Whiskey On His Breath
Grampy came into my bedroom with whiskey on his breath. He had a bible in his hand, so it would be awhile before he left and I could go to sleep.
That night it was all about how Joe Frasier was never the boxing champion Ali was, and never would be. Sure, anyone would pick Smokin’ Joe in a street fight, but not in the “sweet science.” Joe had no body discipline, he beat the air. Corinthians said so.
Grampy passed on thirteen years ago. Each night I close my eyes and hope he’ll come reeling into my bedroom again.
From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin
NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, and Dime Show Review, among others.
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