A Fly on the Wall

You are a fly on the wall in history, fiction, you name it. Rewrite history, or reimagine it as you see fit.

"I don't know," said George Washington, "no one even knows who I am."

Benjamin Franklin burst into laughter, "Okay, George, if you say so.  You were only the most important and inspirational general in the war.  But you are right, what does word-of-mouth really "mean."" 

Ben snapped the ends off the cigars with his pocketknife.  He gave one to George and used a nearby candle to light his own.  

"Well, it's not that I don't have some ideas," George began, "it's just that I don't think people think I'm... educated enough to be leading everyone."

"George," Ben had started to shake his head again, "that's not what we need anyway.  Maybe someday, but right now we need someone who knew exactly what we were fighting for.  You helped me out with the convention, now I'm going to help you out.  Just run.  What do you have to lose?  We got what we wanted, our own state.  I'll put it to you; the vote will be unanimously in your favor."

"What are you gonna bet me?" George smiled, and then winced in pain.  It seemed that after the crossing of the Delaware his mouth was in constant agony.

"New dental work?  And if you win you have to appoint Adams as your vice president." Ben smiled, puffing on his stogie.  

"All right," said George, "then you have to organize the whole thing.  And lobby for me!  I'm not a man who sells himself."

"You can say that again, but this time without the lisp." Ben smiled, teeth gleaming in the crisp air of the Virginian summer.

The two were leaning out on the porch overlooking the Potomac.  Flocks of blue heron's had calmed from their fervor and were nestling together under the shade of trees that had come to lean over the river with the passage of time.

"I can't believe we did it." George said.

"I know." Ben answered.

"Do you think we deserve it?" George asked.

"I'll answer you when the election's over." Ben smiled again, and snuffed out the end of his cigar.  The men shook hands and after he'd left George went to rest on a wicker rocker on the front porch.  He could hear the birds calling in the distance, Martha moving around in the kitchen, and for the first time in a long time, no sounds of conflict whatsoever.

The End

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