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This is my proposed thesis statement(s):

Todd Smith, 17, arrived at St. Louis in the spring of 1858. He was in awe to find 72 steamboat lines and 13 railroads. And yet, in the midst of it all, he learned that a man from back east was launching a stagecoach line that trumped them all. He called it the Butterfield Overland.
That is an attention-getter, or they're asleep at the wheel.
It certainly grabs me, although I may be a little biased, being as interested in history as I am. I know I'm late in commenting on this but, as an exercise in the Wonderland challenge, I have to visit Notebooks and comment on a selected post. August 2019 may not be too long ago for my response to be relevant and, to be honest, I'd like to know how the thesis is going or went, anyway.
"Who is that redheaded kid who stepped behind the counter and sent my Western Union Telegram?" the man asked, pointing.

"Him?" I asked, following his finger.

"Yeah."

"I don't know. He's just a neighbor kid who hangs around here after school," I said.
Payphones used a series of whistle sounds that were generated by each individual key pad while dialing, each digit having a unique frequency. Folks who were into the cutting edge technology of the time used what was called a "blue box".This box was capable of emulating the sounds necessary for dialing any telephone number. Being caught with a blue box was bad news, so I'm told.

One individual, according to the data I've read, could emulate the frequencies by simply whistling. Apparently, he could step into any phone booth, pick up the receiver and by whistling into the microphone and he could connect with anyone he wished.

I haven't heard of him for years. And with the advent of the cell phones I probably never will. However, if he's still on the loose he's probably refining a means for ripping someone somewhere.
An azure sky promises a sizzler, echoing the opinion of the weatherman. In order to capture the final minutes of coolness, we take our first coffee of the day to the patio. We are scooting up to our round, steel table when the distant growl of thunder gives us pause.

A sudden gust brings the scent of rain. Within minutes a full-blown summer storm has arrived, bringing pounding rain and lightning. Thunder rolls across the heavens as though clearing the way for the next flash.

Between crashes we hear a nearby croak. The frogs knew the weather-guesser was mistaken. They are already tuning up for an evening serenade.


Well done, very captivating!
Morning Haste

Morning sun's marching into our world
Creating points of ruby and blue
Each one glistening in urgent haste
Because time is short for last night's dew
My wife has been in the for a couple of days. I've taken over the domestic duties. I'm the stop gap person between survival and starvation. She cooked this evening before we both perished
Silent Cal, they called him. A man of few words. But his few words pulled him to the White House. I'm thinking he was the Flash Fiction founder.

I have no plans of taking his place, but I plan to generate a Flash Fiction every day through next week.
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