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The Search By John Burgman

Three days ago, Terri called to say that my father was missing. Terri is my father’s landlord, and the de facto housemother at the wedge of apartments on the outskirts of town. The apartments look oddly dorm-like, perfect for ambitious and industrious 20-somethings, yet they are filled mostly with harsh examples of failed Ohio adulthood— steady alcoholics, deadbeats, degenerates, and broken divorcees like my father. Terri said that the front door to my father’s apartment had been left wide open, as if announcing a housewarming, but my father was nowhere to be found. I ignored Terri’s voicemails for as long as I could. My father’s pessimism and vitriol and general post-divorce mischief were precisely why I moved so far away, to the revitalized section of town that boasts life’s small domestic pleasures—an espresso bar, reading rooms, and summer symphonies in the park. I thought that Terri would just give up after my blatant disregard—why does she care so much about my father and his sad, solitary existence?—but instead, she phoned my older brother in Tucson. And so, yet again, my father has managed to cause headaches for my brother and

Black Fox Summer Issue (#12)  
Black Fox Summer Issue (#12)  

The Summer 2015 Issue of Black Fox Literary Magazine featuring new fiction, poetry and nonfiction.

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