Pathological
I
live in a cave by the sea, walk with gulls while waves wash my feet.
Walk with gulls?
But
live in a cave.
No, I don't live in a cave.
I
live by the sea.
Not even close.
I
live in a home for disabled vets. Lost a leg when I stepped on a mine. Can’t
remember it, I guess some things we forget on purpose.
And some things we make up on purpose.
I
don't have a home. I live where I am and there's no telling where I'll be next.
Another lie.
I
live off the land.
I don’t even know what that means.
I
live on a boat.
Nope.
I
live on a faraway planet and use powerful telescopes to observe distant worlds.
Just stop. That sounds ridiculous, even to me.
I
live in a small town filled with small minds.
Not far from the truth, but I don’t live there anymore.
I
live in jail, spend my days staring at the ceiling. If I turn my head, there's
a wall. Turn the other way, another wall. Behind me are bars but I don't look
at them. I know they're there, I don't need to look.
Now that's almost believable.
I
live in a dark world. Saved my family from a fire but lost my eyes in the
smoke. Pure luck I found a door. Or was it a window? Can't recall.
Can't recall because it never happened.
Today,
I didn’t tell any lies.
Today, I only told lies.
Foster Trecost
Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Club Plum, Flash Boulevard, and Roi Fainéant. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.