Jenna had cracked the top 1000 reviewer list on Amazon.com not two days ago, only to see her rank get knocked down to 1200. She had no idea what was going on until she went back and looked at some of her review ratings.
Someone had gone and gave her low marks on all over reviews. It made no sense and was not based on substance. Humility aside, she knew her reviews were top-notch. They were thorough and well edited, balanced and reasoned. She took great pride in them.
Sabotage! It must be she thought. Someone was trying to climb over her into the rankings board. It was enough for her to throw out her integrity and start torpedoing other reviewers' reputations to get back on top.
Then she remembered there was a separated ranking board. This one was for review ratings, but there was another one for number of reviews, where quantity ruled over quality.
She looked at her computer screen. The product was a vacuum cleaner she had never used before, but it sure looked like it was hard to use. No ergonomic features. Low horsepower.
Her fingers clickety-clacked on the keyboard.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Sunday, November 02, 2008
The Sound of Water
He could hear several things from his supine position on the sand. There was the cry of gulls, the sloshing of the ocean water. He couldn't actually see the whole waves, but he could see their crests from his vantage point.
He was tied to the ground, his head only able to lift up mere inches from the ground. Rope and stakes driven deep in the sand secured his neck, wrists, waist, and ankles. He wondered if anyone would find him in time. It would not be low tide for much longer. The sky grew dark and his voice was hoarse from calling out for help.
He imagined how it would happen, the water slowly creeping toward him, advancing and retreating inches at a time. What he dreaded was the time it would take. The water would wash to his feet first, then his thighs, back, and eventually, this head. And the water would eventually swell over his head, but it would wash back after seconds of suffocation, only to give him hope--a breath of air--before the natural ebb and flow would overtake him again. With time, the water would engulf him and he would not resurface until the next low tide.
From where he lay, he could no longer see the water's encroachment. It was two hours ago when the shoreline disappeared past the tips of his toes. Not being able to raise his head up any further, there was no telling where it was now, save for the increasing volume of the surf.
His only hope was someone would find him soon. Then he felt a new sensation, the curious and cool caress of the ocean at his toes.
He was tied to the ground, his head only able to lift up mere inches from the ground. Rope and stakes driven deep in the sand secured his neck, wrists, waist, and ankles. He wondered if anyone would find him in time. It would not be low tide for much longer. The sky grew dark and his voice was hoarse from calling out for help.
He imagined how it would happen, the water slowly creeping toward him, advancing and retreating inches at a time. What he dreaded was the time it would take. The water would wash to his feet first, then his thighs, back, and eventually, this head. And the water would eventually swell over his head, but it would wash back after seconds of suffocation, only to give him hope--a breath of air--before the natural ebb and flow would overtake him again. With time, the water would engulf him and he would not resurface until the next low tide.
From where he lay, he could no longer see the water's encroachment. It was two hours ago when the shoreline disappeared past the tips of his toes. Not being able to raise his head up any further, there was no telling where it was now, save for the increasing volume of the surf.
His only hope was someone would find him soon. Then he felt a new sensation, the curious and cool caress of the ocean at his toes.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Ceramic Stylings
Sharon had been watching Antiques Roadshow too much. She saw a multitude of people bringing their finds to appraisers, most coming out of it with the realization of being thousands of dollars richer. There was an old creaky dresser that was bought for twenty five dollars and worth two thousand because it was made in the 1920s by a rare furniture maker that made only twenty of that model. There was a man that spent two dollars on a box of coins and found out that one of them was worth five hundred because of an imperfection in its ridge.
So Sharon became a treasure-finding hopeful. She looked through her attic, prowled through garage and yard sales. Then she found the closest city the Roadshow was going to and made the trip.
The event was swarming with people waiting for their appraisals. A woman stared at her suspiciously and clutched her rabbit etched plates closer to her chest, as if Sharon would snatch them away.
It was an hour before she was seen and it wasn't in front of a camera. The appraiser had a bushy mustache that twitched when he spoke and thick brown rimmed glasses.
"What do we have here today?"
Sharon presented her item, a pair of ceramic kittens. She had bought them at a local yard sale. The man who sold it had said they were passed down from his grandmother. She didn't know what to make of them but they had looked like they might be worth something.
"I see..." said the man, holding the white ceramic felines in the air. He turned them this way and that, examining them with great scrutiny.
"How much did you pay for these?" he asked.
"Five dollars," Sharon replied, filled with great anticipation. She was going to be one of those people she saw on TV. How much would they be worth? A hundred? Six thousand?
"Mm hmm, mm hmm. Would you be surprised to find out that these were made in China?"
"Oh really?" She was getting more excited now. She had thought that the design had an Asian influence. Would that increase their value?
"And when would you guess that these were produced?"
"Well," she said, doing a little mental arithmetic, guessing the seller's age and how old the cats had to be if they belonged to his grandmother. "The thirties maybe? "
"Not quite," the appraiser said. "It's probably closer to the nineties."
"1890s?" she said with a catch in her voice. She had secretly hoped they were older, since that usually seemed to raise appraisals.
"No."
She looked at him with a puzzled expression, so he flipped over one of the cats and showed her their white bottoms and began scratching the center with a fingernail. White pieces that might have been paint or correction fluid started flaking off to finally reveal three conclusive words: Made In China.
So Sharon became a treasure-finding hopeful. She looked through her attic, prowled through garage and yard sales. Then she found the closest city the Roadshow was going to and made the trip.
The event was swarming with people waiting for their appraisals. A woman stared at her suspiciously and clutched her rabbit etched plates closer to her chest, as if Sharon would snatch them away.
It was an hour before she was seen and it wasn't in front of a camera. The appraiser had a bushy mustache that twitched when he spoke and thick brown rimmed glasses.
"What do we have here today?"
Sharon presented her item, a pair of ceramic kittens. She had bought them at a local yard sale. The man who sold it had said they were passed down from his grandmother. She didn't know what to make of them but they had looked like they might be worth something.
"I see..." said the man, holding the white ceramic felines in the air. He turned them this way and that, examining them with great scrutiny.
"How much did you pay for these?" he asked.
"Five dollars," Sharon replied, filled with great anticipation. She was going to be one of those people she saw on TV. How much would they be worth? A hundred? Six thousand?
"Mm hmm, mm hmm. Would you be surprised to find out that these were made in China?"
"Oh really?" She was getting more excited now. She had thought that the design had an Asian influence. Would that increase their value?
"And when would you guess that these were produced?"
"Well," she said, doing a little mental arithmetic, guessing the seller's age and how old the cats had to be if they belonged to his grandmother. "The thirties maybe? "
"Not quite," the appraiser said. "It's probably closer to the nineties."
"1890s?" she said with a catch in her voice. She had secretly hoped they were older, since that usually seemed to raise appraisals.
"No."
She looked at him with a puzzled expression, so he flipped over one of the cats and showed her their white bottoms and began scratching the center with a fingernail. White pieces that might have been paint or correction fluid started flaking off to finally reveal three conclusive words: Made In China.
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