Ficlets

It seemed Daddy always knew the right things to say. I had always stuttered and fumbled over words, but he spoke with confidence and pride. He always chuckled when I said things like “fig beet” when I meant to say “big feet.” He said my mom used to do it too. He told me I was exactly like her, which always made me feel so empowered; I felt like I could conquer the world if only I was as strong as my mother.

His natural charisma was nearly depleted by now, though. It seemed “Chickamunga” was the only right thing he said to me the whole day. It was just an awkward conversation—actually a monologue—between two strangers.

He began by saying, “You look nice…” which was an obvious lie because, hell, I had just had a panic attack or two after awakening from a two month coma-thon! He quickly tried to adjust his feigned compliment by saying,”...for, you know,... everything that… happened,” which didn’t improve the situation. I wasn’t offended, just not exactly comfortable with the circumstances.