A Yarn, or spinning a tale, an implausible story
“We were flying through a mine field in the sky, bombs were rattling my B-17 like it was a tin can. We were target practice for those sons’ of bitches.” Old Darby's mouth caved in looking like a dried shriveled peach. His rheumy eyes scanned the circle of bright young facing sitting on the floor like expectant puppies. “Where was I?
“Bombs were exploding and then you had to bail out,” helped
Evan, Darby’s great-grandson, “and your parachute...”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah...” cut in Darby, waving a dismissive hand to the youngster. “The air was ripe with shrapnel--”
“Wait, Grampa,” interrupted Evan. “You forgot about how you pulled free from the propeller, and it put a hole in your chute and you started to plummet to earth...”
“Dagnabbit, Kevin, who’s telling this story? Me or You?”
“Grampa, I’m Evan.” He looked to his friends, rolling his eyes.
“Oh, yeah, I know you’re Evan.” Dragging in a profound breath, Darby closed one eye pondering over his yarn. “Just as I bailed out, a gust of wind sailed me into the propeller catching my chute. Luckily I was able to pull if free, but not without a hitch. It ripped and I started to plummet to earth, faster than a speeding bullet.” The old man stalled as one of the boys gasped. Darby smiled smugly. “I said my prayers mighty quick 'cause I knew I was a goner. And then...and then...”
The boys leaned in, their eyes rounding to perfect O’s.
Darby tapped an arthritic finger to his shriveled lips trying to compose his thoughts. “Now where was I...?”
“Then--" said an exasperated Evan, "a mammoth golden eagle swooped and snagged the parachute with its clawed talons and the eagle dropped you into the sea and...”
“Dagnabit, Kevin or Evan,” groused Darby, “how’d you know?”
“Grampa, I’ve heard the story a gajillion times.”
“Then why’d you ask me to tell it to you again?”