FLF PROMPT #97

It’s Not That Easy

Lies and truth are not positioned on a line, but on a circle

Where Lies Meet Truth — Photo by Simon Hurry on Unsplash

The lies are so transparent, but it’s the truth that’s hard to see.

The writer stared at the sentence on her screen. It was the mandatory first line for a fiction contest she’d entered on a whim, weeks ago. She’d almost forgotten about it. Now the deadline was tomorrow, and the cursor blinked at her, demanding that she start writing.

She read it again. Then again.

“This isn’t a first line,” she muttered. “This is a title. This is non-fiction.”

But that couldn’t be right, because then something would be off. Most lies aren’t transparent at all — people turn a blind eye more often than they see through anything.

The contest was for fiction. She thought about the countless lies of politicians and governments. All non-fiction.

“How do you invent a story after a sentence that essentially describes reality?”

Reluctantly, she started thinking about the strange prompt. She did love a challenge, especially the difficult ones. The problem here was that the sentence felt like both a title and a conclusion. The whole story would have to fit inside that comma.

One option was to fall back on a familiar concept: a murder mystery weekend.

Seven guests, one of whom would be murdered — and then it actually happens. The mayor is killed. One of the other guests is the chief of police, and of course, he investigates all five alibis, which are full of lies.

“No,” she said, leaning back. “It’s too transparent. Every reader will know who did it immediately.”

She lost all interest in writing that story. It had to be original, too.

The cursor irritated her more and more. That constant blinking. And it was too hot — much too hot to write.

“Excuses. Stop it. You’re staying here until something works.” She glued herself to her chair.

Then she closed her eyes. Maybe something simpler. Something human. A sensual man who tells lies because he’s too afraid to ask her out. That could work. She could use ‘show, don’t tell’ — drops of sweat above his eyebrows, a trembling lower lip, hesitation, desire in his eyes when they drifted to her chest.

But did that fit the sentence? She doubted it. Actually, that was a bit non-fiction too — the longing for such a man had existed for years.

“Is there even a difference between fiction and non-fiction?” she asked aloud. The computer said nothing. She asked the AI.

“The difference,” the AI wrote, “is that fiction admits it’s lying. Non-fiction pretends it isn’t.”

She sat still. Turned inward. Then smiled.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s the story.”

The euphoria didn’t last long. There was still no truth.

Or was there?