(Author’s note: Such great responses from everyone for last week’s piece. I will respond this evening, I’m just dealing with a lot of crunk related to winter camp here. Hope to have more coming up after the camp is done. Otherwise, here’s a good one, being written while the moon is starting to eclipse…)

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Little Lies

by Miles H. Rost

“So, where did you get all that wood from?”

Christine looked at her husband, who just gazed down at his shiny boots.

“I went out and cut a couple at the edge of the…”

“Bull.”

Mike stared at her with that word, and started to fume.

“You didn’t cut down the trees, because there’d be sawdust on your boots.”

“I used the chainsaw.”

“It’d still be there. I told you to cut the trees down, and you went and bought wood.”

Mike sighed, as he gave her a note.

“It was given. There’s the proof that people know we’re poor.”