Fire by the Water
Blankus’ steamboat chugged around a bend, and he saw the littoral river town.
It was a burned ruin.
“What happened?” he asked the lone woman on the ferry dock.
“A house caught fire,” she said in a dour mood. “Every neighbor thought it wasn’t their problem.”
The 14-year-olds parted hydrangeas and found it.
“1967 was better than 1923,” the black girl said, kissing the white boy. “Much better!”
He grinned. “Yeah, but 2020—”
“Is working on it,” she finished. “The next jump might be our foreverwhen.” The time portal opened.
Surrounded by orcs, the halfling cooks and servers of the baggage train seemed doomed separated from their allies. But cookware became “Potvalor” armor, and taking-up skillets and cleavers they charged with their now memorialized cry:
“Remember the à la mode!”
The Tubman evaded a broadside from the Stonewall’s Revenge. A David to the Confederate airship’s Goliath, the flying Union scout only had bravado without its gun.
Molly wrenched stuck turret gears. “Work! Please! A canister round will be like buckshot to their balloon!”
Duck Pond Riot
“Where are you?”
“No, you’re not! Organize your men!”
Protesters laughed at cops in riot gear sloughing through a duck pond.
The psychic projecting illusions into the policemen’s minds laughed hardest.
Copyright © 2020 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.
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