Hilarious! Thanks for writing a story…

and perhaps you are right.

“What about them?” the old bald man asked, turning another page in his tabloid newspaper.

“You’re not wearing any pants, Papa.”

“I’m taking a bath, son.”

“Are you going down the stairs to bathe in the river, Papa?”

“No, I’m taking a bath right now.” Papa turn another page and the breeze threated to rip the tabloid from him like a kite.

“But there isn’t any water, Papa.”

“An air bath, son. I’m taking an air bath.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Why not? Benjamin Franklin took air baths. Maybe it’s going to catch on someday?

Lauren, thank for posting the story… twice I’ll comment on it in the comments for the official post today.

Just for the sake of not driving you mad with reading, here’s another copy.

* * * *

Antonio’s left thumb twitched.

This always happened when he got excited, like when Papa said, “let’s take the boat out and snag some fish.” Or like now, when Mama said, “Antonio, run back down to Bernelli’s and get me some mushrooms.”

In all his seven years, Antonio had never been asked to do something so important as this.

With a pouch of coins tucked into his pocket, Antonio raced down the narrow streets to the upper piazza, where St. Peter’s cappella stood, and he considered stepping into the cool fragrant church to see his papa.

His papa was a reverent man. That’s what his mama said, anyway.

“Tony is a reverent man,” she had said to Grams on the phone just yesterday. “He spends his lunch every day on his knees at the altar. I know this because his knees are as calloused as an elephant’s hide and two days ago I pulled a damn…” here, she crossed herself and said her prayer “…splinter from his knee!!”

Eager to get back home to lunch, Antonio left the piazza and ran down to the store on the bay, where he bought the mushrooms. Figuring his running had saved him some time, Antonio detoured to the bay and mounted the parapet, where he intended to sit and watch the sun on the water.

It was here he found his reverent papa with his friends, in his skivvies. His papa looked up from the paper he was reading, eyed Antonio, smiled, and put his index finger up to his lips. Antonio, flushed with confusion, mimicked his papa’s gesture, then continued on into the street, knowing he’d have to make one more stop before going home.

A few blocks up the hill, Antonio squeezed between buildings 403 and 404, emerging on the slope overlooking the bay. Sailing out of the bay were two stripped down fishing boats, each boasting nothing more than a mast and boom with sail, and a tiller. The boisterous voices of the men floated up to Antonio, who heard for the first time the language of racers cursing each other, begging the wind to favor them, and making all sorts of promises to God if only He’d give them the win.

In the stern of the lead boat, on his knees working the tiller, was Antonio’s reverent papa. Antonio watched long enough to see his papa’s boat round the buoy well on its way to victory, then he squeezed back into the street and raced home.

Antonio devoured his mozzarella and tomatoes, enduring the scolding of his mama, who told him not to inhale his lunch. She turned from the skillet of sizzling mushrooms and asked, “What are you smiling at, son?”

“Nothing, Mama. Just hoping Papa prayed for me today.”

* * * *
Another nine hundred words and the characters get a little more life, which pleases me more. And, properly formatted

http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1443524

Anyway, the writing challenge took me in an unexpected direction once I started, and even disciplining myself not to add too much of what I remembered of that and the other towns, the story topped out at over 1,000 words.

So, here’s a short version with an alternate ending, and following is a link to the site where the long version can be found.

Antonio’s left thumb twitched.
This always happened when he got excited, like when Papa said, “let’s take the boat out and snag some fish.” Or like now, when Mama said, “Antonio, run back down to Bernelli’s and get me some mushrooms.”
In all his seven years, Antonio had never been asked to do something so important as this.
With a pouch of coins tucked into his pocket, Antonio raced down the narrow streets to the upper piazza, where St. Peter’s cappella stood, and he considered stepping into the cool fragrant church to see his papa.
His papa was a reverent man. That’s what his mama said, anyway.
“Tony is a reverent man,” she had said to Grams on the phone just yesterday. “He spends his lunch every day on his knees at the altar. I know this because his knees are as calloused as an elephant’s hide and two days ago I pulled a damn…” here, she crossed herself and said her prayer “…splinter from his knee!!”
Eager to get back home to lunch, Antonio left the piazza and ran down to the store on the bay, where he bought the mushrooms. Figuring his running had saved him some time, Antonio detoured to the bay and mounted the parapet, where he intended to sit and watch the sun on the water.
It was here he found his reverent papa with his friends, in his skivvies. His papa looked up from the paper he was reading, eyed Antonio, smiled, and put his index finger up to his lips. Antonio, flushed with confusion, mimicked his papa’s gesture, then continued on into the street, knowing he’d have to make one more stop before going home.
A few blocks up the hill, Antonio squeezed between buildings 403 and 404, emerging on the slope overlooking the bay. Sailing out of the bay were two stripped down fishing boats, each boasting nothing more than a mast and boom with sail, and a tiller. The boisterous voices of the men floated up to Antonio, who heard for the first time the language of racers cursing each other, begging the wind to favor them, and making all sorts of promises to God if only He’d give them the win.
In the stern of the lead boat, on his knees working the tiller, was Antonio’s reverent papa. Antonio watched long enough to see his papa’s boat round the buoy well on its way to victory, then he squeezed back into the street and raced home.
Antonio devoured his mozzarella and tomatoes, enduring the scolding of his mama, who told him not to inhale his lunch. She turned from the skillet of sizzling mushrooms and asked, “What are you smiling at, son?”
“Nothing, Mama. Just hoping Papa prayed for me today.”

Another nine hundred words and the characters get a little more life, which pleases me more.

http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1443524