PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

      This town oozes deceit. As long as I’ve lived here, I’ve only heard a scarce handful of truthful stories. Margaret Cumberdale, my neighbor, constantly reeks of tobacco. She’d swear on her life that she hadn’t picked up a cigarette since 1987, but there’s this curious rectangular shadow that never leaves its designated home underneath her swing. At parties, she’ll tell everyone she lives in the Bahamas and she’s only visiting in Kill Creek for the weekend. Her supposed careers have ranged from a veterinarian, a chef, and (currently) a professional mime. I approach her, seated in her usual spot on the porch, anticipating many magnificent tales. “Watch out for the landmines,” she yells as I step onto her lawn.

      She and I both (now) know that there aren’t any landmines. The first time she warned me, I believed her. Why wouldn’t I? You want to believe people are honest and have integrity. Doesn’t it always put you at ease to think humans are genuine? Am I alone here? Is this just me? This is just me. I’m gullible.

      A siren goes off between my ears. I feel my enemy stirring in the periphery. If you’re fearful enough, you develop that sort of sixth sense. You know how your heart stops at 6 A.M. sharp each morning? It’s only for a brief minute, but you certainly have no pulse. The alarm comes too suddenly. You’re not intended to jump from calm to ultra excited that quickly. Margaret must be my lucky star today. “Watch your step, son. Don’t be so careless,” acts as my defibrillator.

      Gullible isn’t in the dictionary, and neither is Jethro Donwood. He lives across the street from Margaret and diagonal to me. His intricacy terrifies me. He’s just as much of a liar as Margaret, but they’ll never meet at any intellectual hinges. Often enough, I find I have to force myself not to believe his stories. He loses me halfway through in his plausibility. His lies are so solid and drawn out that they stretch into seemingly long and mundane tales of the real world.



… more than likely never to be continued …