Author’s note: This isn’t a typical story like others I’ve shared here. I regularly play around with different poetry forms just for fun and something to do. I wanted to share one today, a Kyrielle. This one isn’t directly a mystery, but it deals with something all too common in them — lies. As with the stories here, this is a rough draft. It follows a character through different times in his life, the different types of lies he told (playful fibs, lying to himself, and lying to someone who loved him) and the consequences when you don’t learn from mistakes and embrace honesty with yourself and those around you. This needs a lot of improvement yet, and I’d like to add two more verses — one when he’s an older child or teen, and one where he’s an older man reflecting on his life and lies. But this is the original draft just for the sake of sharing something different.
Lies Are Never Little Things
A little boy with golden curls
hid, with delight, his mother’s pearls.
He fibbed. She scolded, her brow furled,
that “lies are never little things.”
“I won’t amount to much,” he said,
as fears and doubts swirled in his head.
His passions buried, talents bled,
as lies are never little things.
Half-truths whispered, a story slips
so ever softly ‘cross his lips.
A love once bright is now eclipsed,
for lies are never little things.
Mikey hopped on his bike and rode as fast as he could from the new house he never wanted. His father’s new job stole his friends, his school, everything he loved.
This place will never be home. Mikey looked around the neighborhood as he rode. There were a few old neighbors in their gardens, staring with disdain at the whirring of his bike. But no kids. Not one.
No basketball hoops. No toys in yards or driveways. No sign of other kids anywhere. Just angry glares from adults, with eyes Mikey swore he saw glow.
“That chocolate’s going to kill you some day.”
I still hear Betty’s words every time I reach for some. I’m not worried. I’m much healthier than my nag of a boss ever was.
They do say chocolate can be good for the heart. Maybe she should have enjoyed more while she still could.
Betty was right. Chocolate can kill. It must have shocked her in those final moments to realize she would become its victim — or of the rat poison it contained.
She should have kept her hands off my stash, and finally given me that raise.
“I need your help with a school project,” said Sarah.
“Oh?” asked Ruth.
“I’m working on our family tree. Mom took me to the cemetery where your parents are buried so I could research dates.”
“I see,” Ruth muttered, hunching over Sarah’s binder of notes.
“I saw a grave for a little boy, only a few months old. His grave was next to your parents, and he had the same last name. Can you tell me anything about him?”
“Some things are best forgotten,” she said, slamming the binder shut and excusing herself from the table.
“What’s this?” Maggie asked. “I wanted the blue bag. Why can’t you ever follow the grocery list?”
“I’ll go back,” said Rick.
“Forget it. I’ll go.” She stormed out, returning thirty minutes later.
“I made dinner,” said Rick. They ate his new recipe, chicken satay.
Ten minutes later Maggie grabbed her throat, struggling to breath. The whites of her eyes turned red, her skin pale. She stopped breathing. Rick cleaned up dinner before calling 911.
“Did she eat anything recently?” asked the medic.
“She just came home. Then she couldn’t breathe. Maybe she ate out.”