Garrow curled his hands into fists. The English language had been turned on its head when boys that like that made the Virtue Choir.
“What happened out there, Smith? There were seventeen arrests, and all anyone remembers is the kid in the ugly sweater scooting out the back door,” Kory said.
The Wordsmith ducked his head, swiped a lock of hair out of his face. “I -- it was my idea,” he began. “I just wanted to - to hear some music. And Garrow said he knew a cool place, and then I was talking to this girl and her, ah, boyfriend became angry, so I threw a punch --”
Kory arched one eyebrow. Garrow wanted to facepalm. Words swirled across The Wordsmith’s torso, writhing up and down his arms and scrolling across the lines of his ribs. They all said the same thing in a hundred, a thousand different languages lost and dead and spoken all around the world: lies.
Kid couldn’t lie to save his life - but at least he’d tried to save a friend.
“It was Garrow, wasn’t it?” Kory asked. “He started the fight.”
The Wordsmith lifted his head, jaw set stubbornly even though his hands were shaking. “No. It was me. I hit the man first.”
Kory rolled his eyes and turned. His gaze fell on Garrow and he beckoned once, sharply. “Get over here. The Authorities want to talk to you.”
Garrow followed Kory toward the elevator that would take him deeper into the bunkers, down to where the Authorities lurked. As he passed The Wordsmith, he reached out and patted the kid on the shoulder.
“Better luck next time.”
The Wordsmith mouthed, “I’m sorry.” A litany of apologetic poetry across his skin swirled into being.
“I’ll be fine,” Garrow said. He was a much better liar.
(300 words)
1 comment:
Awww, trying to help his friend. I like the wordsmith, to bad he's not better at lying. Though I like the imagery of the words swirling across his skin. Do they take the form of his thoughts?
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