News to Me

I didn’t listen because I never listened to him, but I saw he didn’t care, his gaze drifting past my face to the construction on the street behind us and back, then down to the beer I bought him, talking the whole time. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

It was the last time I saw him alive.

I didn’t know he was dying. He looked the same, the worn-out look behind the eyes, the missing teeth, the way he fluttered his bird fingers. He was always glad to see me. Always wanting something. A drink. A cigarette. A few dollars.

Must have been a hundred people I knew at the funeral. They got up and eulogized him with fantastic stories of his antics, no two alike. How he once faced a city bus in a mock bullfight, how he’d defended himself in court and astonished the judge with his knowledge of statute and precedent, how he could recite Richard the Third in its entirety.

I sat in the back, listening.

I didn’t share my story of how I only found out he was my father when the coroner called.

How he’d listed me as next of kin.


Sunday Photo Fiction


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  1. neeltheauthor

    The story has several layers and leaves us with a lot of unanswered questions.
    Who is he? How does he end up in the plight that he is. And what is the exact nature of his relationship with the MC? One word, simplybrilliant Hardy.

Don't just stand there.