|image courtesy of Bluebell Books|
"Okay, Dad." Of course, I found one. Seems that John Wayne movies are always on.
"Yeah. The Duke. Now, he was a real man. Don't see too many of his kind anymore. So, you find a job yet?"
"I've told you, Dad. I have a job. I'm a writer. That is my job." I wished I could blame this conversation on senility, but it was just his stubborn refusal to accept my vocation.
"No, I mean a real job. Oh, I know you got a couple of stories published in some magazines, and that's great and all, but you can't really expect to be able to support a wife and a couple of kids some day living like that."
I let that comment drift off into the whir of the box fan he had sitting by his Lazy Boy. If we began that conversation, not even the Duke would be able to save me.
submitted for Short Story Slam-Week 2, Bluebell Books