

It got worse when -4M and -5M began disappearing from the lab for days at a time. The testers would return them with low charges and broken joints, but -4M and -5M never seemed to mind. -3M wondered where they went and why he wasn’t taken with them.

Then they were given permanent covers and new sensors. At first, -3M had trouble telling them apart from the testers but their slow, awkward movements soon made it easy to see the difference. But he watched as -4M and -5M observed each other with their new sensors, and he knew why even though the testers left them facing the sockets at night, they would return in the morning to find them facing each other. He watched as they used their new hands to feel their new skins and they used their new skin to feel their hands.

-3M didn’t have new hands, or new skin. His sensors were prototypes and outdated. But his processor was just as fast as the ones in -4M and -5M and his software was upgraded along with theirs. And while he didn’t have a full-motion hand, his pointer had a small laser fixed to its end.
When the testers came in the next morning, they found -5M on the floor, its hands splayed out and in place of its new sensors were two dark, ash-filled craters. -4M was hidden under a dustcover in the corner, facing the wall. They found -3M with multiple blown fuses and a charred stub where its pointer should be. Unable to determine what had happened, the testers blamed the mess on burglars and scrapped DH630-3M. They would have to continue with only the -4M prototype.

Three months later, -4M’s sensors registered movement again as the testers rolled in two new prototypes. DH640-6M and DH640-7M had new skin covering their entire frames and their full-motion hands didn’t require command sequences to begin operation. But -6M’s hand motions seemed strangely familiar to -4M. Its new sensors didn’t match the records in -4M’s memory banks, but the way -6M was found in the morning, facing -7M instead of the socket, tripped a minor alarm inside -4M.

The first emotion that DH630-4M felt had been love. The second emotion was jealousy.

James Park lives and works in San Francisco. Track him down and buy him a beer. You can read his tweets @robocopinator.

the lie and how we told it: Blue Sunday Bookstore Blues by Jake Kilroy

Blue Sunday Bookstore Blues
by Jake Kilroy
I was moving through the used bookstore as if I were fondling the art of a museum.

The light at the end of the aisle jangled a terrible hum. But, as I swayed towards the end of the aisle, there came the rickety music box voice of a teenage boy. It was a wobbly sound, the forlorn melody of a boy trying to impress a girl. It’s a song that nobody likes to hear, but it’ll be dazzling nobody until the end of mankind.

There, sitting next to a girl, was a boy with an optimistic look that only belongs to somebody without a tender understanding of humiliation.

“I don’t like writing. I like having written,” the boy said.

“Yeah,” drawled the girl sitting next to him, reading a red book.

I faced the walls of books, keeping my eyes away but my ears around.

“I think I just like watching the page numbers go up,” he said.

The girl nodded.

“That's probably what Tolstoy thought,” said the boy, his own throat rattling like a jail key in a jar, “you know, because War And Peace was so long.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever read War And Peace?”

“No.”

“Me neither."

The girl’s phone rang. She answered it and headed outside. I noticed what book the girl had been reading and I felt close to homesick. The boy fiddled with random books, which, for whatever reason, confirmed to me that he was inexperienced with women.

“Kid, either your head or your heart is going to explode if you keep up with that storm you call affection,” I said, my eyes still roving the books.

“I‘m sorry?”

“I dated that girl years ago. Not her, obviously, but somebody close. And I’ve gathered you’re in love with her.”

“Well, I don't know if it's love.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost 16.”

“It will be.”

“What will be?”

“I don’t know. You tell me,” I said, finally turning to look at him.

He stared emptily at me, which is quite a feat for teenagers, as their heads, if I remember it correctly, are like roomfuls of typewriters.

“I think I’m going to go see if everything’s alright,” he said, moving past me towards the exit.

“She's already found out about Vonnegut, hasn’t she?”

The boy stopped and came back. “Yeah. How did you know that? She's been reading him a lot lately.”

“And what do you read?”

“Whatever my teachers tell me to.”

I shook my head. “That’s not good enough, kid. Pretty soon, that girl’s going to be finishing A Clockwork Orange while you're just starting The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. If you want the intellectual, you can’t be young. You have to be smarter than age.”

“How do I do that?” the boy said asked sincerely.

“You make youth last.”

“I thought you said I can’t be young.”

“You’re only young until you’re old. If you make youth last, there’s no such thing as older.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you don’t, but I’m a lot older than you.”

“I thought you said there was no such thing as older.”

“That’s only if you make youth last.”

“You didn’t?”

“No,” I said definitely.

“What happened?”

“Like I told you before, I loved the same girl when I was your age.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t love her right.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. What went wrong?”

“You don’t get to know.”

“Oh, sorry for prying.”

“Prying? Kid, I've been breaking and entering into your life for the last few minutes. No, I mean you don’t get to know because it'll ruin your chances with that girl outside. All I’m saying is you better tell her how you feel before she discovers Bukowski.”

“Why?”

“Because then it means she’s already read between the lines of Hemingway.”

The girl reappeared and I glided away like a specter, down the aisle, rummaging through the books until I found it. I opened up the copy of A Farewell To Arms I had seen so many times on my night table, on her night table and in the bookstore these last few years.

In an instant, I was sick.

My hands became oil-starved machines, creaking as they moved the pages with something that should’ve resembled grace. I read her name and my name on the title page and what I had written in between. Squeezing my eyes for a moment, I moved with an anguished fury to the counter and finally bought the goddamn thing. The cashier asked me if I was ok. I nodded and stalked back to the teenage boy as if the book was a gun. I shoved it into him and said, “Always believe there’s a future in the present, not a past.”

Jake Kilroy spends most of is time living and working in Orange, CA. He writes poetry. You can find a lot of his poetry, along with some great stories, over at The Cobblestone Address.

the lie and how we told it: Caligraphy by Kelly Canavan Vargas

Caligraphy
by Kelly Canavan Vargas

The worn, leather book strap had been tightened around Isaac's upper arm. He stretched out his left hand and flexed. Stretched and flexed. Stretched and grabbed the catalog in front of him. Carefully, he peeled off the address label. Holding it close to his face he examined the label. It was parchment thin and the sun shone through it. His name and address were hand-written in a long and elegant mix of cursive and printing. As he began to move the label away from his face, he paused when he noticed the faint scent of flowers.

"Is this her perfume?" he wondered aloud. His voice echoing in the empty loft. Slowly getting up, he paced across the wood floors; Planks creaking under his weight, pigeons rustling on the ledge.

"Is this her lotion? The scent of her skin?" He paused his incessant pacing. "Could this be her actual skin?"

"She knew this would help me grow!" he yelled, holding the catalog up with his left hand. Pigeons scattered.

The small "r" at the end of his name spoke to him. Schumacher. It curved upward slightly at the end. It was so hopeful. Isaac paced as he studied it. As he started worrying that the low dip of the "r" would never end, it gently glided up, up, up. It was a roller coaster of a letter. It was manic. He plunged the needle in his arm. The upwards motion of the letter swirled in Isaac's head. In one ear and out the other. Jostled his hair. Entered his bowels and came warmly out of his mouth like vomit. It was vomit.

Kelly Canavan Vargas also participated in the Year in Review series. Check out her blog Ravenous River Horses.

the lie and how we told it: Untitled by Roby Saavedra

Untitled
by Roby Saavedra

It was the kind of sports car that could have only existed in the 80’s; not quite boxy, not quite streamlined. The interior was lined with ornamental bells and whistles, which seemed to act as placeholders for utilities that might actually be useful, but had yet to be invented. The atmosphere inside the car was tense and was especially marked by the overwhelming odor of a familiar musk aftershave. As I looked to my right, watching objects whiz past, it struck me that I was actually smelling something, which was unusual -- actually it had never happened before. I noted it mentally, trying my best to seem collected and appropriately aloof.

The driver, most likely sensing something was off, cocked his head to the right and stared at me through his aviator sunglasses, which were actually just one big lens in the shape of sunglasses. After a few moments he turned back to the road, then back at me for a longer period, then back at the road, then back at me even longer. He had on a dark grey scarf which was tucked into a brown leather jacket with its collar popped up, the collar reaching all the way to his pronounced jaw line. He continued his tennis game head movements; back and forth from the road to me to the road to me. I didn’t take the chance to look back at him, instead keeping my eyes on the blur of the outside world through the window, listening to the sound of his leather jacket make the same groan and wrinkle each time he made one of his sharp head twists.

Finally the noises stopped. The match had ended and I was the winner. His gaze fixed on me. My palms sweaty, my mind frantically trying to wash itself of any and all thought processes. The world continued to rush by and I could feel his breath on the left side of my body. He wasn’t moving, I was sure of that. I’d seen him this still before, but wasn’t sure when. Suddenly I wasn’t sure of anything.

Fuck. I lost it. I turned to my left and saw that his sunglasses were gone. His utterly still eyes were paralyzing, blue, and filled with madness. His right hand was gripping the steering wheel, his shoulder at his chin. The musk was gone, replaced by a heaviness which I attributed to his sultry breath. I snapped out of the lock from his eyes and noticed his tongue hanging out of his mouth leaving a trail of spit on his jacket sleeve which dripped down to the gear shifter. I almost laughed when he began to speak.

“Did the smell bother you?” he asked.

“No not really,” I shook my head. At that moment I noticed the scenery outside his window returned to black and white. Fuck.

He began to speak again but all that came out was the sound bite of the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion roar and he then proceeded to gnaw on his leather jacket sleeve. I climbed out of the sunroof of the sports car wondering why I would ever choose such a heinous vehicle in the first place and ordered a coffee from the pleasant looking waitress taking our order.

“Well?” the guy sitting directly to my right’s muffled voice asked, “How did it go?”

“Cats, man. Huge ones. And always with people bodies.”

A girl sitting opposite me began to laugh behind her mask. “Fucked up!” she exclaimed.

I took the moment to survey the scene through the two eye-holes in my facemask. There were a lot of Guy Fawks masks throughout the place, more than usual. How unoriginal. The place seemed bigger tonight, I thought, which made me begin to lose myself in the idea of ‘vaster than infinite.’

Suddenly I was jarred out of my spacey moment when the guy next to me got up and began to bid his goodbyes.

“I have a fucking calc test tomorrow, as much as I’d like to keep fucking unattainable women I really ought to get back to reality soon.” And in an instant it was as if he was never even there.

Math test? I thought to myself. They’re getting younger and younger.

“I know,” a person next to me commented, grabbing my shoulder. “If I had this when I was in high school I’d have never graduated.”

My sheets were wet with sweat again and luckily I hadn’t woken up my wife this time.

“Fucking mind readers…” I whispered to myself as I slowly peered over my wife’s shoulder to check for a cat’s head.

Roby Saavedra makes and studies art up in San Francisco. He's a lovely man. Check out his tumbling tumblr: click. Here's where you can check out some of his amazing art: clack.

the lie and how we told it: The Truth by Erin Mahoney

Today starts off a new series here at two hands radio. I've asked a few friends to come down and share a little story with us. Works are completely fiction and there's pretty much only one rule: Keep your stories under 800 words. It should be pretty fun and I'm looking forward to reading all of them. We're gonna run this until I stop getting submissions. If you'd like to submit one, send a story over to me at zuhair.zama [at] gmail.com.

The Truth
by Erin Mahoney

I've never told a lie in my life. I have no interest in falsities. Half-truths never make it fully out of my mouth. I sure hope you believe me. Honest, I do!

I am not a lawyer giving my final arguments, convincing you of my client's innocence. I'm not a doctor telling you your prognosis and what I sincerely think your chances are. I am not selling anything, I don't represent anyone, and I have nothing at all to gain from this.

I know I am not alone and that despite all the fuss about white lies, and innocent deceptions, and all the other garbage people use to excuse themselves for dishonesty – despite all that, there are actually a few folks out there who have taken the same path as me, who retain a golden tongue. I wonder if they are as lonely as I am. If we ever met, I wonder if we'd get along, or if our truths would rattle together incessantly, like the box of dishes in my backseat, until they drove us apart.

I believe that always telling the truth allows me to gauge when others aren't. I am not the dough-eyed picture of naivety so-often depicted in movies and novels, who is so pure she simply cannot conceive of why someone might want to lie to and take advantage of her. I am practical, realistic, and perhaps even a bit cynical. I can read body language, detect facial tics, record idiosyncrasies. I'm a library of telling mannerisms.

I can also tell when someone thinks I'm lying - like you, for instance. You are looking at me like you have some sort of secret knowledge, privately inverting everything I say into what you can believe. I will not argue with you. What is the point?

Living like this is not exactly a choice for me, as I am not that good-hearted. In the past I have tried to cover my tracks with lies, but the mere utterance filled me with such dread I had no choice but to immediately come clean, shaming and embarrassing myself while others would have happily whistled away.

I can tell that you're wondering why I am revealing all of this to you. Frankly, I am not entirely sure. Maybe it's because you seem like the sort of person I can talk to and really open up about myself. Like I said, mine is a lonely existence. Maybe it's because I noticed how awkwardly you were standing here, alone in a room of people, stuffing crackers in your mouth to avoid meaningless conversation.

Truthfully, though, it's because you stink, and the smell was bothering me so much that I just had to be honest with you. You really stink.

This isn't Erin's first post here at two hands radio. If you're interested, check out her Year in Review post she did for our last series.

Just a quick reminder

Sir Catinsuit pleasantly reminds you to stop creating internet memes and start writing really, really short stories

Hey ya, Hey ya, Hey ya, Hey.

Just reminding you that "the lie and how we told it" is starting up next week. Send in your stories! I have a few so far, but not as many as I'd like. We're starting up Monday and we'll be posting up a new story each day till we run out of 'em. Why do I keep calling me "we"? We should stop doing that.

Anyhow, check this post out for all the info and also the....send it in place thing...EMAIL ADDRESS! That you're supposed to send the stories to! We're probably not going to write a story.

the lie and how we told it

In about three weeks we'll be starting up a new series. Last time we did year in review posts from a variety of different people (read: my friends who weren't too lazy to write something). In that series we learned about how people felt in 2009, what they learned, who was important to them, and all that other boring-ass bullshit. This time around though, we're going to change course.

This time I want to post some short (very short) fiction. Again, I'll serve as editor and possibly post one of my own. Not sure yet. Anyhow. I'd like to start in a few weeks here so if you'd like to participate go ahead and send me a story to zuhair.zama[at]gmail.com with the subject heading "the lie and how we told it." If I did my job correctly, all you have to do is click on the email link and it should do all that for you.

There aren't really too many parameters to this series aside from these:

•Works need to be, well, fictitious. That would help.
•Please try and keep them short. Ideally they'd be around 1-800 words. That's like a 1 page Maximus (from Ridley Scott's shit-storm of bullshit Gladiator) in Word.
•That's it.

Send them starting now up until I say the series is ending. You've got at least 4 weeks to participate!