Photo © Roger Bulltot
I’d donated my youth to war, watched our reconstruction fall to drought, nursed my dying wife to the last. Nothing could faze me.
Yet this had been home.
Its prideful towers — toppled, reclaimed by vines. Roofless walls of windows stared in judgement over weedy fields.
Laughter burbled up, sour-tasting. I stopped before it turned to sobs.
All my father’s red-faced lectures, blaming every family failing on his “wastrel” son. In the end, he destroyed his legacy without my help.
He’d probably cursed my absence, unable to curse my presence.
Mad dogs bark loudest. He cannot bite me now.
Word count: 100. Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers challenge. Thanks to our fairy blogmother Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting, and for Roger Bulltot for providing this week’s prompt photo! Click on the link to read the rules and to see the other stories inspired by this image.