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November 1, 2005

Volume 8, Issue 1

The prodigal son returns... but something is wrong.

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“Look at you! All that red hair! Where’d that come from? Oh well never mind – WOW its great to see you!”

“That old hell-hole of an apartment building felt even crappier when your mother took you and left. I’m sorry son. I just thought, since you’d never known me, it’d be easier if I just stayed away. I never even knew your name until I got your letter, signed Bill II.”

“What do you go by, son? Billy? Bill Jr.? Just Bill?”

“Bill Jr.” he replied.

“I knew a Bill once. Trucker, - lived down the hall at that old apartment.
Red-headed too.”

Posted by: kasac at November 1, 2005 9:27 AM · Permalink

Overcast skies cast a somber, leaden hue on the world, adding a chill to the cool fall air. Does the gloomy weather make some days turn out like this one? Or do days like this somehow create the gloomy weather?

“I was a lousy son,” I muttered, trudging away from the bus stop.

“Where did you go, Fred?” asked the green-headed duck waddling beside me.

“I went to see my father,” I replied. “I wanted to apologize for not staying in touch with my family.”

“How did that visit go, Fred?”

“Not good. It turns out he died last year.”

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at November 1, 2005 10:16 AM · Permalink

The place hadn't changed much, though the old man had pretty much let it go to seed after Ma died.

"So they finally let you out, huh boy? You always were a loser and didn't give a good crap about anything or anybody but yourself."

The old man hadn't changed a bit.

"So tell me," he laughed, "did they teach you anything in there?"

"Sure did, Pop."

I pulled the .38 out of my pocket and nailed him between the eyes.

I walked out the door, his wallet and keys in hand. "They taught me not to leave any witnesses."

Posted by: Don Wiggins at November 1, 2005 11:02 AM · Permalink

"Don't you dare," Fred warned his son. "There's money in it, but no time to spend it all. It's difficult to keep a family together when you have to live on someone else's schedule. You'll lose your soul to the job."

But Junior wanted to be a doctor. Ah, youth.

Fred retreated into his middle ages and read his scriptures, and waited for the fairy tale to end properly: Junior would come home, begging for support, and Fred would be needed again.

Junior threw himself out of a window when he was twenty-eight. It was a long, lifeless, loveless homecoming.

Posted by: G-Do at November 1, 2005 11:08 AM · Permalink

Sorry about that, Jim, I didn't mean to use "Fred" - I guess it was just loaded into my forelobe already, and came out without my thinking about it :P

Posted by: G-Do at November 1, 2005 11:11 AM · Permalink

That's alright, G-Do.

Anyway, your story presents the kind of situation that would happen to my Fred. Except there'd be a duck someplace.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at November 1, 2005 11:32 AM · Permalink

"I've been looking for you for a long time." The old man started at the voice beside him, slowly raised his head, and opened his bleary eyes.

"You mean me?" he asked hoarsely, motioning the bartender to bring him another beer.

"Yes, you," came the reply. "You are William Decker, aren't you?" The old man nodded. "And you left your wife and son twenty-five years ago, right?" He nodded again.

"So what's it to you, sweet cheeks?" the old man asked the young lady, as he checked out her ample breasts and shapely legs.

"I'm your son, David. Hi, dad."

Posted by: hnumpah at November 1, 2005 11:33 AM · Permalink