A rose by any other name would be just as sweet.

I totally disagree with this assessment. If the name rose had a similar name to that of a less appealing word, such as bodily waste, I highly doubt that the name would be just as sweet. I would in fact argue that it would stink.


The weary little boy

As he approached the electronic doors of the huge shopping center, the little boy took note of where possible security camera might be placed. Having been caught and let go, because of his age and perceived innocence, at least a dozen times before, he knew where to glance. He didn’t want to seem suspicious as someone, even as young as him, might alert the security if they stared a bit too conspicuously at their environment. He also knew that he needed some basic attire as he had previously been kicked out of stores due to his lack of shoes the time before. So now his robe consisted of tattered shoes, a size too small, and some plain blue jeans, which his mother had stolen from a flea market, and a shirt with a movie design, the movie not being relevant for over a decade.

He wanted to get in and out as quickly, but still not alert any grown ups in the store. Having robbed many stores of basic food items, he knew the outline of this type of store. Fairly predictable. He would head of to the past the produce section which was at the entrance and wander about aimlessly, until he had a good feel for where the employees and potential Asset Protection were located, all the while pretending he was perhaps looking for a parent or perhaps grandparent. At the same time, he would avoid much contact with fellow customers as they often had the urge to talk to the little boy, often asking, “Where are your parents?”. A simply response would shut them down. “Momma told me not to talk to strangers.” And the line was rehearsed enough to fool a mom of eight children and it shut down any possible further conversation.

He had walked by the produce, making note of the older gentlemen who were wheeling past a huge cart of watermelon.

Browsing the bookstore, he was overwhelmed with nostalgia. Everything he had ever read appeared on the neat alphabetized shelves; from his first childhood readings to the latest news articles he had just skimmed in that morning. “How could everything that he had ever read possibly be contained in this small store?,” he pondered to himself. It was late in the evening and on a whim he wanted to take a visit to the newly opened book store before heading back home to visit his wife and children. His colleagues had urged him to visit the newly opened shop; they are gave it raving reviews. He was never really a fan of reading, but the occasionally lunch break discussion about the store finally enticed him enough to bite the bullet.