The Good Old 1863 (FF)

© Ron Pruitt

It was 8:15 on Tuesday morning in Jefferson City, and already they were lining up to board Jefferson Lines Bus No. 1863 bound for Mt. Bailey for the weekly meeting of the Jefferson City Blame Someone Else Society.

The meetings were held in Mt. Bailey because it had a much bigger town hall.
Bob Byron had founded the Society secure in the conviction than anything bad ever happened to him was caused by his foreman, Drake Beighley.

At the Jefferson City Blame Someone Else Society, members railed against those responsible for their misfortunes.  It was the overly demanding boss, the ex-boyfriend, the hard driving assistant coach, and so on.

It was now 8:40 A.M. The bus driver flung open the doors and bade the passengers enter:

"Climb on.  Climb off.  Throw under."

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First up, congratulations to the Chief Honcho of the Friday Fictioneers, Rochelle Wisoff Fields, on her third anniversary helming the Fictioneers.

Rochelle has graciously suggested we may repost our stories from the week she began her august duties and she herself has posted the same picture from that week. So never missing a chance to screw off, I have herein submitted my same story from that week, but with a difference. I have edited it such that, even though it still exceeds 100 words, it no longer brazenly thumbs its nose at that limit as it surges on past it. 

You should surge on over to the stories of the the other Fictioneers by clicking here. And thanks again Rochelle; hope we never see you on the Good Old 1863.

So Much the Same

Obama returned for a four year term, Christmas commercials return to television, and I for another week return to the Friday Fictioneers for yet another go at a well prompted histoire.

How's that for a non sequitur?

I'm still a bit off the 100 word guideline this week, filing my little tale at about 153.  I promise if re-elected for another Friday term,  I'll for sure hit the mark.  But as with most political promises, don't hold your breath!  

So Much the Same 

Robert scratched his initials in the frozen glass on the window pane.  Just as he'd done when he was eight. 

So much the same, yet so much had changed.

As a child, his icy initials seemed to signal the promise of wintry excitement, a snowy day, no school, sledding, snowmen, hot chocolate leading to blissful nap. But now at over 40,  his frozen fingertips etched out only resignation, blustery conditions to be braved,  frigidness to be endured, no matter how cold, no matter how deep, for work never stopped. 

So much the same, yet so much had changed. 

Two headlights shone through the frosted window, and Brad was coming in the SUV, coming to pick him up.

"Always fun to work this day," said Brad,  steam rising from his breath as Robert climbed aboard.

"Yeah.  And remember when the Fourth of July used to be hot?"

So much the same, yet so much had changed.  

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Fly Like An Elmo

Once again it's Friday and time for Ultimate Flash Fiction under the guidance, stewardship, and benevolent dictatorship of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

As for me, this is chance to show off my very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career, one of which is clearly not bringing in these babies at 100 words or less as is the time-honored custom. 

The prompt above suggest the story below. 

Ready, folks?

It's time to fly like an Elmo! 

FLY LIKE AN ELMO

The sights and sounds of the county fair had little Ted's senses reeling, and Bert Allen, his dad, was only too happy to indulge his precious son's every whim.

But toys that fly?

"Course they do, high as an eagle!" said the Carny. "Wanna see?"

The Carny produced  three toys - a  Barbie doll, a Ken, and a Tickle Me Elmo.  He asked Bert and Ted to select one.

"Do you have a  GI Joe, mister?" asked Ted. 

"Sorry, sonny, that one's in the back," said the Carny.  "Got some smoke damage, covered with soot.  Pick one of these three."

Ted pointed to Elmo, and the Carny plucked up the venerable Muppet and flicked the "on" switch on the back of his head.

Elmo sputtered and shook, but didn't take flight.

"Sorry, boys and girls, takes him a minute or two to warm up!  Why don't ya get some food or something and come right back?" 

Bert and Ted set off to do just that,  but all any of the vendors had were soft pretzels best fit for hammering rail spikes and popcorn left over from last New Year's Eve.

When they returned, Elmo was nowhere to be seen.

"Where'd he go?" asked Ted.

"Just went up," said the Carny. "Gonna take me some time to bring him back down." 

"What kind of a deal is this?!"  exploded Bert.  "The one you want is blacked out,  you have to wait for it to go up, you have to wait for it to come down, and there isn't a goddamn thing to eat!"

"Whaddya expect, buddy?"  replied  the Carney.  "Haven't you flown anywhere lately?"

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