Happy last Thursday of the year, everyone!
I hope you all had a wonderful holiday with lots of friends and family and good times. This week’s story is about a young girl who believes she has no family, right up until she receives a letter that changes everything.
My Father, The Popsicle
Published by Thunder Valley Press
Copyright 2011 by Annie Reed
Cover art Copyright Thierry Maffeis at Dreamstime.com
Jodi thought she was an orphan until one sweltering Thursday night in late June when she received The Letter from Billingsly, Wendham & Owens, Attorneys at Law.
That’s how she always thought of it after that. The Letter. Wasn’t that how you were supposed to think about things that changed your life? Capitalized and important?
At first she thought the whole thing was a joke. She’d just worked a double shift at Hot Dog on a Stick in the new mall south of town. She was dead tired and sick of the smell of lemons, corn dog batter, and hot grease. Her head hurt from pulling up her hair under that stupid striped hat, her shoulders ached from all the fresh lemonade she had to mix, and to top it all off, the air conditioning had been out on the bus ride home. To say the bus had been fragrant was the understatement of the century. She was in no mood for jokes. Her roommate Harry had a pretty twisted sense of humor. A fake letter from an attorney was just his style, but tonight the joke wasn’t funny.
“I ought to rip him a new one,” Jodi muttered as she opened her front door. “Hear that, Harry?” she said to her empty apartment. “I ought to rip you a new one.”
Not that Harry would be home yet. Harry worked as a bartender at the only gay club in town. Tonight he was on swing shift. Whether he could hear her or not, after a day spent swallowing the snappy comebacks she wanted to make to clueless customers whose IQ wasn’t much higher than the hotdogs they ate, muttering about Harry’s lack of humor sure as hell made her feel better.
Still, the envelope did look kind of authentic.
Jodi dropped her keys and the rest of the mail on the coffee table. It was all junk mail flyers and offers for credit cards neither one of them could afford, so it didn’t much matter where she left it. She plopped down on the couch she’d rescued from a second-hand store, slipped off her sensible, style-free shoes so she could stretch her toes into the carpet, and ripped open the envelope.
She skimmed through the introductory stuff. Dear Ms. blah-blah-blah I represent more blah-blah-blah bankrupt estate. The word assets caught Jodi’s eye, but the word that brought her up short was father.
(read the rest of the story here)