Clever No Soliciting Sign Funny Novels & Stories

But no one talked about anything else, either. “Naomi,” Brenda said finally, “your chalkboards in the tech display are ridiculously cute.” Naomi looked up, startled. “Oh. Thanks.” “They remind me of those little café signs. You know, the ones with misspelled ‘mochas’ and heart doodles.” “That's what I was going for,” Naomi said with a small smile. “I thought it’d make customers linger longer.” “It worked,” Marcus added, nodding. “That woman in the red coat was standing there for ten minutes today. I think she took pictures.”

That wouldn't happen before my eyes. “Find out who bought the place,” I said quietly. “I want names. Their numbers and licenses. I want to know what exactly happened.” “Already digging,” Simon replied. “But they’re being slick. No signage, no promo. Just a blacked-out entrance and a bouncer with a list. Invite-only.” “Sounds like someone wants a war.” “Or a message.” I laughed once under my breath. “A message? Cute.” But my chest was already tight.

Zen put on her best smile and pretended to browse the dusty brochure rack, “Good afternoon. What a lovely little town. I can’t wait to try some of this pizza.” The woman behind the counter’s sour expression didn’t change. She looked annoyed by their interruption, perhaps she’d been reading a steamy part in the novel. She had a mustard stain on her shirt, and a large Styrofoam cup from the local gas station sat next to the register. She cleared her throat and slid a sign towards them that said, No loitering. Leila noticed there was no sign that said no shoes, no shirt, no service. Perhaps it would hurt their business around here to post such a thing.

I looked at his massive paw resting on my shoulder—daring not to apply even the slightest pressure—at the tufts of coarse, unruly fur on his ears, and at the mottled, bald patches of old wounds on his paws. Suddenly, I laughed. As I laughed, tears began to fall. He seemed even more flustered, raising a paw to scratch his ear and looking at me, clearly at a loss. Then, he stretched out his paw and pointed at the wooden sign standing by his feet. I followed his gesture and looked over. Written in black paint on the sign was a line of text—the letters were already somewhat faded, yet still clear: “Defective. Trade-ins welcome.” My breath caught in my throat.