No Country for Lepraucans
by Leonard C Suskin
"America is no country for leprauchans. Oh, it's fine for the newfangled heavy-drinking American ones with their green jackets and puts of shiny, clean gold. Addle-brained, the lot of them." The tiny, wrinkled and wizened man draws deeply from his rough-carved briar pipe. He was dressed in a gold-trimmed red jacket the color of dried blood.
"You don't seem fond of my land. Why did you even come here?" His drinking companion, a far taller man of dusty-red skin looks down. There's a hint of laughter - those who spend time with him will learn that there's ALWAYS a hint of laughter - in his eyes, touching the corner of his mouth.
The scene is a bar, but not one you'll ever been to. A place between this world and the next, where the mirror behind the bottles reflects dreams and the jukebox plays songs never recorded. It's that kind of place.
"Oh, ya know how it is. Things get lean in the old country, folk cram themselves into boats, we stowaway in their heads. Next thing we're in your country."
The taller man's facade of mirth fades, for just a moment. A lightning-flash of seriousness. "Not my country. My land."
The little man leaned back, raised his hands palm forward in apology. "Whoa, sorry. I know that's a sore spot. Didn't mean it. But really, these people now... You see the shoes they wear? All glued. Two hundred years in the old country I'm a cobbler. Here? They all expect rainbows and pots o' gold, and their soles are glued on. Glued."
"So? You can re-glue them. Or stitch them. Or... pull some of the glue loose. Weaken them. Make people long for real honest footwear."
"It's not the same."
"Of course it's not. The wheel turns. You still have your hammer. Find a problem that looks like a nail. Have you ever seen a Maker Faire?"
"Can't say I have."
"A bunch of tinkerers, gadgeteers, builders. Very complex little toys. Sometimes it takes just a little tweak to make one work better than the maker dreamed. Then you watch them scurry to figure out what they did right."
"You never change, do you?"
"Of course I change. We all change. But..." he smiled, reached below his barstool to pull open a canvas bag, filled with brightly colored cardboard tubes. "They always credit me with stealing fire. I almost have to. It's expected. "
Muffled explosions echoed from outside. the little man looked up. "So... want to go outside and find something to celebrate?"
"Why not? After all, we're in the 'land of freedom', right? Let's celebrate the future."
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Today is a holiday, but you still get your twice-weekly dose of flash-fiction. Remember, you can support my flash fiction here.
Happy Fourth of July. Be safe, have fun.
Happy Independence Day, everyone.
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