“And in that moment, your great-great-grandfather Bartholomew sneezed! And that sneeze blew not only the snake-oil salesman, but the the entire corrupt mayor’s posse, right out of town! They rolled and rolled and rolled until they reached the ocean, where the snake oil bottles sank to the bottom of the sea. Bartholomew was hailed as a hero for the power of his lungs and they built that statue to him right there.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Tim, ever the skeptic.

“What do you mean? You think I’d lie to you?” asked Old Man Greg.

“No,” said Tim, “I just think that you’d…what’s the word…exaggerate?”

“Never in my life has such slander been hurled at me! So inappropriate, hurling insults at your elder! Get on, boy! Get!”

Tim scurried away as Greg brandished his cane in the air. He made his way over to the statue of Bartholomew stood. The sculpture was in the corner of a courtyard, its kind eyes looking down upon those who observed it. Its arms were outstretched and a welcoming look was upon its kind face. Tim read the plaque.

“In thanks to Bartholomew Evers, who crafted regulations that saved so many lives in our fair town. We are forever grateful.”

Tim knew that Bartholomew didn’t have super powers or anything like that, Greg’s story was more than a stretch, but he was still a hero.

Thanks for reading! Today’s writing prompt for No Novel November is “Stretch!”

Photo by Miki Czetti from Pexels

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