“Come on, Preston Weston. It’s time to go into town.”
“Aww, maww. Do I have to? I always get burrs on me passing through that small forest on the the way, heh.”
“Now, now. That cute, little Felicia Mae Appletree might be at the laundromat, hmmm?”
And her *mother*, Preston thinks. Saturdays are *so* cool. He resets his zapper gun to smooch mode. “Okay. You talked me into it.”
“Almost there, Preston,” Your Mama encourages.
“Jeez! Dang burrs.”
I’m just going to pass that place by, Your Mama thinks when stepping onto Brown Street, named for 1/2 of the famed Brown-Bower team of Sinkologists. What put Pipersville on the map!
And those too.
“Jeez, ma. Walk on the sidewalk will ya.” But she didn’t want to get too close to any of those doors over there. Too tempting…
“What happened to the laundromat?” Your Mama asked aloud.
“Creepers ma, I-I don’t know.”
She throws her sack of clothes down in the middle of the road in disgust. “And no water in the sinkhole (as a backup). Damn sinkhole.”
“Maa!” Preston protests, knowing you’re not suppose to cuss that sacred cow ’round these here parts. He scans the area to see if anyone overheard the faux pas. Your Mama cusses again. And again, beginning to stomp on the sack of soiled clothes with all her might. “STINKING SINK HOOOOLLLE!” she hollars in crescendo, then collapses beside the battered sack, crying. Preston goes over and tries to comfort in his own, special way. “Aww maa. Not the tears again. Did, heh, I ever tell you how Antarctica became frozen?”
“Preston, dear, please. Not now.” Not ever, she thought. Because she’d made up her mind. She was leaving.
Spiky-headed Craighead Phillips shut the book. “And that’s how Preston Weston got lost in his dreams, Katy. No tether to reality any longer. The End.”
Tracy Austin (Clown) weighed in. “I don’t think that’s an appropriate book for a child, dear.”
“I disagree,” gruffed Phillips in his whiney voice. “It’s got kids written all over it.”
“Yeah, dad,” offered Katy, wise beyond her years (but, after all, not a kid at the core). “Couldn’t you, I don’t know, chip in or something. He was *your* son after all.”
“Yes,” spoke Tracy again. “I agree. One of your Options should have been chipping in.”
Phillips sighed, realizing he’d have to go back in time again and switch things around. Damn sinkhole.