Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

which he’d seemingly been transferred! In which he’d undoubtedly been transferred! Undoubtedly?

The perception—of having been sent back in time! How does one deal with that? How does one cope—with any of this? How could he really be certain—that he was, indeed, floundering around, in another era? Grandpa Piepczyk’s always-present time-transfer theory to the side, how could anyone—Jason or anyone else—truly satisfy himself that he’d, in point of fact, been actually transported back, into another time? Virtually another culture? Hell, for all practical purposes—into another civilization?

It was true! Had to be a fact! Like Grandpa, he’d always been more than a little interested—in the far-fetched time-travel “thing”. Not nearly as wrapped up in it—as the old man, so plainly, so markedly, had been.

But, Jason was—had always been—intrigued, by what little he knew, of such things. Well, actually, he knew nothing, of such things!

Most of whatever would’ve fascinated him (outside of the many, attention-grabbing, musings, of his grandfather) had come, primarily—from the few movies, dealing with the subject—that he’d seen, over his young life. But, they—all of those “flicks”—they were (always) totally fictional! All of them! Were they not?

He’d remembered even “Aunt Debbie” mentioning—on more than one occasion—that she had always believed, that time-travel was possible. And she’d not been around Grandpa. Not all that often. She, also, didn’t seem—to know how one would go about bringing such an adventure to fruition. But, she’d always seemed absolutely convinced—that such a phenomenon was entirely possible. (Well, maybe not entirely.)

“Aunt Debbie” had always claimed—that she would loved to have been a lady, in King Arthur’s Camelot. For one thing, she had said, repeatedly—lightly nudging Jason in the ribs, with her elbow (also repeatedly)—that the women back then could all get away with wearing exceptionally-low-cut dresses. A matter—of obvious importance—to his beautiful “aunt”.

Our Boy “knew” that that declaration was true. At least, that’s what he’d always believed. His “aunt” did a lot—did much (and quite often)—to solidify that image. “In fact,” she had pontificated—on more than a few occasions, “I think that plunging necklines were kind of required! Under pain of death, I’m sure! I’d have done pretty well . . . back then… y’know.” Jason knew that that statement was also factual. Most factual! Obviously factual!

On more than a few other—even more celebrated—occasions, his “aunt” would put her hands under her obviously-well-proportioned breasts—and (so seductively) push them up! Then, she’d always laughed—heartily—as Jason had looked around, frantically, to see if Sheila had seen what this woman-of-his-dreams had just done! Had just “performed”! Had just “accomplished”! Fortunately, his mother had never caught “Aunt Debbie’s” act! At least, he didn’t think so! Fortunately! No wonder—he’d had such a monumental crush on her! No wonder!

It seemed to Jason, that his author/“aunt” had spoken—from time to time—about actually writing a time-travel novel! Someday! Surely, if she ever did churn out such a book, she would’ve advised him, of the existence—of such a literary “epic”! Would she not? (Well, maybe not—if she’d have wound up writing a goodly portion of that particular “classic”, sans her clothes. It did make for some of Our Boys better fantasies!)

That “lurid” theory, on the other hand, might not have held completely true. The woman had certainly not been bashful—when it had come to, gloriously, manipulating her more-than-ample bosom, in his, awe-filled, presence. And, “upon further review” there had been a number of occasions—a goodly number of occasions—where she’d practically stuck her, world-class, bottom, directly in his face! Her (happily) tightly-wrapped, world-class, bottom! Such “joyful” moments had, sadly, been hard to come by—once she and Jason’s mother had indulged, in that damnable, highly-disappointing, falling-out!

“Something I just sprayed on,” she’d advised the flushed, fevered, young man—during two or three, of those exciting, mind-boggling, highly-esoteric, truly-memorable, probably-lost-forever, episodes. She’d also even begun to brush her glorious fanny, up against him—every now and then. Brushing lightly, most usually. But, brushing, nonetheless. So, who knew, what might have become—of such mind-boggling (to him) carryings-on? Who the hell knew? Who the hell knew anything?

Our Boy had long been terribly apprehensive—over the possibility that this gorgeous creature would discover his definitive, overreaching, erotic, reaction(s). She’d seemed never to look, for the spectacular “evidence”—of that inevitable condition! His idol had never stared, at his swollen crotch—much to his continual relief! (Well, and a good bit of consternation!)

Another fact finally shoehorned itself, into this escape-from-reality reverie—the one centered around “Aunt Debbie”. (And her magnificent butt!) Fact being—that Grandpa Piepczyk had never seemed—to have held a longing, yearning, “dream”, about being sent somewhere! Transported—to another time! No specified wish—for being “set down” in some certain, definitive, era. On the other hand, he’d certainly (always) been nostalgic enough, about the fabled—“the glorious”—forties and fifties! In Detroit.

“Aunt Debbie”—in King Arthur’s Court, though! That had always made for an “interesting” vision! A captivating image! Jason didn’t think, though, that the women, back in that epoch—ladies in waiting, he guessed they were called—were ever allowed to wear miniskirts. The accentuated-cleavage situation, of course, had been (consistently) duly noted, by the young man. He’d not been a total eunuch! It had just seemed that way, he’d always felt!

Once again, Our Hero shook his head—mightily. No matter the age—in which he’d found himself—getting any image of his “Aunt Debbie” to evaporate, required an abundance of effort. Especially if the vision centered, around her writing those spicy scenes! In the ol’ buff! Not to mention all those wondrous undergarments—that she’d “just sprayed on”!

The new transplant had—on numerous occasions—watched Grandpa’s DVD version of Somewhere In time. He’d partaken—many times! Many times. He had always loved that flick! That had been one possession—one of the few—that he’d been able to snag, when the old man had passed away. His mother used to, constantly, rail at him, for continually watching the movie! For playing it, “all the damn time”. (One of her more-civilized admonishments.)

He’d also (luckily) found a compact disc—of the sound track music, from the movie. Had tracked it down on eBay—a few months before. He’d never failed to make “exceptionally good use”, of the