Inspire and Be Inspired

Head on over to the new davecenker.com, sign up to be a member of my author community, receive a free award-winning short story and continue the conversation! See you there!

DaveJen-BannerOne thousand days ago (hey, it just sounds better than 2 years, 8 months, and 26 days) I remember sitting down with a guitar resting on my knee.

Those malformed chords I was strumming were messy sounding, but the chord it struck inside me was perfectly in tune. I remember thinking … I should start a blog. It came out of the blue, and I wasn’t sure why I vocalized that thought. I had written less than a total of 500 creative words up to that point in my life.

If someone would have told me way back then that I would be composing this post today, I would have surely let out an involuntary chuckle beneath my breath. It’s not that I wouldn’t have wanted to be here, but I have this way of starting different things (lots of them) only to have them collect metaphorical dust as the initial excitement fizzles out along with my passion for it.

And yet, a thousand days and just a few more than five hundred words later, I compose this post with an anxious yet excited heartbeat. This will be my last post at this blog site. That’s the sad part, for me at least. This little corner of the blogosphere has been a sort of virtual private sanctuary for me to discover and share insights, thoughts, and stories with each and every one of you.

The exciting news – again, for me at least, and hopefully for you too – is that my writing will continue forward with as much, if not more passion than I have had up until this point. Today, I am launching my new author-centric website at www.davecenker.com.

For those of you that have been following along with me on this journey over the past three years, you will know my tagline by heart – inspire and be inspired.

Second ChanceI’ve written personal essays, flash fiction, short stories, and even a novella up until this point. During NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this past November, I set an ambitious goal to write my first novel, uncertain where that lofty ambition would land me. 50,000+ words and several personal revisions later, I have a draft of my first novel, Second Chance, that I am now ready to pass over to my editor. My plan is to have it published sometime later this year.

In an effort to build an author platform, I have migrated my online presence to www.davecenker.com. Along with promotion and news on the release of my first novel, I will be offering flash fiction, short stories, book reviews, and the occasional dip into non-fiction.

I have a feeling that pressing the publish button on this post is going to be more difficult than any I have pressed up until this point in my writing life. But, if you’re reading this, I suppose that I’ve been successful in overcoming that small hurdle.

I want to sincerely thank each and every one of you for all the reads, the likes, and most importantly, the comments that have helped me to embrace this role as an author. I know it sounds so cliché, but truer words could not be spoken – I simply couldn’t have done it without you.

HomecomingI invite each one of you to visit my new site and continue onward with me on this journey we have started together. As a small token of my appreciation, when you sign up to be a member of my author community, I will send you a copy of a previously unreleased short story titled Homecoming. I would be honored to share this story with you that has received an honorable mention in the 2015 Writer’s Digest Popular Fiction Contest.

You can join my author community by visiting my new site at www.davecenker.com and clicking the Free Story! link in the top right corner of the home page. I’ll still be checking this site for the next couple of weeks, so if you have any problems or questions, feel free to leave a comment here.

And suddenly you know: It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings. ~Meister Eckhart

Let the magic of new beginnings be with each and every one of you. Inspire and be inspired.

 

The Gift

The GiftIt appeared to be the most unfortunate sequence of events possible. In a moment of serendipity, however, I discovered what I had been aimlessly searching for in the emptiness of my world.

I didn’t tell Amanda about my plans. It would be of little consequence whether I told her or not. I had to work late. It didn’t matter that it had nothing to do with what I had been sinking every waking moment of my life into for the past two weeks. I was on the brink of completing negotiations for the million dollar sale of a highly sought after loft on the Upper East Side.

The bottom line is that I wouldn’t be home on time. That was all that was important. Amanda and Emma would be on their own for dinner. I knew that this was our weekly family time, and I did feel guilty about bowing out of my obligation as a husband and a father to my seven year old daughter again, but my hands were tied. I was the only one available.

Phillip had an urgent situation arise at the last moment that needed immediate attention. It was something about his son and wife breaking down on the way to his holiday chorus recital. He dropped off everything I would need in my office before darting towards the elevator.

I begrudgingly made my way to the bookstore around the corner from our office. I cursed this unexpected turn of events under my breath. I should have been etching seven digits into a ledger book in my quest for a successful real estate transaction, not reading about sugarplums and candy canes in this wretched getup.

It was a way for our business to give back to the community. I had successfully avoided involvement for as long as possible, until now. I slipped on the pants, pulled the jacket over the top of my white oxford shirt and tie, and made sure to remove the white semi-curly locks from under the collar.

I stuffed the down pillow under the oversized jacket before affixing the beard that scratched at the natural stubble I had accumulated over the course of a usual day.

“Ho, ho, ho,” I uttered monotonously and sarcastically.

“C’mon, Drew. Show a little holiday spirit. This is for the kids, after all.” The elf dressed in pointy shoes and a green felt costume was in a much more festive mood than me. I recognized her as an intern from the accounting department.

With hot cocoa in their hands, the pack of children congregating in the back corner were waiting for Santa to begin reading the Christmas story. I could be more useful to kids, and Emma in particular, if I could ink that deal still sitting on my desk. This certainly wasn’t the ideal way for me to help provide for my family’s well-being.

I put on a façade, enough of one at least, during the reading of the Christmas story. Now for the tough part. It was the children’s opportunity to come sit on Santa’s lap and express their deepest wishes for Christmas morning. The diminished distance between the children and me would make it infinitely more difficult to feign jolly tidings for the season.

The line of twenty or so children seemed to continue on forever. After about forty-five minutes of the same requests – PlayStations, iPhones, puppy dogs, and Barbie dolls, everything changed.


“How about some pizza, sweetheart? Daddy has to work late tonight.”

“Sure mommy, can I get extra cheese?”

“Absolutely, dear.”

They frequented the small mom and pop pizza parlor too many times to count. It had become their stand-in whenever Drew was otherwise preoccupied helping to support their luxurious lifestyle.

Amanda watched as Emma pulled the gooey cheese farther and farther away from her lips. Her arms weren’t long enough to prove victorious over the playful ploys of that extra cheese.

She smiled, watching the innocence of youth, before reaching over and helping to put an end to the struggle between the young girl and pizza slice.

“How about a chocolate chip cookie?” Amanda didn’t need to ask twice, and she didn’t need a verbal answer as Emma’s eyes opened wide and the smile spread across her face.

Amanda knew that The Book Nook was known for their freshly baked cookies. It would be the perfect treat to take Emma’s mind off her dad’s absence yet again.

After taking the first bite from her second gooey concoction in as many hours, Emma noticed the line of other children. Curious as always, she craned her neck and stood on tiptoes to get a better view.

“Mommy, mommy! It’s Santa! Can I get in line? Please?”

“Sure, honey,” Amanda replied as she wiped the excess chocolate that was left at the corner of Emma’s mouth.


I couldn’t believe my eyes. What were they doing here? Amanda was focused on her coffee. I assumed it was her usual double mocha latte. The young boy presently sitting on my lap didn’t receive full attention as I tried my best to grab Amanda’s.

Her eyes finally locked on mine. I could tell by her confused look that Amanda didn’t know why Santa was shaking his head while looking in her direction. She finally did recognize me as Emma began trotting towards the elf and hopping up to sit on my lap. It was a place that she hadn’t been for far too long. She seemed to be more comfortable on Santa’s lap than my own.

“Ho, ho, ho!” I bellowed in as disguised a voice as I could muster. The smile on this little girl’s voice was so genuine. I hadn’t seen it in such a long time. No, I guess that’s not the right way to put it. I hadn’t recognized it, buried in my own self-absorbed pursuits.

“What would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas?”

I already knew she wanted the new bike with training wheels we had looked at a few weeks ago. I also knew that she had several books lined up on her Santa list. She was an avid reader for a seven year old.

It should have been easy for her to express the contents of her list to Santa. She had been talking about it nonstop. But still, Emma sat there on my lap with a perplexed look on her face, deep in thought about something.

“Santa, you are magic, right?”

Uh oh, I didn’t like the direction this was going.

“Santa always tries his best,” I replied.

“Well, I already sent you my list. But, I’d like to change it. If I still can.”

Okay, this was magic that I could certainly handle.

“What would you like, sugarplum?” I became distracted by what might be forthcoming, probably the more expensive bike that was three price points above what Amanda and I agreed would be appropriate for her age. No matter, I’d find a way to make it happen. I always did.

“I was wondering,” Emma continued, “if you could get me a bottle of minutes.”

In a more confused tone than Santa should probably have in his voice, I offered, “What do you mean?”

The imaginative seven year old, wise beyond her years, continued with her Christmas wish.

“My daddy works so hard. Every time I ask him to play with me, he always tells me ‘give me a minute’.”

She paused before continuing. “I thought maybe if I could give him a few minutes, he’d be able to play with me more.”

Santa is supposed to be jolly. He isn’t one characterized by tears. This one came close to tears upon learning of this little girl’s Christmas wish.

“Santa will do his very best.” It was the only response I could come up with in the moment.

The look of elation and hope on Emma’s face as he hopped off my lap and bolted back towards Amanda was heartwarming.

“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas, Emma,” I shouted out to her.

She stopped in her tracks and turned around.

“You know my name?”

“Ho, ho, ho! Of course I do. Santa knows everything. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Santa,” replied Emma with a look of wonder and amazement on her face.

The last time I remember sitting on Santa’s lap was as a ten year old boy. I was convinced, however, that I had just been fortunate to visit with him once again in the form of a seven year old girl.

Maybe Santa didn’t know everything, but this particular one knew more than enough now.

First Class

first-classRachel watched as raindrops trickled down the pane of glass. The left one took a shortcut, veered to the right, and raced to the finish line at the bottom. These were the games of a bored six year old.

The temperature had spiked unexpectedly. The pristine blanket of snow that began falling on Christmas Eve was being slowly eroded by gloomy showers in the area. When the rain subsided to barely a drizzle, Rachel’s begging to play outside was met with little resistance.

She imagined herself as a frog, hopping between puddles, towards the safety of the next lily pad in search of prince charming. She always found the silver lining in everything. Everyone else saw the rain as a nuisance. Rachel playfully bounced through it. When she came to that coveted spot in the front yard, her cheerful smile transformed into an anxious furrow on her brow.

On the ground, in the same mound that she remembered depositing it a few nights ago, was the oatmeal. Rachel remembered Grandma telling her the reindeer liked it that way. It was easier to eat when it was in a pile. She scooped up the soggy flakes and scampered into the house.

“Mommy!” She screamed with dismay.

“What is it dear, what’s wrong?” Her panic subsided as she saw her daughter’s hands.

“Mommy, the reindeer must be sick. They didn’t eat anything at all.” Rachel held out her hand as pieces began to slip through her fingertips and fall to the floor.

“I’m sure they’re okay, honey. The neighbors must’ve put out extra this year. They were probably just full when they got to our house.”

“How do you know? They always eat. We should send them more, just in case.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Let’s do that.”

Grandma also said that oatmeal had magic powers that only reindeer could extract. In the right amounts, those oats would give them sustenance to last the entire time between their annual December journey.

Rachel’s mom pulled down the box of oats. Rachel retrieved the measuring cup. One quarter cup for each reindeer. An extra quarter cup for Cupid because he was Rachel’s favorite. They wrapped it up, and addressed it to the North Pole.

“Hurry mommy, he’s here!” Rachel ran outside.

Trotting behind her, Rachel’s mom called out, “Excuse me, we have a package.”

The mailman grimaced as the pestering rain dripped from the brim of his cap.

“Reserve oats. For the reindeer,” Rachel’s mom offered with a grin.

Upon inspecting the recipient’s address, the mailman promptly pulled the stamp from his pocket and branded the package with the words ‘First Class’. A proud smile appeared on Rachel’s face.

The two adults in Rachel’s presence couldn’t help but smile too. The drizzling rain caused both of them to blink. She found it odd that they blinked with only one eye, but Rachel was just happy to help those reindeer when they needed it most. Little did Rachel know that she was helping those adults even more.

Silent Knight

silent-knightThomas lifted the hammer into position. He used all his concentration and skill to strike the glowing metal in the precise location. The yellow-orange shower of sparks sprayed in a circular pattern, some of them traveling back in the direction of his exposed skin. It was a minor sacrifice to endure for the sake of the village.

His father was ruler. The small town was nestled among the hills, midway between the forest and stream. Thomas knew he’d never be ruler. That lofty distinction was reserved for his older brother. Thomas still took great pride in his work as one of the village blacksmiths.

A conflict was brewing with the neighboring village on the far side of the forest. Recently, tensions had been running high over the unjust bartering agreements of the last several fortnights. It was always the same. Three bundles of wheat in exchange for two sacks of wool.

Somewhere along the way, greed began to infiltrate this covenant. Three bundles of wheat became two, and the sack of wool was packed less densely in return. When the trio of pigs disappeared from the neighboring village, however, it was an act of aggression that couldn’t be overlooked. A militant confrontation was forthcoming.

The men of the village gathered ammunition. The woman prepared meals. The elder leaders took asylum to strategize. Even though Thomas’ father was aging quite well, he was in no position to be on the battlefront. Thomas, however, knew his father’s stubbornness quite well. His father would be leading his village gallantly into a battle that was senseless, but nonetheless necessary.

That’s why Thomas remained tucked away in the dirty shop behind the house. The periodic clang of metal complemented the commotion around him. This was a time to prove his worth, if not to the village, at least to himself. The leaders congregated in the village circle, dispersing rations and distributing weapons to each of the warriors now prepared for battle.

As the battalion set forth on their journey, Thomas remained inside to finish his work. As the sun began to set over the horizon, he emerged from the shop and walked through the door into the kitchen. Seated at the table with her hands wrapped tightly around each other was his mother, trying to keep herself together.

His father’s stubbornness may have been courageous to the village folk, but it was also detrimental to his family. Thomas handed his mother the ornately crafted trivet. He knew that baking was her way to cope with anxiety. Thomas wasn’t the village blacksmith chosen to craft weaponry, but that never bothered Thomas. He knew his place and did whatever he could with the opportunities presented to him.

His mother had dozens of trivets lined up on the shelf above her stove. She probably didn’t need another one. The feeble grin curling at the corner of his mother’s mouth and the tight embrace that followed let Thomas know that perhaps this was exactly what both of them needed.

Fletching

fletchingThe crunch of autumn leaves beneath my feet meant two things. Time was dwindling before every last available piece of winter meat would disappear into hibernation. And, there was no wretched way I would get any of it with this amplified announcement of my presence.

I leaned against a maple tree, allowing the quiver of arrows to press into my back. It was a reminder that this life wasn’t easy, living in the wilderness, and fending for myself.

My bow and these arrows were supposed to be my livelihood. They’d provide sustenance as well as a challenge that had become stale in my previous life. And what a challenge it’d become, perhaps more than I’d anticipated. I was living off wild berries and sap from these trees. I didn’t know what was vanishing more quickly, my time to persevere through these adverse circumstances, or my resolve to do so.

I wiped my brow, smearing some of the charcoal camouflage on my sleeve. I was sweating. I suspected it had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with stress. I could prosper in a boardroom, but I wasn’t sure I’d survive out here.

I exhaled. Move down by the stream, I thought. The animals needed hydration, and the sound of water meandering over the rocks would provide concealment for my noisy rambling through the forest.

As I tenderly placed each sole along the stream’s bank, I was more concerned about my audible footprint than my physical one. I kept my eyes peeled for any movement.

The twig beneath my foot snapped in two. Damn. It was then that I perceived motion in my peripheral view. I swiveled my head and locked eyes with a twelve point buck. He’d been drinking from the stream before looking up, now staring in my direction.

Slowly, but deliberately, I reached behind my back to extract an arrow while simultaneously placing my bow in the shooting position. Drawing back the arrow, I lined up my sights on what would be dinner for the next several months.

He remained there, staring at me, as if waiting and willing to provide his sacrificial offering. I tried, so damned hard, to release that arrow. His eyes. They reflected something back at me, a determined yet compassionate look that I didn’t think was possible from a wild animal. They spoke to me with invisible words. If I can survive, so can you.

I released tension in the bow, keeping my eyes locked on his. He simply nodded, as if in a bow of respect, and returned to drinking water from the stream. He had remained calm in the presence of danger and determined in the face of adversity.

The wise among our species say we each have a spirit animal. We don’t pick it. It picks us. Now, I know what they mean. That buck provided me with something more valuable than meat. Even better than the will to survive, he provided me with the empowerment to live.

Cassiopeia

cassiopeiaThis cylinder with precisely aligned mirrors is like a magic portal into another universe. I close one eye while I peer through the eyepiece, seeing light that has traveled years to greet me on this summer evening. I can still hear Grandpa Will’s voice sharing that fact with me as a nine year old girl. It has stuck with me for decades. Even though I have access to the most advanced deep sky observation equipment that research money can buy, I still pull out this little telescope on occasion to reminisce.


“Sweetpea, what’s a four letter word for portal?”

Grandpa was the crossword master. I knew he already knew the answer, but I’d play along. This was our special time together each evening in the living room.

“That one’s easy, Grandpa. Door.”

“Ahh, of course,” he’d say.

I’d sit curled up beside the radio, positive there was someone inside speaking to me. Between segments of my favorite show, Starwatch, Grandpa fed me questions that he knew I’d be able to answer. I was only nine, but not as naïve as he thought.

Tonight’s constellation was Cassiopeia. I’d always been fascinated by the mythology behind the stars. Each night, when the show was over, there was time for pajamas and teeth brushing before heading off to bed. Sometimes, when Grandpa was feeling gracious, he’d let me stay up an extra ten minutes listening to his favorite jazz show together. Tonight was one of those lucky nights.

I rotated the tuning dial. I knew exactly where his program should’ve been. All I could hear, however, was static.

“No stalling, Sweetpea. It’ll only be ten extra minutes no matter how long it takes to find the station.”

I’d used this tactic before, but not tonight. I kept nudging the dial, trying to find the smooth saxophone sounds. I never did find it, but I did hear a voice between the rumbles of static.

“Grandpa, did you hear that?”

“What?”

“That voice.”

“No, Sweetpea. How about we head out to the backyard and see if we can’t find Cassiopeia?”

We spent the remaining five minutes looking at the distinctive W in the night sky. Grandpa explained how half of the year it was a W, the other half it was an M. I was hooked, but I still couldn’t forget that voice.


I panned towards the stars in Cassiopeia, my heart beginning to flutter. The twinkling was presenting a message in Morse code. My heart beat faster with each letter revealed S-W-E-E-T-P-E-A.

“Ellie, did you find something?” asked Jack, my colleague across the way.

“No. Cassiopeia is just really interesting tonight.”

“Well, let’s get back to it. These new galaxies don’t find themselves,” quipped Jack.

“Yeah, right.” I smiled before taking one more peek through the telescope. The last twinkle to greet my eyes on that evening was like a wink, from my Grandpa Will and Grandma Margaret, somewhere in the middle of Cassiopeia, a galaxy away, but always right next to my heart.

Leap of Faith

leap-of-faithThe dirt beneath my feet is compacted. There are a few pebbles that don’t belong. They scratch at the soles of my track shoes as I work to flick them out of the way. I’ll not permit any imperfection from interfering with my goal. It’s so much more than a number. 8.95 meters. It is the holy grail for long jumpers and I am poised to engrave my name into those record books with my final effort of this competition.

The wind is at my back. The crowd is energized with anticipation. I shake out my calf muscles and swivel my head back and forth to clear the mental cobwebs before beginning my approach for takeoff. I envision a jet fighter accelerating quickly as it is catapulted off the deck of an aircraft carrier. That’s how I have always done it in the past, prepared for accomplishing the unthinkable, used vivid imagery to picture impossibility becoming my new reality.

I begin to trot before working up to a sprint as I reach the white demarcation that serves as the threshold between what has been in the past and what will be in the future. Planting my left foot, I extend my right foot towards the sky at an optimum angle. Not the pristine takeoff I’d been hoping for, but I’m determined. I’m certain, this will be my moment.

I arrange my limbs in a perfectly aerodynamic form. A gentle nudge from the whisper of a breeze blows from behind me. ​Thank you​, I whisper in my thoughts as I approach the spot in the sand that I have imprinted in my mind. There is no special denotation showing where I need to arrive, I just know. Reaching my azimuth, I begin a descent back to earth, my short-lived flight now cleared for landing. I extend my toes and fingers out towards the horizon, watching that coveted spot in the sand pass beneath me.

With a thud, my shoes sink into the sand. I exhale a victorious breath. The measuring tape is extended, but I already know the results. 8.96 meters, a new world record. The crowd erupts in appreciation of my Herculean accomplishment. I’ve done it. I’ve overcome my personal demons. I’ve prevailed against all odds to win the gold medal hanging around my neck. The smile on my face couldn’t be any prouder, even if in reality, I haven’t won a single thing.

The supporting cast of the theatrical production joins me on stage as the final act is completed. The audience provides a standing ovation for my performance. My eyes lock on those of a young boy seated in a wheelchair at the end of the third row, clapping with an enthusiasm that is more infectious and rewarding than the imitation reproduction hanging around my neck.

It’s then that I realize that winning a medal may be the ultimate goal for some. But, for me, inspiring others to reach beyond their personal limits, now that is pure gold.

Jealousy

jealousyAuthor’s Note: This is the second part of a two part short story. If you would like to read the first chapter, please visit Mailbox.

Each day, like Pavlov’s dog, the two boys would race to the curb and pull open their respective mailbox with the hope of finding a letter. And each day, both Josh and Billy shuffled through the assorted flyers and coupons in search of an envelope that simply wasn’t there.

November 6. Billy would remember that afternoon. As if arriving at the mailbox first would cause a letter to materialize, Josh yanked open his mailbox a split second sooner than Billy. Still hopeful, Josh carefully slid the junk mail out of the way, but again found nothing. Billy, carrying out the same routine just a few short seconds later, filtered through the same assortment of junk mail. Shifting the flyers to the side, Billy saw something new – a stamp. It was on the corner of the envelope peeking from beneath the pile, just begging to be revealed. He could tell this was it. He pulled it out, raised it in the air and yelled, “Got it!”

Looking over at Josh, Billy could sense the feeling of aggravation and dejection written all over Josh’s face. And in that short moment, he suddenly felt sorry for Josh. This was silly – a competition over who could get a response from a girl first. The initial look of jubilation on his face disappeared as he brought the envelope down from its position above his head. His victory didn’t feel as good as he thought it would. And then, it got worse.

As Billy looked at the address on the front, he noticed that there was something amiss with the perfect penmanship in purple ink on the front of the envelope. It wasn’t addressed to Billy. It was addressed to Josh. Billy never liked roller coasters, especially ones of the emotional variety. He was on one now, plummeting into the depths of a deep abyss that had no perceivable bottom.

“It’s for you,” Billy said simply under his breath.

“What?” responded Josh, not recognizing the reality of the situation quite yet.

“The letter – it’s for you, not me. They messed up the address.” Billy plodded the few paces over his crunchy brown grass and into Josh’s lush green yard – a color that was figuratively all over Josh’s face just a few short moments ago in the form of jealousy. He handed the envelope over to its rightful owner.

A smile of victory began to spread across Josh’s face. As he confirmed what Billy already knew, he began to chant and partake in a victory dance, “Oh yeah, who da man? That’s me – uh huh.” As ungraceful as it was, Josh didn’t seem to care. He was top man on the totem pole now. Billy didn’t stick around to give Josh an opportunity to gloat any longer. He turned around and retreated to his corner.

As he was walking back up the steps to his front door, one of the flyers in his hand dropped to the ground. As he reached down to pick it up, he could see the reflection of Josh in the side view mirror of his dad’s station wagon. It had been knocked off by a kid riding his bike on the street some two months ago, and they didn’t have the money to fix it. Positioned just perfectly, it revealed Josh glaring over in the direction of Billy. Josh was watching him wallow in defeat. And although Billy was upset, he wasn’t sure that it was because he had lost this competition. He thought it had more to do with how he thought he would feel upon winning, and how he actually felt when he thought he had. The teenage hormones were running rampant, and he wasn’t sure what or how to think right now.

As he bent down to retrieve the pizza coupon that had fallen to the ground, the welcome mat – missing the O in welcome – revealed a hidden gem of its own. Sticking out from the corner of the mat was something pink. As he peeled back the corner of the mat, Billy saw his own name written across the front of the envelope. There was no stamp. This letter was hand delivered. As he flipped it over to open it, he noticed the lipstick impression where the envelope was sealed. Written around it was a message – “Sealed with a lick because a kiss wouldn’t stick.”

Josh was still looking over at him. Billy had won after all. But, this victory had nothing to do with receiving an envelope first. He glanced up at Josh, winked, and smiled. He pushed the door open and proceeded to close it behind him – making double sure it latched so no cold air from the outside could get back in.

Author’s Note: Thank you, as always, to all who take time out of their day to read and comment. It is sincerely appreciated. I will be releasing my very first original piece to the Amazon Kindle store on Monday, June 15th. The story is one of my personal favorites, and you can read the short synopsis at Impression. I will also be publishing an excerpt of the complete story here on my blog Sunday evening, June 14th to whet your appetite 🙂

As a humble sign of my appreciation, the complete short story will be available for free from Monday, June 15th through June 17th. If you find the story enjoyable, I would sincerely appreciate any feedback on the Amazon site so that other readers have a better chance of discovering it. Thank you once again to each and every reader who makes it so much more rewarding to be a writer – inspire and be inspired.

Mailbox

mailboxThe rumble of the mail truck rolling away from the curb sent the two of them in motion. Josh raced out his front door. The large ornate knocker cracked against the wood as he slammed the door shut to prevent his Dachshund puppy from following him. He ran across his family’s perfectly manicured lawn, and past the bed of thorny roses. He arrived at his silver mailbox a nanosecond before Billy next door. The chill in the air had nothing to do with the reading on a thermometer.

Billy’s mailbox used to be silver, but it was more rust colored now with the paint peeling off and accumulating on the ground beneath it. While Josh’s jaunt across his yard was effortless and quiet, Billy’s was characterized by the crunchy sound of dying grass. It took him a split second longer to reach his own mailbox – not because he was slower – but, rather because he had to pull the door shut tightly and double check it. The latch had never worked quite right since they had moved in.

Josh and Billy lived next door to each other. And yet, they lived worlds apart. They were friends, you could say. They were both fourteen years old – the only two teenage boys in a three mile radius of this small rural town. How they became friends was not much of a mystery – it was a relationship of convenience, maybe of necessity. The reason why they remained friends – now, that was more mystifying.

The two boys did not have anything in common save for one thing – the spirit of competition. Josh was the star pitcher on the high school baseball team in the next town over. Billy was nicknamed motor-mouth at the same school. This may have sounded derogatory to most teenage boys, but to Billy it was a compliment. He had earned this moniker due to his uncanny ability to solve math problems in his head and rattle off the answer before any of his classmates could even announce their name.

It’s was the glue that kept this friendship together – the rivalry of one boy outdueling the other in their own convincing way. They began to tire of the arguments of how a ten strikeout performance could compare to the swift and accurate process of successfully solving an advanced trigonometry problem – without pencil or paper. That was how this little competition that they mutually designed came to fruition. It was something on the minds of all teenage boys – teenage girls.

The moonlight ball was three weeks away. It was a school dance planned annually to take place on the last full moon of the semester before winter break. It was held outside in the school courtyard by the light of the full moon. The twinkle lights adorning the trees added atmosphere to the already enchanting mood. There was a twist to this engagement, however. You must arrive as a couple. And in order to be granted access into the school courtyard, the couple was required to provide two letters – one invitation letter and one acceptance letter. It was Ms. Hutton’s way of slipping the art of letter writing into her tenth grade English class. And it worked – hook, line, and sinker.

They had agreed that each would compose a letter to their invitee and drop it in the mailbox on the corner – on the same day at the same time. In that way, neither Josh nor Billy would have an advantage. The person who received a letter back first would be the victor. It was silly. It was misguided. It was unsuitable grounds for a competition. But, these were teenage boys, and to them – it was perfect. Almost.

Author’s Note: This is the first part of a two part short story. The second installment will be published next week. Thank you for reading and providing your thoughts – best wishes for an inspired day!

Wanderlust

Wanderlust Adventure
An enticing choice
We often dream about
But seldom resolve to engage

Hampered by the fog of uncertainty
The venturesome road
Leads nowhere
And everywhere

Cocoons give birth
Fluttering in our stomach
A barely audible whisper carried on wings
Nudges us forward

Encouraging us
Throw caution to the wind
Do something bold and daring
Unexpected

Into the darkness we plunge
Unaware and nescient
The initial fear dissipates
As the spark within intensifies

A seed is planted
We watch it grow
Ample sunshine and water
In the form of faith and love

Step by step
We trek forward
Hoping to discover
Meaning and truth

Wandering aimlessly
We stumble upon
The key to happiness
And contentedness

The decision to wander
Away from the comfort of familiarity
Carries us along a path
With many twists and turns

Accosted by fear, despair, and misery
We are rescued by faith, hope, and love
On an enduring journey
Back home

Author’s Note:
This poem is inspired by the short story with the same name. Wanderlust is now available in the Amazon Kindle Store. And for three days (Wednesday, May 27, 2015 through Friday, May 29, 2015), it is free to download. Experience the wonder of self-discovery as you follow the trail of adventure with Damon, Gryffin, and Jo. Included is a short passage from the author detailing the inspiration and thoughts behind the composition of this story.

Many thanks to my beautiful and talented wife for providing the stunning cover art for this story. Her photographic prowess has added depth to my words that I could not possibly have accomplished on my own.

If you found this short e-book enjoyable, I would sincerely appreciate any feedback in the form of a review at the book’s site on Amazon. To download the e-book, please visit the Shop link at the top of this page to see all books available by me, or visit Wanderlust. Thank you for taking the time to read and comment, and best wishes for an inspired day!