The secrets that hold a soul wrenched in agony aren’t the ones that sit out in the open. These are. Even ours hide from us. Bring them out into the open, and all you will smell is a burning skin. It all works as debt. We only truly lie to borrow for what you can’t pay for. It eats at you. Your debt leaves you in. And that burning smell turns to rotting the more we sit in it. We all sit in cold, placid metal chairs hoping each will go without catching a wind to all our horrible smell. Lie to me. Say they were never there.

With our feelings leading, the feast of fools continued as though no one had ever felt anything less than jovial. The room would continue to live with its contained laughs and yells from the hungry guests, at least, until the host, as he stood, gave a simple word far over thought than any other he had thought of before. “My dear guests, please, look under your plates, and read what I’ve written, specifically for each and every one of you.”

But the butler was given no such letter under his plate, so he did not gasp. He did not have the common pleasure this night of opening a letter, conveniently with the nearest butter knife. Seldom few are given truth spelled out in such a way to require the debt of a lie be paid. When their stench came to written from, signed, sealed, with the date on the side, each party guest knew it was their time.

The candlelight flickered for a moment, and then fell over. The butler was so pleased not to have received a letter.

The candlelights flickered for a moment, and then fell over. The butler was so pleased not to have recieved a letter.