Fall 2011

“Fiction is the truth inside the lie.”
-Stephen King

The lie was dark and formless,
bold and stark and bare.
It molded and enfolded
and slithered as it walked
forward to trap
whatever it could lay
its slippery hands on.

The truth stood near,
tall and tame and tired
of being beaten down
and overused and out of date
but still alive.
It thrived on the innocence
of its pure and wholesome core.

So the ripened truth
and lethal lie
intersected and ejected
a thing of beauty and of power
that the right writers
would wisely and simply
call fiction.


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