Feeling Wordy...

Hey, everyone! Sorry for my absence lately...School has kicked into high gear and I'm drowning in homework. Speaking of, here is a short essay I wrote about my the comic shop where I work. It's part of an assignment on Show Vs. Tell language in writing. Comments and critiques are welcome!

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All is quiet at Legend Comics on this sunny Thursday afternoon. The radio is silent, allowing the dull roar of Leavenworth Street traffic to radiate through the large bay windows. I enjoy working on Thursdays. They don't have the chaotic pace of a New Comic Wednesday, but there's enough going on that the day goes by without dragging. As I walk around the shop, my senses drink in the space around me.

The front of the store is a bit cluttered. A rack of family friendly comics sits at an angle, its contents in a disarray from the attention of eager children. As I organize the display, the brightly colored covers fight for attention. Betty and Veronica mingle with the Muppets while Sonic the Hedgehog tries to steal Billy Batson's spot in the front. Nearby, a broken Captain America and the Avengers arcade machine gathers dust. The monitor tube blew out months ago, so the cabinet sits silently, the artwork on its side panels painting a picture of the potential fun trapped within.

Next to the game, a series of black shelves are bracketed to the wall. The wiry metal platforms are lined with prose by authors that I've always wanted to read but never have. Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions call out to me. Hunter S. Thompson falls into place on the shelf below Ayn Rand. Classic pulp stories featuring Doc Savage and the Shadow share prominence with C.S. Lewis's complete Narnia epic.

A row of jet black bookcases lines the crimson wall. The shelves sag under the weight of the stories contained within the volumes. The spines weave a rainbow pattern of bright colors. Red bleeds into green bleeds into blue bleeds into yellow. The tales told in these pages represents decades of fiction and would take years to absorb.

In the rear corner of the store, near a rack of out of print, cult classic DVDs, sit two tables lined with boxes. Contained within are discounted comics –marked down due to poor condition or lack of commercial interest. The tables' legs bow in protest under the weight of the thousands of issues. The musty smell of old newsprint takes me back to a simpler time. My childhood is in these boxes.

On the opposite wall, the new comics section spans half the length of the store. More wire racks stretch across the area. New and recent releases, titles two months old or less, litter the shelves. The books are divided by company. Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman keep to themselves while Captain America, Spider-Man, and the X-Men huddle together. The pamphlets shine in the light, beams from above reflecting off of their high gloss covers. They have no scent. The aroma I remember so fondly has been traded away in favor of slick paper and state of the art printing. Next to the new release wall rest a series of back issue bins. These massive containers house comics that have been removed from the wall to make way for new product. Each compartment is full to bursting with comics. The section needs to be expanded, but nearly every inch of the store is spoken for. I see this as a sign that Legend is starting to outgrow its current location.

On my way back to the store's entrance, I pass two glass cases. One case stores an array of vintage toys. G.I. Joe and Star Wars figures and vehicles lie locked away from the hands of excited children. The case makes the figures look more like museum pieces, rather than the beloved playthings they once were. The other case holds older, more valuable comics. These issues date back to the 1940s and 50s and have the same terrible, wonderful odor as the comics from my own youth. Many of these fragile things are as brittle as dry leaves due to decades of exposure to various environments. Similar comics fill a short wooden rack attached to the wall behind the glass display.

As I leave, I pass by two small tables. New graphic novels look up at me, begging to be taken home. I take a moment to straighten the books, restoring the tables' clean and orderly appearance. Before long, these books will be filed into the row of bookcases, leaving room for new titles. I ignore their pleas and head out the door. There will be time for reading later. For now, I have a paper to write.