Lyra looked out of the window, slowly tracing the words engraved on the panel of the windowsill, under a cushion, "Lyra doesn't lie".
The day was grey and dreary, nothing new there for Cornwall.
The room she sat in had ivory curtains, and a large but simple bed with slightly pink sheets, the floorboards was shiny and clean. The room was impeccably in order. A small pile of unopened books sat on her bedside table.
She sat absolutely still, her dark curls falling down her neck like a waterfall, her grey eyes fixed in the distance, half-biting her cherry red lips, her porcelain coloured skin contrasting with her pink cheeks.
Lyra Goodfellow was the perfect vicar's daughter, the cream of the crop, pride and joy of her family - her temperament : dreamy, her constitution : rosy, her etiquette : flawless.
She was fairly pretty, bright, lively and in all ways delightful : the best daughter, in short, that a poor vicar and his wife could ever live for.
There was only one problem: Lyra was a liar.
Lyra wasn't just any liar, but a damned good one at that. She'd been telling lies practically ever since she could talk. She lied about not being tired and not being hungry, she lied about who had eaten the pot of strawberry jam. She lied about how the cat had gotten into the dustbin. She lied about why poor Mrs. Smithheart's front porch was covered in red paint. She lied about where Goldie's doll was. She lied, a lot.
As she grew up, she started telling new sorts of lies: she learnt to lie about what her father preached in church. She learnt to lie about her night time wanderings on the Cornish coastlines which soon became haunted by strange children, swarming with bloodthirsty sharks, crawling with fierce pitiless pirates armed to the teeth. In all these tales she was the one and only hero, the adventurous wench, the skilful warrior; and she lost herself in her newly spun web of fantasies.
She learnt to lie about the Bible class homework she'd never done. She learnt to lie about what she thought of the parishers. She learnt to lie about where she was going and the reason why she smelled of tobacco. She learnt to lie about who she spent the night with, it didn't matter any more right? Who bloody well cared which idiotic spiritually annihilated cunt she'd fucked all night long?
She learnt to lie about where she came from. She learnt to lie about what she believed in. And in the end, she learnt how to lie about who she was. All these things that she learnt to lie about, all those dark secrets whispered to a cold night, they were drowning her in the very whirlpool she'd created.
Only then did she start lying to herself.
To herself, she learnt to lie about how she had become this way. She learnt to lie about how much she cared. She learnt to lie about why she lied so much in the first place. She learnt to lie about why she kept pretending nothing was happening. And most of all, she learnt to lie about the few things she knew left to be true.
. the only thing i think this lacks that tim obrien's does is that her lies seem less particular and interesting and characteristic of a life. like "pot of strawberry jam" and "cat in the dustbin" seem over used and little-english-fable like. but you know this piece has a lot of fable elements to it, like her being the rosy cheeked vicar's daughter, so it doesn't get overly cliche either. anyway i'd like it better if her lies were more personal and intricate kind of, but that's just me and what i like. cuz this works well as a little english fable gone wrong (i mean gone dark, not like badly written). hey i like reviewing. peace out i think ur a good writer