cyle talley

There Are Twenty-Five Words In Each Of These Sentences

The novel I checked out from the library today has a sticky stain in the shape of a binder clip on its glossy hard cover. It’s a coffee stain, spilled when an ill-behaved cat climbed onto the table to eat the eggs its owner left to answer the telephone. Hanging up on a telemarketer’s “great offer”, the owner saw the would-be criminal sniffing the plate &, appalled, he clapped his hands, scaring it badly. The cat made its hasty escape, leaping & knocking over the mug, thereby diverting the owner’s attention to the novel, which now lay in a puddle. The cat exhibited neither concern nor remorse as she observed- albeit at distance- her owner cleaning her mess, & ignored- or seemed to- his mumbled cursing.

If the cat makes another mess, I’m going to take it as a sign to go ahead & keep the novel that no one else reads.



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