He was a fabulist. Everyone told him so, in one disparaging way or another. To him, it was like breathing. Telling fantastic tales was entertaining and also served as a much-needed escape from the vagaries of poverty. He couldn’t believe his detractors didn’t see the value in it. He had nothing else to offer the world, so on and on he talked-of ridiculous inventions and unbelievable coincidences- always ending with a humorous twist.
His wife grew tired of the stories, especially when the cupboards went bare, and she left with a girlfriend on a day trip gone long. He knew she wasn’t loyal, but she was a willing audience for a while and that was the best he could hope for. Now he’s reduced to talking to his fellow floppers at the halfway house. They nod like they’re listening, but he knows cigarettes and meth are all they want, not stories of his exploits in far-away lands.
Some nights, when it’s late and he’s alone, he speaks in halting whispers to himself. Quietly telling the truth to the only one who cares.
© 2021 Jeff E. Brown. All rights reserved.