The prompt from my Florida writers’ group was to write a short piece about Leap Year. This is what I came up with—

“Sometimes,” Gus says, “I think to myself this whole Leap Year thing is nothin’ but a boondoggle.”

“That’s redundant,” I say absently.

“What?” Gus says.

“I said what you said is redundant.  Repetitive, superfluous.  How else could you think, except to yourself?”

“What?

“Gus, think about it!  When you’re thinking, it’s just you communicating inside your brain.  Nobody else is privy to it.  If other people knew what you were thinking, it wouldn’t be thinking.  It would be talking.”

“You think so?” Gus says, brow furrowed.  “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right!” I say.  “So, it’s unnecessary to say you were thinking to yourself.  Needless, pointless.  All you have to say is, I think Leap Year is a boondoggle.”

“Yeah, that is what I think!” Gus says.  “You an’ me agree.”

“No, no,” I say, a tad exasperated.  “It’s you who thinks that, not I.”

“What?”

“It’s you who thinks Leap Year is a boondoggle!”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, an’ you wanta know why?  It’s them damn calendar-makers!”

“What?” I say.

“Think about it!” Gus says.  “Every seven years, the days of the month fall on the same date, like clockwork.  So, if it warn’t for them calendar-makers, after seven years, nobody would hafta buy calendars no more.  We could just recycle ‘em.  Them greedy SOBs up an’ stuck an extra day in Febeeary every four years to make sure we’d hafta keep buyin’ their products.” 

“Gus, Leap Year has nothing to do with calendar-makers!” I say.  “It has to do with Earth’s orbit around the sun, which takes three-hundred-and-sixty-five days, plus six hours, for a complete cycle.  After four years, that’s a whole extra day.  Your theory is poppycock!”

“What?” Gus says, forehead crinkling.

“Your theory is flawed, mistaken, incorrect.”

“Naw, I don’t think so,” Gus says.  “Leap year is just a marketin’ ploy.”

“No, it’s not!” I say.  “It’s a scientifically-proven manifestation.” 

“A what?”

“A manifestation, an occurrence, a fact!”

Gus stares at me for a long moment, then points a bony finger in my face.  “That’s redundant,” he says.  “An’ mark my words, Leap Year is nothin’ but a boondoggle!”  Then, with a sly grin, he adds, “A sham, a scam!  Leastways, that’s what I think!”

I smile weakly as he finishes, “To myself!”