In Between the Lies
by Peter J. Rosado
forum: In Between the Lies
speculative fiction for the internet generation.

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In Between the Lies


In the near future: lies are a luxury. Pinocchio had come. Pinocchio had first been introduced to police departments as an injectable truth serum. It worked like a charm. Criminals could lie to the old polygraph, but now Pinocchio was more efficient; there was no way to fool Pinocchio. Pinocchio's success wasn't overseen. It was commercially introduced by many pharmaceutical companies, it came in convenient packaging, and it came in the form of easy to swallow pills, children's chewables, pads and even drinks. Even politicians started using the truth serum to inject themselves so voters could measure their trust. Then, several peace groups vindicated a law: To place a permanent solution of the truth serum on all newborns. The result: A society that couldn't lie. Truths were said and recognized, you were branded a "Truthsayer" (or a Hookie by a Liar) or a Liar when you were born, and when writing documents: truths were written in Italics.


Lies, the joy of not being able to tell them. The human brain synthesized the idea; it erased the part of it that lied, forever. Excessive use of the serum had caused a mutation on the human genome that imprinted the truth serum into their recessive genes, rendering society virtually honest. Now, newborns were born with the truth serum on their blood. There were exceptions to the law, however; those persons that carried the truth serum in their recessive genes seldom transferred them to their newborns. And parents were given two choices: Either inject the serum on your newborn, or give him a life of lies, and hell.

          John Walker was one of those men with the privilege to lie. He was now on the dark parking lot of a business building, beating up a stranger for money. After all, being an untransformed individual closed a lot of job opportunities for him:


"Give me the fuckin' money, cunt." John Walker held the gun to the man's bald head, digging it deeper, desperately, as he threatened. The man fumbled for his wallet, but John slapped the hands away as he noticed the man's briefcase and knelt to open it. Tonight, he had struck jackpot. This man had a full time job as an accountant for a very important business firm, or so his briefcase said. John kept the gun near the man's head as he searched the briefcase and found a pack of bills, taking them.

          "Please don't hurt me, I'm terrified…" The hookie said sincerely and again fumbled for his wallet.

          "I know, Edward," John said. He took the wallet from the man's trembling hands.

          "You're a Hookie," he added, smacked the man's face, blasting him to the back cement wall, and turned running at full speed towards the dark alley.

          It was another night successfully played. There were no records that he was a non-injected. He had been caught a lot of times and had saved himself by saying "The Truth".

          The Truth was that there was no truth: he could lie at will.

          When he was born, John Walker's parents decided not to brand him, and so he was now suffering from the effects of dishonesty.

          He slowed down when he reached the main highway. He always took this path. Cars speeded to his right, honking as they went by. John didn't seem to notice them. He put his hands under his jacket and felt the warm packet of bills. It was a very cold monotonous night.

          John Walker's destination was the old canal. Then, he would head for his broken down apartment, or lie down in a ditch to sleep.

          He had been branded a Liar, after all. And Liars were society's outcasts.

          He took the turnpike ramp, which was closer and better concealed, and jumped down underneath the bridge, following the canal towards his house. There was a seemingly consistent faint rumbling sound, and he turned to face that direction, seeing the bright flashes of light as they hit the distant buildings. The lightning lit them up like giant rods of energy. A storm was coming.

          He arrived at his apartment building and shoved away the old newspapers from the staircase. There was a distant fight from one of the tenants, a constant rambling in Spanish, and the loud rap music from one of the neighbor's boom box.

          They key turned and he entered. There was nothing inside, just a small sofa: his bed. He plopped into it and began thinking. A cigarette was lit and he puffed at it. He did the same thing every night. There were mirrors placed on the ceiling; he had placed them there for obvious purposes, and also to remind himself of whom he was. He looked at his deranged self reflected on the ceiling.

          Old age had caught him; he was at nearly his mid 30's, and he looked like he was 45. Gray hair dotted his head; his eyes were shrinking due to the smoking. His hands were shriveled and trembled constantly. He was a Liar, alright.

          He closed his eyes and found he could still see himself on the mirrors, even with his eyes closed. This disturbed him, so he decided to take a walk, to the nearest bar.


It had already started raining hard. He had no money for an umbrella, and they weren't sold to Liars. Society had created the best possible way of distinguishing Liars from Hookies, from having separate bus seats, to having separate restrooms. There was segregation all over again. Liars of course were offered the opportunities of taking Pinocchio. The Liar population was slowly diminishing. John Walker repelled the idea of taking the serum. He had all the right to lie.

          He walked under the rain. The sea of umbrellas and lone walkers was claustrophobic. Those who could afford taxi cabs lined up in the sidewalk. Their fingers pointed up for a ride. John walked between them, towards the bar on the other side of the street when it hit him. The car skidded, the frontal wheels had detached, making it unable to brake in time. The impact was hard but barely noticed. The car hit John on the side, sending him several feet in the air, and slammed against the concrete. The taxi driver quickly jumped out of his ruined car to take a look at the man. John looked up at the sky, saw the small droplets of rain falling on his face, saw the cab driver and heard his distant worrying rumbles and then he felt his world twirl. Black out.


Liar, he's a Liar. Why, Walker? You're fired, you fuck. Take the serum, honey. It will make you better and acceptable. I won't. You sure are stupid, Walker. Honey, I'm pregnant. I want to have him. I really don't, John, I don't love him. I need you… take the damned serum. I won't. I'm tired of this, John, you're different. I'm getting a divorce. Pinocchio.


I don't know who I am, or who I will be, but all I know is that I am not submissive.


He was slowly coming to. He first opened his eyes, both at the same time. His mind, his heart, his legs, his arms, his head: all hurt badly. The storm still raged outside. And there was a small beeping sound, which sounded horrible and made his head throb harder. He realized that he was in the hospital and that he had suffered a terrible accident.

          John put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. A barrage of nurses blasted through the door.

          "He's up," one said. Her voice sounded distant. Distant.

          "I don't think so. He is still under the medication."

          John felt he was aware but not aware of his surroundings, a dream-like state.

          "He fits the description perfectly," the other whispered. "But it will be up to the police to decide if he's the robber."

          He felt a caressing hand slide over his left cheek and trembled; the hand was quickly taken away.

          "Too bad he's a Liar. He's so pretty; he must be in horrible pain. I feel pity for him."

          She checked the small IV bags that fed him, and then left.

          For a moment, a dozen thoughts raced through his mind. John thought of his ex-wife and his dead son. What a bitch she was, he thought. She had had an abortion. Then he reminisced about himself. He had drunk a lot the night before, now he was lying in this bed, dying.

          This is how it was going to end. Not a bottle on his hand, but needles sticking out of it, connected to nutrient bags and blood bags. There truly was no place for Liars in this society. He dismissed the thought. He would subject to no Pinocchio, he thought. So he finally decided to sleep.


Society was segregated into Liars and Hookies. Hookies carried the truth serum in their blood. Liars, Liars had the privilege to lie. Hookies were preferred over Liars. They had the best houses, the best jobs, the best women. They had the best relationships; they had lost their humanity. And for a moment, he dreamt of reaching out the window, to jump. Then he woke up to a familiar face.

          "What are you doing here?" he asked her.

          "I came to see you, don't you see?"

          It was Nancy, his ex-wife, and she sat on the only chair in the room. She was smoking a cigarette; she puffed at it calmly. John dug his head deep into the pillow.

          "There's no smoking here. Can't you read?" he asked irritably, pointing at the NO SMOKING sign on the wall.

          "Fuck off, the only reason I came to see you was because I left some things in your apartment and I want them back," she cursed. There was a small waste bin, and she deposited the still lit cigarette on it.

          "I left a set of knives and some blankets. I want them back. You got the keys?"

          John scoffed but found the strength to reach into his pockets; there was nothing in them. As he had robbed, he had been robbed: touché.

          "I don't have em'. You can go then," John said. However, amidst the array of colors that played on his eyes, he could notice Nancy's eyes. They sported tears.

          "Why are you crying? What you crying bout'?" he asked.

          "Us…" she said, wiping away her eyes.

          "What do you mean us? You killed our son and you want to talk 'bout us?" John spat and reached for the nurse-call button.

          "Wait, John."


          "I still love you…" She trailed off. John never touched the button.

          "But how can you love a non-Pinocchio?"

          Nancy cast a grim look at him and then nodded negatively. She suddenly stood and looked out the window.

          "I see you are still a very stubborn, unforgiving man. Fuck you, John."

          Outside, thunder and lightning reigned the night, the rain pattered hard, and no souls walked the streets. She headed for the door.

          "I was wrong," she said and walked out. John Walker swallowed hard. A sharp pain shot up his torso. He figured he had broken a few ribs. And by grabbing reality by the neck, he tried to hoist himself to a sitting position.

          "Give us a break, John. What the fuck were you thinking when you said that to that woman? It's easier to just have told her to go fuck herself. Why do you keep insisting on her?" he argued to himself.

          "Is everything alright here?" The doctor popped in the doorway. His round eyes were glaring down on him.

          "I can't lie to you, doc. I feel like shit," John groaned.

          "Yes you can, Mr. Walker: our blood tests show no signs of Pinocchio in your bloodstream. Along with that, you suffered several traumas to the spine and a few broken ribs." He straightened his glasses and took out the x-rays, placing them on the lighted panel. "Fractures happened here and here, almost close to the spinal cord," The doctor cleared his throat. "…The thing that allows you to walk."

          John Walker couldn't walk…

          "You will spend a lot of time trying to walk, Mr. Walker."

          John Walker gulped hard and closed his eyes shut.

          "But here, we can offer you the proper training for your better healing. Meanwhile, I suggest getting a Pinocchio injection."

          "No…" John strained to say, but his throat felt dry.

          The nurses came by to change the nutrient bags. The doctor nodded, cast an apologetic smile and left.

          And he was alone once more.


The police had come by to interrogate him, but he was asleep. They had politely decided not to wake him up. Or so they had told him. John cursed lightly under his breath. He would just tell them he didn't do it. But wait, he had been branded a Liar. The blood tests had revealed that. He lay on his sick bed discerning a solution. There would be none: this was it. He would go to jail. However, one thing that defined John Walker was perseverance.

          Today was the beginning of his rehabilitation. The nurses had brought a wheelchair for him to use. He tried sitting on it. It hurt like hell, but he was strong enough to do it. One nurse calmly guided him to the courtyards. The air outside was wet and hot. The storm from two days ago had left its mark. A few trees had fallen in the courtyard: a place as messed up as his mind. A cadre of patients lurked about their daily exercises. A man walked on crutches, a woman walked with a cane. He blushed as he saw the gazes of the others upon him. He was helpless in this hospital. They left him in the sun.

          "We'll be right back, Mr. Walker," the nurse said. John looked around. The sun shone very brightly, hot as always. The distant highway could be seen, cars speeding on it, people doing about their daily lives. Birds sang on nearby fallen trees, probably seeking their young, police sirens could be heard in the distance. The sky as clear as it ever was.

          "I don't like you…" The old man was very sincere. He seemed to appear out of nowhere. Now he stood in front of John's wheelchair.

          "You're a non-Pinocchio, a Liar. I don't like Liars…" He poked.

          John looked at the old man. His face was distant, almost as if he was demented. The old man grunted like a pig when a beautiful nurse helped him walk.

          "Come on, Mr. Withers, leave Mr. Walker alone now…" she said to him, helping him be on his way. The old man crept away slowly. The nurse looked at John. John seemed to recognize her from somewhere, and his mind re-winded like an old video tape.

          "Mr. Withers has Alzheimer's disease. He is very ill and very old. You must forgive him." She smiled as she said it. John managed to smile back.

          She was a beautiful young girl, a little bit younger than he was, perhaps 33. She had red hair, tanned skin, thin lips and a beautiful pointed nose that complemented a set of penetrating brown eyes.

          "No problem," he said.

          "My name is Cindy," she extended her hand and John shook it. "You're John Walker, glad to meet you."

          John then remembered where he had seen her. She was the nurse that felt pity for him a few days ago, though she was a distant voice then. He was glad to have a look at her now.

          "It's nice to meet you too, Mrs."

          "Just call me Cindy. I'll be your personal nurse from here on, so anything you need, just call."

          He mistook the word personal. John was definitely in need. He smiled.

          "Very well, I'll be near if you need anything," the nurse said as she headed away from him and tended to an old woman on a wheelchair.

          John decided to take a stroll. He tried to operate the wheelchair. It was fairly simple; he had been on a wheelchair before. One time he had gotten into a bar brawl with a drunkard and he had left on a wheelchair.

          His thoughts were not with him when he took the stroll through the hospital's courtyard. He stopped for a moment. A child was calmly staring at him from afar. This was a very young boy, about five it seemed. He had short blonde hair and was very white, an albino child.
John waved at him and the boy sped off towards his mother. It was to his surprise that the boy's mother was none other than Nurse Cindy. She noticed John was staring at them and walked towards him.

          "Doing alright, Mr. Walker?" she asked. John nodded and looked closely at the boy.

          He figured he would have to be polite, something that was very hard for him to do.

          "This is Kendel, my little boy. Say hello to Mr. Walker, Kendel."

          "He is very old…" said Kendel sincerely. John kept a straight face.

          "Ah Kendel, that was not very nice." The woman said.

          "I'm just being sincere. You always tell me not to tell lies," the boy protested. His mother chuckled.

          "You can't tell lies, little boy, you have Pinocchio on you." She reassured the boy in a playful tone. John started to rev up his wheelchair to leave, but the nurse stopped him.

          "I'm so sorry about the boy. He is such a big mouth." She patted Kendel on the head.

          "It's alright," John replied, "but I have to leave now. I'm just strolling around."

          "Well, how about if I leave Kendel with his grand-daddy for a while, he's waiting outside for him, and I walk around with you?"

          John nodded, smiling.


The nurse had taken him through a gate that followed to a small forest in the middle of the city. If it weren't for the distant honking of the speeding cars, one would think they were deep inside a sprawling wood. But they weren't, as the great buildings reaching far into the skies were still visible.

          "This is our small forest; here we take patients so they can enlighten themselves. Some patients have deadly diseases and need this kind of therapy. For me, it's kind of romantic."
She inhaled deeply and exhaled.

          John felt peace in this place, strange peace. Almost the same peace he had felt when the car hit him. Peace in pain.

          "How do you… I mean how do you maintain it so calm?"

          "I think it's magical. I mean, this forest is the only place with trees in this whole city."

          John remembered. He had seen trees before, in the outskirts of this city. Where they dropped Liars to roast under a hot sun and left them to die. He had spent a few years trying to survive there, going from outcast bar to outcast bar, and drinking his life out.

          Yes, he had seen trees, he had seen dead stumps. But these were green and full of hope.

          Cindy stopped abruptly. She checked her digital watch. John saw into his watch: it was well past four in the afternoon.

          "How is it there? How do you survive? Being a homeless person?"

          "I live with whatever I can get," he replied.

          "It must be hard then, to be homeless."

          "I've lived as an outcast for more than half of my life," he continued. Cindy widened her eyes and John snapped into himself: Why was he telling her this?

          "And why the hell am I telling you this? You will never understand. You made the 'right' choice," he finished sarcastically, in a very cold tone.

          Cindy just sniffed. John didn't know if she was crying or if she just had a cold, but he was sure he heard her sniff.

          "The air is stiff here," she said. And she was right. The forest was a beautiful place which absorbed the city's contamination.

          "I admit your tale is a sad tale, Mr. Walker,"

          Sad? He would expect such from a Hookie, a Hookie tended to express condolences with fixed words and phrases. Words like sad, or phrases like "That's too bad." Or "Hey, cheer up, at least you're alive."

          But John touched his legs. They were hard and very cold. He couldn't feel them. Tears left his eyes. He feared he would never walk again.

          "But I don't believe you a bad man at all."

          The cold man wept.

          Cindy saw John cry and caressed his face. And suddenly he found her lips touching his and her hands running down his chest.

          "Fuck," he said, and kissed her passionately.


It had been spontaneous. Now they both lay naked in the underbrush. Cindy lay calmly on his chest. Her hair was messed and sweaty. John wondered for a while what it would be like to be married to her, and then he dismissed the thought when he realized she was a Hookie and he had been married to a Hookie once. Still, the woman felt warm against his chest. Her eyes opened to just slivers. Then, like a surprised rabbit, she jumped and stood, and covered herself.

          "T-that shouldn't have happened," she said nervously, looking for her clothes, not looking at John.

          John chuckled.

          "Please help me up. I won't tell anyone what happened between us," he said, noticing the worried look on the woman's face.

          The woman dressed herself and helped John to dress. She then gave him a hand to help him sit on the wheelchair.

          "You can lie, can you? You can't keep a promise, Mr. Walker," she said as she pushed the wheelchair across the trail, hurriedly. John heard this and grabbed the wheels, braking the wheelchair to a stop.

          "I can take it from here," he said. "And I try not to lie." He lied.

          Cindy let him go.

          John kept his gaze locked forward, not looking back at the woman he had left weeping.

          Hookies and Liars, that's all there was.

          Pretty soon he had reached the gate. He stopped and opened it with one loose hand. Then he continued. There was a police officer in the courtyard questioning one of the nurses; he had a very rough face. Noticing Walker, he walked towards him.

          "Are you Mr. Walker? John Walker?" he asked.

          "No," John replied in a lie. He knew what he was in for.

          "Right, please come with us," the policeman said. Three other cops awaited in a nearby car.

          John looked around to see if anyone could see him or help him. There was no one. He couldn't resist arrest now that he was invalid. Nowhere to run: he decided to go with them.


They had taken him to the city's police department to question him. He now sat in the small interrogation chamber, the rugged cop lumbering down upon him. The other cops laughing and launching jokes at each other.

          "Stop please." It took two words to make them silence, then he motioned towards John.

          "Confess to the crime, Mr. Walker. We have your description on file and we have witnesses. Confess that you stole from Mr. Edward Michelgood on the night of September 21st, 20--."

          "I can't confess to a crime I didn't commit," he lied firmly, interrupting the officer. But then they brought out papers.

          "These show you are not under Pinocchio treatment or that you have the serum on your blood. Seems to me you are walking on a tight rope, Mr. Walker. Your defense is very thin."

          The cop slapped John's lap with the thick folder. John eyed the documents. They were real and they were signed by the hospital's director.

          John felt a knot tying on his throat.

          "I have to admit these are real." He finally gave up to the law.

          The cop chuckled sarcastically.

          "Dire, eh?" he put his thick hand on John's scrawny shoulder. "The law is willing to give you a break, chap. Just to recuperate while in the hospital. Then we will take the necessary measures to put you permanently away.

          "You see, Mr. Walker: the penalty for robbery is considered deceit, which is considered lying, which is considered yet another crime under the country's laws. Once you have been branded a Liar, you have been branded a criminal. Or didn't you know that? You have, of course, the option of taking the serum. Or didn't you know that?"

          John nodded. He lied.

          "Well, now you know." He said, "Help him out." The burly cop gestured. One of the policemen took the handles of John's wheelchair. John slapped the hand away.

          "I can do it by myself," he said stubbornly. And he clasped his hands on the wheels and pushed himself forward.


Outside, an ambulance waited for him. Cindy helped him into a chair they had prepared for him. John looked gray, the sky was gray, and the buildings were gray. Not even his hacker friends would help him out of this one. Not even the old mobster that lived neighboring him outside his apartment would knock some people off for him. He would have to think and quickly formulate a way out.

          "I'm sorry, I had to…" she said.

          "Don't, you were only doing your job," he replied.

          "John, I like you. I feel deadly attracted to you. I have never felt this before. I am being sincere." Sincerity was something hard to come by these days, he thought.

          "Sincerity is something hard to come by these days. You love the one you tattled."

          And Cindy's eyes sprouted a thin line of tears.

          "I have Pinocchio on me, John. I can't lie. They asked me to come forward. I'm so sorry." Those were the last words John had with Cindy for the next few months.


The following weeks he had spent his days staring at nothingness and following his treatments, and thinking and thinking of a way to lie to the law. His gestures always conveyed deception, and he was harder to believe. Pinocchio was a curse. He could walk small paces now, though. He walked the hospital's main hall and back to his room. His legs were slowly recuperating, and time was running out. Pinocchio was all around him. Pinocchio was on the nurses, the cops, the teachers, the prostitutes, the robbers, the politicians, the children, the elderly, dead men, prisoners, soldiers. He was staring at the wall, lost in endless space when Cindy arrived and brought him pills.

          "Brought you these," she said and put them on the table. John minded her.

          "How are you doing?" she asked and only received utter silence. She bit her bottom lip.

          "Well, I'll be around if you need me." Cindy turned around.

          "Wait, don't go," John forced out in barely a whisper.

          "You can beat him." He said, "You can beat him, Cindy."

          "Who?" Cindy asked. John's eyes could say it all; he had gone mad. He was asking her to fight Pinocchio.

          "Fight him. He is a demon, Cindy. Fight him!" He grabbed her arm forcefully. She instantly screamed and the male nurses came in with a sedative. They pricked him. And John's eyes closed slowly and Cindy was left crying.


Fight Pinocchio…

I can't believe he's like this. What did they say?

Permanent lunacy…

Jesus, we could have helped him.

He's had a rough life; he is a Liar, after all.

I feel sorry for him.

If only he would follow our advice and take the damned injection.

We will pardon him from all crimes committed if he joins us.

He deserves a chance…

I will take the serum then, you won, I will join you, yes I will, I will join the Hookies, I will take my pills, I will inject myself with the Pinocchio treatment, I will be one of you, I will join your collective.

Fine then and welcome.


John hummed a silent song. His last day of treatment had come. He could walk now; he could run miles and miles, or so the doctors thought, but he felt this way and he was happy. He smiled at Cindy and at the nurses around him. He smiled at the cop that had interrogated him roughly four months ago. He had made the decision to take the injection.

          "It's the right choice," he had told Cindy, his hand over her hand, while they prepared the injection for him.

          The nurses smiled at him and some applauded. The atmosphere was very friendly. Something brewed in the air: honesty and sincerity. No italics, all written in normal lettering. And he signed the release papers.

          "You look better, John," Cindy said. "I know the real you now."

          "Well, I had your help on my treatment. For that, I am grateful." He kissed her cheek and signaled for the man to bring the injection. He was a new man now. He would join the rest of society. The man brought over the injection with the viscous green liquid. John pulled up his sleeve amiably. The man cleaned the area where the injection would prick. The cop documented the event closely next to him jotting down on a small notebook.

          His new life drew near. He would marry Cindy. Have her children.


But all of this was a lie, though. John stopped smiling and suddenly, when everyone was distracted by his sudden change, grabbed the cop's firearm, pointing it at the crowd. John's obvious sincerity had caused the man not to activate the safety lock on his gun.

          "Don't move, fuckers," he cursed. "No Pinocchio for me." He pointed madly at the freaked nurses.

          Cindy started crying. The cop backed off.

          "Jesus, Mr. Walker. You had your chance. Jesus, you blew it up big…" the cop said angrily.

          "Shut up! Shut the hell up! Shut up!"

          A gunshot was heard.

          "Shut up, lard…" John said as the cop slid to the ground with a bullet to the head. The nurse that carried the injection moved to stop him, but John shot him in the chest and he fell dead on the ground. The injection fell to the ground and broke to pieces, releasing the liquid.

          He grabbed Cindy as a hostage and walked forward using her as a human shield. The hospital was chaos. Dead bodies of patients and nurses lay on the ground. Out of ammo, John reloaded the gun once more.

          "I'm scared, John. Please don't kill me," Cindy pleaded.

          "I know, you're a Hookie." He said, releasing her. He pointed the gun at her.

          "You still have the power to fight it," he said. "Fight for your right to lie."

          There was a long moment of silence and the distant blaring of police sirens. They were coming.

          "I will." She finally replied. John lowered his gun.


They walked out the hospital's back door, towards the small gates that lead to the forest edge. Cindy felt John trusted her. This trust would become her best ally. Now they were both standing in front of the gates to make a clean getaway, the police radios and sirens blaring distantly. This was John's master plan of escape, she thought. He would escape the hospital with her, and would form a coalition, a coalition of men and women, fighting for ideals of equality between Liars and Hookies. He was a mad-man.


It was then she saw the red dot. A small red dot that could only mean one thing, a small red dot that moved from John's leg and placed itself firmly upon his chest.

          "What's wrong?" he asked, moving to her.

          A sudden rush of choices flooded into her mind, and she grabbed the nearest one, the quickest one out.

          "Nothing…" she replied and closed her eyes tightly. The shot was heard. The sniper had been a good marksman, as it had been clean. There was no blood on him. But still he gasped for air and slumped down on his knees, not capturing the reality of what had happened to him.

          "I trusted you," he gasped.

          "I lied," she replied coldly.


          "I'm a Liar. And you can't always be sure what a lie from a truth is."

          And John Walker died with a wounded mind.


The cops had told her to come with them, for interrogation, perhaps. The hospital had become a big crime scene in mere moments. Her memories of John had become just that: memories.

          The chief stared at her; she stared back. He had a funny look on his face.

          "I'm sorry, Mrs., but you're under arrest," he said.

          She couldn't believe the words.

          "Are you lying?" she asked, trembling, a confused look on her girlish tone.

          "No, I can't lie, I have Pinocchio on me. I'm sorry."

          And she felt the coldness of the handcuffs take their grip around her wrists.

          "…Mrs., you have the right to remain silent…" the usual statement.

          She had forgotten Liars had no place on this world. Lying was a crime, after all.



copyright 2006 Peter J. Rosado.

Peter J. Rosado:
My name is Peter J. Rosado, I was born January 6, 1986 on Mayaguez, Puerto Rico. I've loved Science Fiction and Fantasy ever since I was a young boy. I started writing at the age of five and at the age of ten had written my first five novels under the name of "A Paladin's Tale", they involved the concept of Humanism, mixed with the religious beliefs of today and tried to define the theme: "Illumination by Sacrifice".

I then moved deeper into Science Fiction and wrote existential/surreal tales which questioned the power of the human mind and the psychology of existence, and the story which consider to be my best and favorite: Binary, which I defined with the quote "How life and love can exist in even the most inexpected places."

I tend to follow traditional sf and focus more on character growth, the study of what makes us human, and how excesive use of technology overruns man.