The Cover Story

 A book has to grab me by the first or second sentence or I bail.   If it sounds too far-fetched, goofy or stupid I’m outta there.   Lists are another thing that will chase me off.  I don’t mind if the main character walks into an antique shop, but the minute they start describing everything they see, I’m gone.  They are just trying to fill pages.  To me, that’s not writing.

 

Even though I’m not supposed to judge a book by its cover, it is the cover that causes me to pick it up to begin with.  I expect the reason that adage has survived so long is that 99% of the time, after inspecting the first page, I set the book down and move on.

 

I don’t recommend this process, as I am sure I have missed out on some good stories by bailing too soon.  On a more positive note, I have enjoyed some sentences to the point of writing them down, just so I could read them again at some later date to enjoy them all over again.

 

Examples:

 

“In the chilly hours and minutes of uncertainty…”     

(Bob Dylan)

 

“His shoes wore the fragrance of well-traveled leather…” (Allison Hoover Bartlett)

 

Dark whispers skulk through rooms like silent shadows moving along baseboards, avoiding the light of day.   Dangerous allegations that, properly illuminated, would never raise an eyebrow in darkness tend to find the fertile soil of shallow minds.                

(Z. Corwin)

 

 *******

Listed under the Not Impressed category:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Make up your mind people.

A tale of two cities.

Pick one moron,  then write a second book.  What's the matter with you?

The Old Man and the Sea.

Spoiler alert!

Facial Recognition

 

That is one of the apps on my smart phone.  According to it, I’m nowhere to be found.  I don’t know if I’ve said something to upset it, but when it looks at me, it just blinks inquisitively, like it is trying to place me but just can’t.

Did we go to school together?  Were you in one of my classes?

“No, you stupid phone.  It’s me.  You know, the guy who pays the bill every month.”

Still, there is nothing, no reaction.

Then again, maybe I don't really exists.  Maybe I am a figment.  It's possible.  Maybe I'm your figment.

Think about it; you don't recognize my face, you've never heard my voice...  How do you know?  

I am simply a blog in the universe named Zobostic Corwin.
Like Orion or Cassiopeia, I hang around for you to occasionally see.  

Instead of being comprised of dust and gasses, my makeup is of vowels, adjectives, and consonants, with an occasional comma streaking across the dark paragraph.

It comes with Age

 There was a time

I had a full door of knocks.

In my youth

some went unanswered.

Oft times

my phone would boil over with rings.

The wind has since

carried old age into my house.

Suddenly,

it seems so quiet.

Think

  If you are continually experiencing

higher than normal call volumes...

It may be time to change

NORMAL

The Science of Quiet

 The rain brings down with it a certain quietness.  There is a noticeable absence of squawking from the crows.  Even neighborhood dogs seem content to snooze instead of bark during a gentle rain.  Perhaps, beyond the elements that make up a water molecule, there are silent additives, heretofore undetected by scientists and chemistry teachers.

These miniscule sound-deadening molecules, once striking an object, spin out a spiderweb-like blanket of non-noise.  This affects the insect world, until of course, it stops raining.  It is at that point we are again able to hear the insects, and the chirp of local birds.

It is these sound-deadening additives in water that allow ventriloquists to drink while successfully operating their puppet.

Think about it.  It makes sense.

Linda & John

 Our likeness was captured and placed in a frame,

Now we are destined to sit here and smile –

Nowhere at all does it mention our name,

We’ll be here for quite a long while.

Through yard sales and garage sales to antique shops in time,

We will travel through life just as faces –

In cartons and boxes with clocks that don’t chime,

With postcards of forgotten places,

We know you don’t know us, our houses are gone

Our number – don’t bother to call it,

We’re simply a couple, call us Linda and John –

The ones who came with your wallet.

A True Story

 The entire time the realtor walked the perspective buyers through the house, no one noticed the ant in the sugar bowl.   To be fair, there were many other issues with the condition of the house that drew attention to themselves, so I can’t really fault them for not noticing such a tiny creature, rejoicing and dancing about his newfound discovery of sugar.

He was so excited to return to his little ant community and share with them the tale of such an abundance of sugar, just there for the taking.  Maybe, he thought, I should carry a grain of sugar back with me, so they can see it.  And no sooner had he thought it, he was marching along the edge of the kitchen counter, carrying the granule of sugar back to his house.

Meanwhile, color fliers and business cards were tossed onto the counter as the potential buyers made their way to the front door.  Disappointed, the realtor watched in silence as her commission fizzled away. It was the gust of air from the landing fliers on the countertop, however, that caught our ant friend off guard.  He tumbled to his left and in trying to keep his balance, lost his hold on the grain of sugar.

That evening, in his telling of the bowl full of fresh, tasty sugar, several of his uncles and a few of his aunts commented that he must be embellishing just a little.  One such uncle stood up and claimed that in all his days he had never seen such quantities of sugar as the little ant had described.

Just as the uncle had finished talking the little ant cringed, looked up – just behind the uncle and yelled… SHOE!

The uncle screamed like a little girl, and all the other ants laughed and laughed.

 

The end.

Thoughts and Newspapers

 Can geese get goosebumps?

Can you go to jail for scaring someone half to death twice?

Are the ticks in electric clocks simply muted?

Is “and back” always twice the distance?

Who decides – the greater good?

 

Stupid lives on paper

That is, or so I’m told,

In Front Page News

With larger print –

Just above the fold,

Crazy finds its way to you

Sometimes in awful rage,

Its great for warning others

Or the bottom of a cage.

 

 

I have no use for papers

I’ll keep my 20 cents,

You can keep your stupid crooks

In obits please

Past tense.

 

The Smell of Old Bookstores

  I enjoy the squeaky floors of an old bookstore.  Sometimes with my eyes closed I’ll confuse a tired squeaky postal shoe with the strain of a floorboard.  I would further enjoy getting into a conversation with random people, but my conversational skills are sometimes filled with awkward gaps and pauses, like inappropriate punctuation causes a reader to stumble.  It is these spaces that slows time to an uncomfortable level, usually resulting in the annoyed participant wandering away.

    For me, old bookstores also carry the heavy scent of dust.  The dust resting on the tops of unread pages tends to waft about the store with only the slightest movement of customers.  It is history itself traveling along the aisles, settling upon tabletops and into the fabric of overstuffed chairs, only to again get puffed out as someone sits to read.

    Collectively, it is a symphony of sights and sounds, of stories and adventures - tucked between covers designed to tempt you to extend your hand, lift the book from the shelf and be carried off on someone else’s imagination.  

What’s not to like?