Wyldblood: Science Fiction and Fantasy

Reading Lies

Gabby Gilliam

I have one green eye and one brown eye. The green eye sees truth, but the brown eye sees much, much more.

I was three the first time I knew for certain that not everyone can see the truth. I asked my mom for a piece of my leftover Halloween candy.

“It’s all gone,” she told me. Her words floated around her head, the bloated, violet red of bruised skin.

“No, it isn’t,” I said, shaking my head.

“Viola, it’s all gone. You ate the last piece yesterday.” More words the color of lies.

I closed my green eye to quiet the untruth. I squinted the brown one at my mother, looking closely, reading her past on her skin.

“It’s in the pantry in the box of spinach noodles,” I said. “I’ll get it!”

I went over to the pantry. My mother pressed her hand against the door so I couldn’t open it.

“Viola,” she said, lips pressing thin in the way they did when she pretended not to be angry, “I said it’s all gone.”

“No, Mama, it’s still in there. I can see it.” I tried to turn the knob but my clumsy three year old hands were no match for my mother.

“Viola,” she said in her I’m-trying-hard-not-to-sound-angry voice. “The door is closed and the candy is gone. You can’t see what isn’t there.”

“But it is there, Mama!” I stared at the noodle box with my brown eye. I counted. “There are seventeen pieces left. But there’s only one more Twix. Can I have the Twix, Mama?” I smiled up at her, filled with hope. Twix were my favorite.

“Viola Jean,” Mama said, and I knew she was really getting mad. My middle name only came out when I was in trouble. Mama put her hand on her hip. The hand on the pantry door never moved. “Have you been sneaking in this pantry?”

“No, Mama,” I said.

“Then how are you so sure there’s still candy in there?” she asked.

“I told you, I can see it,” I said. “And your words are all dark and red which means they aren’t true.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Mama asked, her irritation no longer hidden.

“Lies are always what it means when the words are red,” I said, my certainty fading in the face of Mama’s anger.

“Words don’t have colors, Viola,” Mama said. “You hear them with your ears.” She tugged at one of hers in case I’d forgotten what an ear looked like.

I shook my head and tried to hold onto the truth that had seemed so certain moments ago.

“No, Mama,” I said. I stomped my foot for emphasis. “True words are blue and clear, like grandma’s pool. Lies are red.”

Mama looked at me long and hard. I think she was looking for signs of my own lie. But I met her eye and crossed my arms. I knew my words were true. They floated around my head like water. Mama’s body softened as the anger drained out of her limbs.

“Oh, Viola,” she sighed. “What am I going to do with that crazy imagination of yours?”

She walked away from the pantry shaking her head. I wasn’t sure whether that meant I could have candy or not. I was sure that I shouldn’t mention the colors I saw again. Mama didn’t believe me. That meant she didn’t see them.

I left the candy in the pantry. I decided it wasn’t worth the fight, even for a Twix.

April 19th, 2024

Gabby Gilliam writes YA fantasy, poetry, and anything else that catches her interest. Her poetry has most recently appeared in One Art, Plant-Human Quarterly, The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Deep Overstock, Vermillion, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and Anti-Heroin Chic. Her short fiction has appeared in anthologies from Not a Pipe Publishing, Black Hare Press, Iron Faerie Publishing, and Paramour Ink. You can find her online at gabbygilliam.squarespace.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/GabbyGilliamAuthor.

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