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โ โฎ ( ๐ฟ๐พ๐ป๐ฐ๐๐พ๐ธ๐ณ ๐ฑ๐ด๐๐๐ด๐ด๐ฝ ๐๐ท๐ด ๐ฐ๐๐ท๐๐๐ฐ๐๐ โ ( Bardic & Cat )
- Thread starter Cat
- Start date
Bardic Returns
The song's the thing
- Joined
- Jul 12, 2025
- Location
- Pacifically oriented
Ezekiel Ellis (that's Zeke to you, none of this EE nonsense) sat in his tan-and-white striped swivel recliner with a smoldering Marlboro dangling from his lips, an Old Milwaukee can sweating into the light pressboard side table that also housed the dim lamp shedding most of the light on that side of the room, the 25" Zenith wood cabinet CRT opposite the chair burbling the static-punctuated news, and his daughter's last handwritten letter to him in his hands. When a three-minute call cost more than five times postage, and there was no scholarship money for the Ellis family, postage and a letter you could hold forever seemed a lot smarter than picking up the telephone. His 5 o'clock shadow was working on midnight even at 8, and he had a bit of a paunch that didn't dull the appeal of his swept threatening-to-grizzle hair with blue eyes that twinkled despite the hardships he faced. The flannel shirt on top of a white tank top, worn blue jeans, and white tube socks that were normally encased in thick brown leather work boots rested lightly on his frame tonight.
This was the day Thanksgiving break started. His baby girl Wendy would finally be back after being away at college for three whole months. His one and only little girl. So precious, despite what his do-nothing ex-wife said about their daughter. That's why Wendy chose to live with him after their divorce when she was 12. He raised her up right, wouldn't take no sass from her, but also didn't call her worthless or trash. He saw she was plenty smart, better than what her grades said at the divorce, anyway. And she proved it by getting accepted to college and getting the chance to make a life for herself.
Every week, he'd write her a letter telling her what happened at the factory, not that there was much to say. The things he did with friends after work - bowling, pool at the bar. He wondered if she really cared about any of that anyway when he started out. She had so much new stuff to do and so many new people to meet that the same ol', same ol' from his decades of living in the same town, doing the same things. But she always wrote back and made him think she was paying attention, still cared about him and his doings. He asked a lot of questions, and he got a lot of answers.
Wendy made Zeke feel close to him, and the fact her letters came smelling like the perfume she always wore helped that a lot. When he was thinking, he wouldn't even smoke when he was reading them. He wanted that scent to stay around as long as it could. Oh, there were still traces of it in her room, but he kept that closed. Out of respect. Out of a concern that the stink of just his living there might infect it somehow.
Ever since she went off, he hadn't been eating as well, and the stress of keeping the whole place clean weighed on him. He kept her disciplined about doing chores around the house, making sure she could take care of herself away from home. Now, there were papers strewn about, and he was lucky to clean the ashtrays out weekly and vacuum monthly. He knew he should air out the place more often, wipe down the counters after each dinner, and actually cook for himself more than a couple times a week, but he'd gotten so used to Wendy doing it that he'd lost the muscle memory.
But her letter promised she'd be home for Thanksgiving. He bought a turkey, started it defrosting that night. He had the stuffing ready to bake in the morning with the turkey, and he had even whipped up some mashed potatoes and gravy to heat up tomorrow morning. It was going to be the two of them again, and he'd get to see her and how college agreed with her.
He stubbed out the cigarette and took his ashtray to the trash. He'd do her proud and clean up as best he could, even though she'd be there any minute, from what her letter said. Wednesday, around 8 o'clock. She'd have a friend drive her to see him so they didn't have to spring for a taxi. A real nice friend, to drop her off like that so she could see her old man.
As he was in the midst of his puttering, the doorbell rang.
He tossed the trash in the trashcan and walked quickly over to the wood paneled door. His heart leapt as he imagined what his daughter would look like as she entered the door with a suitcase in tow.
He positively could not have imagined the foppish beanpole with his left hand around her waist, his own suitcase behind him and a backpack slung casually over his right shoulder.
This was the day Thanksgiving break started. His baby girl Wendy would finally be back after being away at college for three whole months. His one and only little girl. So precious, despite what his do-nothing ex-wife said about their daughter. That's why Wendy chose to live with him after their divorce when she was 12. He raised her up right, wouldn't take no sass from her, but also didn't call her worthless or trash. He saw she was plenty smart, better than what her grades said at the divorce, anyway. And she proved it by getting accepted to college and getting the chance to make a life for herself.
Every week, he'd write her a letter telling her what happened at the factory, not that there was much to say. The things he did with friends after work - bowling, pool at the bar. He wondered if she really cared about any of that anyway when he started out. She had so much new stuff to do and so many new people to meet that the same ol', same ol' from his decades of living in the same town, doing the same things. But she always wrote back and made him think she was paying attention, still cared about him and his doings. He asked a lot of questions, and he got a lot of answers.
Wendy made Zeke feel close to him, and the fact her letters came smelling like the perfume she always wore helped that a lot. When he was thinking, he wouldn't even smoke when he was reading them. He wanted that scent to stay around as long as it could. Oh, there were still traces of it in her room, but he kept that closed. Out of respect. Out of a concern that the stink of just his living there might infect it somehow.
Ever since she went off, he hadn't been eating as well, and the stress of keeping the whole place clean weighed on him. He kept her disciplined about doing chores around the house, making sure she could take care of herself away from home. Now, there were papers strewn about, and he was lucky to clean the ashtrays out weekly and vacuum monthly. He knew he should air out the place more often, wipe down the counters after each dinner, and actually cook for himself more than a couple times a week, but he'd gotten so used to Wendy doing it that he'd lost the muscle memory.
But her letter promised she'd be home for Thanksgiving. He bought a turkey, started it defrosting that night. He had the stuffing ready to bake in the morning with the turkey, and he had even whipped up some mashed potatoes and gravy to heat up tomorrow morning. It was going to be the two of them again, and he'd get to see her and how college agreed with her.
He stubbed out the cigarette and took his ashtray to the trash. He'd do her proud and clean up as best he could, even though she'd be there any minute, from what her letter said. Wednesday, around 8 o'clock. She'd have a friend drive her to see him so they didn't have to spring for a taxi. A real nice friend, to drop her off like that so she could see her old man.
As he was in the midst of his puttering, the doorbell rang.
He tossed the trash in the trashcan and walked quickly over to the wood paneled door. His heart leapt as he imagined what his daughter would look like as she entered the door with a suitcase in tow.
He positively could not have imagined the foppish beanpole with his left hand around her waist, his own suitcase behind him and a backpack slung casually over his right shoulder.
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