The accordion was invented by:
a. a sadistic fiend.
b. Walter Accordion.
c. the same demented guy who invented bagpipes.
d. an otherwise nice blacksmith in Camelot.
e. a lady of Spain.
Between blanket of snow and blanket of cloud there is a thin stripe of lake.
‘Cornflake! Bradley Cornflake! Message for Bradley Cornflake!’
‘Here, boy!’ shouted Bradley Cornflake in as gruff a manner as his vocal apparatus allowed, all the while glaring around the hotel lobby in defiance, daring anyone to smirk. Nobody smirked. Instead, all busied themselves with newspapers, hat adjustment, wallet or purse inspection, whittling, any activity allowing them to avert their gazes from Mr. Bradley Cornflake, a known killer and terrible bad man.
‘Anything funny?’ roared Cornflake, and he snatched the piece of paper from the silver dish offered by the bellhop. In the face of Cornflake’s burning scowl, the bellhop melted away in lieu of waiting for a tip.
Cornflake perused the note. ‘It’s ready’ was all it said. The barest hint of a smile quivered at the opposing extremities of his mouth. He stuffed the note in his hatband, hurried through the revolving doors and onto the street. He dove for a cab and snarled the address. ‘And make it snappy!’ he added. The cab shot off and in minutes skidded to a stop in front of a warehouse.
‘Yeah, boss. Here, boss. It’s ready, boss,’ said Blinky, opening the door and bowing away.
Cornflake strode into the building. A single chair sat in the middle of an otherwise vast emptiness. The professor, smiling, stood next to the chair.
‘1874, San Francisco, right?’ said Cornflake. ‘No more 1950?’
The professor nodded. Cornflake seated himself on the chair, and whisshh he smiled in the mirror at his handlebar mustache and the derby hat perched on his head. Down the stairs he went and out into the Market Street hurly-burly. The accursed cereal wouldn’t be invented for decades.
Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments; for beside her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words.
Lou’s understated humor in this description of Amy in Little Women illustrates the timeless sparkle of her voice.
When the old year goes and the new year shows, on the stroke of midnight you’ll be free, but until then you belong to me.
You read the soiled scrap of paper again. Your heart beats wildly. You’ve been on the run evading capture for six months, desperate to make it to the new year and promised freedom. The great clock strikes ten, and you crouch low, hidden in a battered garbage bin in the alley behind an abandoned warehouse. Two more hours and you will be able to reclaim your existence, your home, your library, your peace and contentment. Until then, you barely risk breathing. Another hour passes. Eleven times the clock bell chimes. Silence. Then a sound. Shuffling feet. Terror rises, abates as you realize it’s only a drunk staggering by. The last hour is agony, attended by hope. Ring out, clock! At last. bong bong bong bong bong bong bong bong bong bong bong bong. Joy infused, you scramble from the bin. There she is.
‘But I made it!’ you cry. ‘It’s the New Year! It’s the New Year!’
‘I go by my watch,’ she says. ‘My watch says 11:53.’
You die.
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Doc's Lunacy
5 of 5 stars to The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton goodreads.com/review/show/55…
