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June 19, 2005

Volume 2, Issue 19

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We'll call this one Father of Mine. Take it somewhere. And Happy Father's Day.

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Tanya: Promises

Her mother's dying wish was that she make peace with the old man, and she was determined to somehow manage it.

So she let him sleep it off, arriving with hot water and a glass of whiskey when she heard him stir. When he woke she would tell him that breakfast was ready -she had worked extra hours at the Johnsons' to afford the eggs- already knowing that his first words would criticize her cooking.

She had adored him once, and willed that feeling to return. But she kept an old baling hook from the barn nearby, just the same.

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Michele: Everything's Ruined

“He’s a nice man, father. And I want to start a family...”

Quietly, his back turned, he said, “This is your family, Emily.”

“No, father. This is your family, the one you and mama made.”
“The one your mama left.”
“Dying isn’t leaving, she didn’t get sick on purpose.”
“You can’t leave those children, too. I won’t let you.”
“How will you stop me?”

It was then she saw the poison on the nightstand. Her father soon took his last breath and with that, her chance at marriage and escape.

“Congratulations father, you win,” she whispered at his lifeless body.

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Ted: The Vigil

Red looked at the photo on the wall and wondered "What if?"

What if he hadn't taken that tumble in Mexico?

He wouldn't have married and become a father, sure as hell. He wouldn't be lying here on his death bed while his daughter just kept fucking staring at him! King Lear's daughters were less creepy than this girl. Lucretia Borgia was not this creepy. Oh, dammit! He could be sucking on some senorita's left tit right now instead of fucking dying while this creepy little shit stared at him.

"Honey, do Daddy a favor and bring me my pistol."

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From the Comments: Marc

All he did all day long was lie there in bed. Sometimes sleeping --most times sleeping-- but sometimes awake and awful chatty. Folks came and visited, though less often than they used to. Papa had always liked his peace. Mother or Aunt Judy or I would bring him his food so he would not have to get up. There were some days where they actually fed it too him. He never even had to get up to take care of nature's necessities. And he was so skinny now!

Papa was so lucky. Clara hoped she got the consumption one day.

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Stacy: Waiting

She was ten when she was dragged from her home, screaming, kicking, biting. Her father's merciless hands clamped on her shoulders, holding her still as the preacher mouthed the words, meaningless to her, that bound her to the awful old man.

Money changed hands, and she watched as her parents receded in the distance. Not waving, no. They instead hunched over the small fortune in their hands, and she was already forgotten.

Two years later, he lay in their bed, wracked with fever and dying. She sat nearby, waiting for it to be over. Waiting to get her life back.

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