#shortstroy

How can you judge a book by its cover? You can’t even judge a book based off the first couple chapters. You never know how it’s going to end. 

This book had a cover dressed in gold. It was shiny, sweet, vibrant, creative, and stunning. One look at the cover of this book and you’d want to sit down and read it in one night. I remember when flipped through the first couple chapters. There was love, passion. There was pain and mystery, but through the first couple chapters, I had become so invested in where the rest would take me. I was falling deeper and deeper into this story, a perception of this book that seemed like the perfect story.

As the chapters went on, and as I got deeper into the story, I found that more and more of the plot was getting left out. Where was this beautifully detailed story I had found coincidentally on a Tuesday resting next to the bookshelf? The chapters got shorter, uninteresting, and began ruining the story I had become so invested in.

I began wanting to create my own ending. I started investing myself into creating a story that wasn’t there because I wanted to keep reading. Maybe if I keep pretending that this story is interesting, maybe it will get better. But I came to realize with each chapter hoping the story would go back to normal, nothing changed.

My heart broke for the version of the story that was read through in the first couple chapters. I read through those chapters a million times, trying to see when things started to drop off, where the effort started to become nonexistent. 

That’s my Mother. Threatening to shoot me with her walking stick. A deadly, give-em-hell look on her incredibly cute but roguish face. Triumph also, that she’s managed to get me in the sights of her gun. You can see it in the killer glint in her eyes. It is a game we daily play. Like the incompetent and bumbling Inspector Jacques Clouseau of the French Police and his sneaky and aggressive Chinese manservant Cato in the Pink Panther movies.

Twilight. She aroseto an earlydawn…4:30 a.m. I awakened a few hours earlier. It was the weekend.A cool, brisk morning. The moon, pale, dimly lit, lie nearthe horizon. Coffee was brewing,poached eggs, toast, crispy bacon, butter, and strawberry jam.I sat reading the daily newspaper, only momentarily, referencingthe headlines, a few sentencespast.