Ficlets

It was about a mile walk to the bar, and by the time Sam arrived he was tired and thirsty. Sam hadn’t walked a mile since his senior in high school, when he and Roy Sands had a competition to see who could “run” the mile the slowest. Their gym teacher stopped keeping track after a half hour.

As he opened the door to The Rusty Tailpipe, Sam couldn’t help but notice the bicycle parked outside the establishment looked nearly identical to the one the little boy was riding, though this one appeared considerably older. “Couldn’t be,” Sam thought to himself.

Jonathan Spokes was sitting at the bar, sipping on a fuzzy navel, reading the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Resting on the bar to his right was the time machine. “Ah, Sam, right on time,” said Spokes. “Have a seat.”

“Spokes,” said Sam, sitting beside the old man. “If I wasn’t so tired I’d kick your butt. What’s going on?”

“Two lagers for my friend,” said Spokes motioning to the bartender. “And you, drink up. You may enjoy my little story better that way.”