short story – Stanton Fenwick

Three Americans in a Picanto

One sweltering day in August, when my patience was at its stickiest, I received an email from a discount tour guide. He was offering personalized legacy trips through England, helping Americans reconnect with their forgotten aristocratic heritages.

Having always sensed my innate nobility, I was sure the trip would deliver a fascinating reveal.

(It was promised in the advertisement.)

I phoned two friends, proposing we flee our oppressive environment to seek our oppressive roots.

I was not alone in my enthusiasm.

Both friends suspected they were distantly royal. It was worth checking out.

After calling a financial associate to propose a credit limit increase, three tickets were obtained, and we commenced our journey.

Battles are Won with Logistics

I examined my supplies. They were sufficient.

I began to shuttle them to the front, without alerting the enemy.

Like Thermopylae, fighting was soon confined to a narrow pass, easier to defend.

At last, victory was in sight.

I fought my way to my assigned seat and placed my carry-on bag in the last available overhead bin.

I sat. I buckled. I conquered.

Fenwick Appears

Act One

Stanton Fenwick wrote a book. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t deep. It was just a simple farce, decades behind its time.

He worried his book would be misunderstood, that the world wasn’t ready for early twentieth-century literature.

Another concern: Stanton didn’t know how to write.

But he knew what he found funny, especially dry comedy. So he tapped out a few chapters.

His wife hated them.

He knew he was onto something big.

(His wife hated all of his favorite comedies.)