He wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol.
My father was a hard-working man, not afraid to get his hands dirty. Not ashamed to shovel shit for the rich folk when they wouldn’t honor his degree from our country.
But he was stubborn.
I heard them argue, my parents. About his work. His genius gone to waste. His drinking.
I turned away – blasting Billy Idol from my room, tuning them out.
When my mother asked where father hid his bourbon, I stayed silent, picturing the bottle next to my cigarettes in the overgrown garden.
He died young.
I smashed my stereo.
January 6, 2016 prompt: Rebellion – In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about rebellion.
It’s been 2 months since I posted any fiction. Writer’s identity crisis, self-doubt, and all that crap. Well, now I’m back. With a Rebel Yell…