trapped city dark shadow flights. hot smoking noise settles filters strikes. walk sand windows BRICKS & children quietly s-t-i-f-l-i-n-g. flowers gone rivers gray black sun dark city trapped. trapped city cold blank faces. 600 murders 4000 robberies 2 million wrecks constant war. THE LIE THE LIE THE LIE THE LIE THE LIE THE LIE THE LIE THE LIE By RONALD BARTLETT Covered over by the debris of time, the seasons having rotted away and removed the scale that had kept it veiled from the eyes of man, the lie awaited only the turning edge of the plow to spill it into the sun as a hidden rock for all to see. The sheaves of grain had been carted in and threshed and the sun-baked soil now awaited the plowshare's cutting edge to penetrate its hardened surface. The birds, which had earlier dotted the field scavenging for grain loosened by the broad sweep of the scythe, now reappeared for worms newly turned up to the air. At each pass of the plow they took startled flight, lifting momentarily skyward to permit the intruders to turn one more furrow of yellow stubble under and then settling further downfield to be finally driven off or taking up their old positions to await the plow's next passing. For the greater part of the morning man and boy, horse and plow, played their game with the birds. Not until the heat of the day had driven the birds to shaded trees did this foolish cycle end. Man, beast and machine, meanwhile, plowed through the hot fall afternoon to complete their work before winter's cold and frost should rob the plow of its deep bite. Each new furrow laid open dark, moist soil to the sun, revealing the earth's inner riches to the seasoned, calculating eye of the farmer who measured his future yield in its beauty. Only an occasional rock brought the plow abruptly short and marred in warning fashion the otherwise tranquil day. Towards late afternoon a cool breeze stirred through the trees and gave brief respite to the hot rays Little game with much less disturbance than before. As man and beast waned in their efforts to prepare the soil, long shadows began to fall across the fields. Each new furrow was completed with ever increasing difficulty because of the horse, Churn. Tipped in an ever deepening arc towards the horizon, the sun soon laid the first heavy shadows of evening on the farm houses to the west signaling to the man with the accuracy of a long trusted time piece the end of a day's toil. Churn had read the sign, too. Only with great prodding could the old horse be turned away from that familiar silhouette to plow under the last few feet of earth. It meant for him the shedding of collar, bit and harness, and the return to his rein-free existence. A roll in the dirt would easily purge and obliterate the marks of man's bondage over him. As the three left the overturned plow, heading up the small lane into the red sun which ominously bore with it in a downward, dying plunge the portent of death, old Churn's gait perceptibly quickened. of the sun which penetrated everything. The birds now resumed their The plow, soon blurred by distance and darkening night, lay forgotten. As they approached the barnyard the young boy, at his father's insistence, reluctantly led the horse to be watered. Words had passed earlier that day between the two and the boy's anger, easily kindled, had been vented with little cause upon his elder. The recalcitrance of the horse to work beyond the normal quitting time had little improved matters. The trough, hewn from a large oak long ago felled by the farmer's hands, rested somewhat near a line of poplars which studded the western-most border of the farm. Hither the horse was led. Whether from pure stubborness or sheer stupidity, however no one would ever really know the horse refused to drink. The growing impatience of the boy, prompted by the horse's apparent stubborness, soon turned into anger. In a moment of uncontrollable passion the young boy seized a long handled axe from the 5