Prodigal Son

Patrick Walts: the short fiction collection

“We won’t be able to hold them off for much longer, sir.”

The tired old man rose from his chair and walked over to the window, his hands folded behind his back.

“I know. Your people did their best.”

In the distance, another police car went up in flames and the masses of rioters gathered outside the gates rejoiced. It reminded him of home.

He sighed. “I remember it all, now. Dad was right. I should’ve never left.”


“I’m not from here,” said the old man. “But I didn’t remember. But it’s all coming back to me, now.”

The other man didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say.

“My father–my real father–is not of this Earth. I was raised in Hell.”

“Oh. Oh… kay.”

The old man ignored him. He’d become accustomed to responses like that. So many people hated him. And for what? He’d done a great…

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