Monday's Moms and Dads
Evening, folks. I’m schweinsty and today's theme is Mothers and Fathers. Prompts can be anything related to parenthood-reminiscing about a parent, becoming a parent, etc.
Just a few rules:No more than five prompts in a row ( Read more... )
Just a few rules:No more than five prompts in a row ( Read more... )
Napoleon turned sixteen in March of 1945, and while the war still raged on in Europe and the Pacific, it looked like the fighting might be dwindling. He still had two years before he could join the Army, and while he wasn’t so keen on the fighting aspect, he longed to see the world. He wanted to travel to faraway places, and he’d grown up listening to stories of his father’s travels. His father had collected postcards from the different locations he’d been to, and Napoleon had developed wanderlust at a young age staring at the picturesque images and daydreaming.
His parents loved him and worked hard to make sure that he had everything he needed, and they were scrimping together a college fund for him. Napoleon had no interest in going to college. Oh, he was smart enough, but he wanted to travel the world. He wanted to see Paris and Casablanca and open a gin joint there just like his hero Rick in his favorite movie.
He still had two years before he’d be old enough to join the Army, so he did the only thing he could think to do - he lied about his age.
The recruitment office didn’t bat an eye when he strutted in and confidently stated that he’d just turned eighteen. He’d left the recruitment office with the 1A stamp proudly displayed on his service card. He’d gone straight home and started packing for boot camp.
He hadn’t anticipated his father coming home early from the factory that day, or his father walking in on him packing his belongings in an old duffel bag. He certainly hadn’t expected his father to notice the service card on his bed.
He definitely hadn’t expected his father, red-faced and fuming, to cuff him upside his head and forbid him to go.
Father and son had their first and only row that afternoon, and Napoleon had ended up storming out of his childhood home, vehemently vowing never to return, blood streaming from his nose.
His father hadn’t been unscathed either.
It’s 1965, and so far, he’s not stepped foot in his childhood home. His hand trembles as he reads over the telegram from his mother. It only contains five words, six if he counts the ‘Mom’ she signed off with, but that short, concise message has rocked him to his core, and for the first time in twenty years, he’s rethinking his vow.
‘Come home. Dad’s not good.’
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