1984-Present

It’s a new year! For some that means starting over. Fresh starts. Beginning and becoming something new, or become the person they want to be. For most this means hitting the gym three to five times a week, making plans to go back to school, saving the money, spending less, or becoming better sons, daughters, mothers, and daughters. There’s only one problem. Somewhere around the middle of February or beginning of March something happens. People fall back into old habits. The person they were replaces the person they said they wanted to become. Dr. Jekle gets a little itchy and next thing you know Mr. Hyde is roaming the frig for a pint of cookies n’ cream. The problem is, people forget. They forget the previous year, and everything that went along with it. Before traveling down that road of sugar highs and caffeine headaches that I will venture down in a few months I’m going to remember a bit of the craziness of 2013.

Looking back I know I did way too much last year. In the fall I coached high school track. In the summer I taught summer school, began graduate classes at Johns Hopkins, and prepared new teachers to enter Baltimore classrooms with New Teacher Institute. Oh yeah, throughout this entire process I was working with developers to refurbish, find grants, and buy my first house. In the fall I thought it would be a good idea to take three graduate classes instead of the usual two and teach two new grades when I knew my daughter, Mirus, would be born in December. Needless to say I was a little burnt out when the New Year came around.

I don’t have any lofty plans for 2014, but I’m also not going to slow down. I’m still taking graduate classes with hopes of getting my masters in the Science of Education by the fall and the first novel in my young adult trilogy will be released in the next few months. I still plan on coaching track, and preparing new teachers to enter the classroom, but my greatest, most difficult, and most rewarding adventure will be raising my daughter. I’ll still run as much as possible with hopes of running in a few races this summer and I’ll still be writing. But I also will try to not forget how I got to 2014. I just won’t remember the year 2013. I’ll also remember 2010 when I married my wife and worked three jobs as a substitute teacher, pizza maker, and paperboy to support my family to make sure I don’t take for granted anything I have. I’ll remember working at Old Navy from 4am- 12pm and Payless from 1-9pm in 2008 and being unsure of the direction my life was heading. Friends Adam, Pat, Bryan, and Jordan will always be in the forefront of my 2003 Peoria High School senior year, Bowling Green withdrawal from classes, and two years of homelessness with relatives after losing my home to foreclosure. New friends will always be compared to old friends Jessica, Shannon, Leila, Lindsay, Marcus, and Andrea and be reflected in each and everyone one of the characters I write. I’ll remember these places, people, and events because they all amount to who I am today. To me being a writer means remembering all those years, changing the details, imagine new circumstances, and putting them down on paper. The people I loved, lost, and wish I still knew as I did then can still exist with a flick of my pen, or movement of my fingertips over the keyboard. The point I’m trying to make here folks is remember the years that make you who you are rather then forget and try and become someone new.

Pictures of Mirus are below.

Man Talk

First, I would like to say Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! This Christmas my wife and my newborn baby, Mirus, went to go visit family in Ohio. To break up the monotony, and the discomfort of hearing how Mirus did not want to sit in a car seat for 7 hours, we stopped in Pittsburgh to visit Sarah's Aunt Peg and Uncle Jim. The hours we spend there are always a highlight of the trip. The laughs, the drinks, the stories, and the weird, rude, and inappropriate jokes always ensures we come back soon. During this visit I had the opportunity to see the latest construction project of Big Jim (B. J.), Sarah's uncle; a shed in the back yard. However, I'm not sure if I can call this a shed. This "shed" is definitely more like a house. When it is complete it come equipped with new insulated windows and a wood burning stove! Oh yeah, it will also be able to hold some tools. And all of it was done by hand!

Although the shed is not done, yet, much of it is, including the handcrafted doors. He told me the process of building those doors and they were an ordeal. He used left over wood from a construction project the previous year, mapped out where he wanted them to go, cut them to appropriate lengths, and then proceeded to carve slots in the wood to ensure they all fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. In the end all he had to use was a little wood glue to keep it all in place. Needless to say, I was impressed. I tried building a bookshelf a few years ago from left over wood, used many more nails and...lets just say it didn't hold very many books. Building a shed, unless I buy it from Ikea and argue with my wife every second of its construction, is something that I could never do. I know nothing about tools (not to mention that I'm deathly afraid of cutting off each of my limbs with a power tool), and even less about carpentry. It's something I have always wanted to learn, but never had anyone to teach me. The same is true for car repair. B.J. told me that when he started he knew nothing about construction and tools either. Although he built 90% of his house, which is beautiful, with his own hands, there was a lot he didn't know. So, you know what he did? He read a book (gasp) on carpentry, looked up what he needed to know, and asked for help when he needed it. He said with each construction project he had the end product in the back of his mind, but the different steps needed to get there in the forefront of his mind to make the project not seem impossible. Listening to him say all of this about construction made me realize that I do the same thing when writing a book. In order to not go crazy I break down the large idea into individual chapters and themes. I keep working on these chapters, sometimes out of order, until they all fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. When pieces don't fit I sand them down, or start over with a new story the way he starts over with a new piece of wood. What I'm trying to say is, not everyone writes books, but everyone has something creative they love that relaxes them. For B.J. it's construction and yoga. For me it's writing books and running. And if it's something that you want to try, but aren't sure how to start, pick up a book or ask for help. Have some fun and enjoy the adventure.

Oh yeah, and after he showed me the shed we cut down a tree. Pictures below.

Saturday Afternoon Writing

Below is an excerpt of what I wrote this afternoon. I thought it might be nice to share.

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His thoughts were muddled with the sound of leaves like a hive of bees. Eyes closed, darkness encasing all sides, Kevin listened.

Air was cool, changing. Heat and breeze was between each breath through mouth, coursing through lungs and limb before returning to the night. Kevin could feel the world waking, leaves breathing, and roots drinking. It was all different. On nights like this all he could do was leave his house, lie on Greene Field, listen, and feel. He tried sleeping, lying in bed ignoring the sounds, but like the summer before, the pull was too strong. He had to leave. If not, the whispers became screams, refusing to be ignored, until he stepped from the front door to the open field.

And that’s where he was, staring into the specs of white in the sea of black overhead, listening to the murmur on the other side and feeling the grass against his skin.

He enjoyed this time alone. The town was quiet, unknowing. The darkness closed around the trees and houses, muffling his footsteps as he walked along the deserted sidewalks and gentle breathes as he lay on the grass. He knew the shadows on the other side of dark windows and more than those who lived behind their locked doors. He never wondered, or wished he knew, what they dreamed or wished. Here, in this world of sounds and silence he was content.

On nights like this he would lay on the field for hours, absorbing the song of leaves moving in the distance on the white oak in the center courtyard, and wait…Eventually, he would sleep and fragments of phrases and faces would appear abruptly and out of sequence. At first it happened few and far between, but now it happened whenever he seemed to close his eyes, creating a story with unfamiliar characters and names such as Kara, Thomas, and Alice in a place and time much different from now. Their lives, conversations, feelings, and emotions would appear one after the other until just before sunrise when he would make his way back into bed before anyone noticed him gone.

Most nights this was the routine and this night was no exception. He lay in the grass, clutching the diary, hoping for the images of the people he had seen mature and grow, people he had grown used to seeing as family, people he had grown to love. Only tonight was different. He was so focused on the murmur of the rustling leaves and need to dream he never heard Jennifer walk across the field and stand at the base of his feet.

The Story of a Boy

Oliver Lee.

This is how he was born.

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History teaches us little is remembered, all is forgotten, and the only truth is what is written. It is for this reason Oliver Lee exists in the realm of theory and imagination, allowing people the opportunity to create, and assume he glides instead of walks while having a heavy head from his beard of gnarled thoughts and stagnant creativity that collects lost memories from stray thoughts caught on the wind. Many say his appearance is hagrid, compact and stoic, revealing eyes into a soul that has experienced lifetime upon lifetime, only to watch each fade away, leaving him the only way he has ever known; alone. All of these speculations and whispers give him the opportunity to hide a false identity many believe to exist where little is remembered, all is forgotten, and the only truth is what he writes.

            -Found among the dust of an abandoned bookstore in Greentown, Illinois.

____________________

I thought this would be used as the very opening of the book, but this is the only time it will be published. This was the character I saw in my head. He was the only person I could think to create that would have the ability to save them. But how and when? Would he be there on that night they were killed or would he arrive sooner like Marty McFly in a time machine five minutes early to keep it from happening. In a way, yes. Only in this story he would arrive much sooner and he would never be seen by the people he saved. Rather than with an old man The Diary of Oliver Lee would begin with a boy, a used book store, and an eccentric sales clerk with a rather unusual book. This was the story I created.

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 No one walked in or out of Antique Books for months. The young boy of thirteen years, three months, and thirteen days knew this for certain. Because, besides eating, sleeping, and breathing he did little else other than watch the tarnished door of the store for weeks in hopes of seeing any sign of movement inside its walls.

Contrary to the belief of other children his age, he did not sit outside Antique Books for days on end, eating the lint in his pocket and drinking rain water. However, when he did look at the store as he passed it on afternoon bike rides to the town library he was surprised to see the “Come on In” or “Sorry We’re Closed” sign turned to its correct invitation or apology.

Since the last day of school it seemed as if the used book store was the one object that occupied his thoughts. The problem with his mindless obsession of a store he never noticed before that year, was he had yet to go in. There was nothing holding him back from entering, and he was not afraid, but there seemed to be something unexplainable about the store that made it inaccessible. Sometimes he stared for hours through the glass of the store without seeing a cover move or a page flutter. However, each new day he looked through the Antique Books Store’s windows, the sea of words shifted in wave movement.

Monday through Wednesday they would be placed around the store on tables, counters, oddly placed on the floor, and in-between shelves. Thursday through Friday they would be stacked around the perimeter, making the ability to see through the dingy glass nearly impossible before settling into perfection on Saturday and returning to madness on Sunday to continue the cycle over again.

Family members were of no help when it came to answering questions about the store. His mother claimed she knew nothing about the shop, or that it even existed. His grandparents time traveled back to when they were children, remembering when they first had seen it as a child, but could not remember seeing it open in many years. The only individual that gave any nuance of interest about what went on behind those mysterious closed doors was his father who had the same love of books as his son. This passion for literature made the young boy wonder why he cleaned up after the students in the school rather than teach them.

 “I don’t know who owns the store, son. I’m surprised it’s even still around. I remember seeing it as a boy but never going in. I was older than you, but after living for this long all the years start to blend together, like stories you heard but can’t remember all the details to, or dreams that have taken the place of memories. You’ll understand when you’re older, but I do remember never going in. I always wanted to, but never got around to it. Life has a way of getting hectic. Eventually, I forgot about the whole thing, or that the store even existed for that matter. Until you mentioned it I had completely forgotten. I can’t believe it’s still around. You should go in, just to see what it’s like and let me know what I missed.”

“Can you go in with me? I’m sure they have some cool older books you don’t have,” the young boy asked his father pleadingly. He was hoping the accompaniment of his father would break whatever spell the shop had over him from entering.

            “I would love to son, but I have too much work to do. I have to get the school back in shape before you kids come back in a few weeks. The summer’s almost over you know.”

            “I know,” the young boy said disappointingly.

            “Listen, why don’t you go into the bookstore tomorrow, have a look around, then this weekend we can go back and buy a few after you’ve scoped them out. How does that sound?”

This was not what the boy wanted to hear, but accepting the offer as better than nothing he agreed. Realizing momentarily of the task that still lay in front of him the boy went to his room to get some rest, and build his courage for the day ahead. As he walked up the stairs, excited to spend some time with his father, the young boy couldn’t help wondering why no one seemed to recognize that the out of date shop even existed, except him.

__________

With a heavy a sigh and little hesitation the young boy walked across the street towards the door of Antique Books. With determination and force he placed his hand on the latch handle of the door and pushed as if it were made of lead. It swung open with ease, sending his feet tumbling over themselves as he stepped inside. Using the door handle to regain control, he paused and looked at what had been calling him to enter for so long, but had refused to answer before that moment. Taking a few steps inside, he let go of the handle and stood silently as the door slowly swung shut before slamming into the frame with a crash and light jingle of an overhead bell, reverberating throughout the dust and shadows resembling the catacombs of a vacated tomb.

Once the bell settled into silence nothing moved and the room was still the boy admired the sight before his eyes rather than from behind dirty glass. It was like stepping into Oz after watching the first half of the movie on a twelve inch black and white television. It was a book lover’s dream.

In front of him stood endless upon endless stalagmites of pages, words, phrases, similes, metaphors, authors, and pseudonyms. To his right sat an outdated cash register of tarnished brass and elaborate copper buried beneath countless book covers. Narrow paths branched from the front door leading in all directions around tables, odd islands of books that had erupted in sections throughout the floor, and into the shadows away from the natural light of day into the foreboding shelves leading to the back of the store. Jutting books of aged leather and bound covers protruded from petrified wood bookcases. To his left and right were balconies he had not seen from the street corner. Stairs of bronze that seemed to be made of gold spiraled upward to the bookshelves of haphazardly arranged material.  No words were spoken as the boy listened to still thoughts and adventures that lay in wait in every corner of the store for their tales to be reborn through the imagination of an unsuspecting boy, girl, or adult seeking to revisit their supposedly lost childhood. There was so much material he didn’t know where to start.

            The young boy looked around the store for any sign of a salesperson, or customer. There were none. He listened to the silence of the unturned pages, the sound of his own breathing as he watched small particles of dust float past rays of slowly moving sunlight like miniature hot air balloons. Shadows and muffled soles against pavement could be seen and heard from the opposite side of the window the boy had grown accustomed to looking through throughout the summer. Now Antique Books’ letters were backward and alien too him, like standing on the opposite side of a mirror.

“If only they knew what they were missing,” the young boy said to himself softly.

He scanned the store in sheer amazement at how many books there were. The thought of all the stories and adventures that lay at his fingertips made him so excited he felt as if he could not control himself. He stepped forward to the first table of oddly stacked books on his path leading to other sections of the store. The hard wood floor creaked and moaned beneath his shoes as if someone were walking on the ceiling directly beneath his heels. His eyes locked on the first cover sitting on the table in front of him. As he studied the faded image of a boy in tights with balled fists resting on his hips he heard something move, shuffle, and fall near the back of the store.

            The young boy looked up, startled.

            Before he could ask a tentative hello he saw a stack of books with legs in khaki pants walking forward from the back of the store towards his general direction. The legs walked to an empty section of the floor that wasn’t already overcrowded with books and dropped the stack with a thump followed by a heavy sigh. The boy looked with shock at the sight of another human being, besides himself, in a wonderland of novels. The sales clerk, however, seemed un-phased.

            “What can I help you with young man?” the clerk asked while taking in a deep breath and letting a smile spread across his aged face.

            The clerk was old, much older than the boy expected to be on the other side of the moving stack of books. He wore a white collared shirt, a pair of tan khakis on top of polished black shoes, round glasses, a wrinkled face, white hair, and black bow tie. No signs of his age could be heard in his voice or seen in his quick movements. In everything, besides his appearance, he exhibited the movements and enthusiasm of a high school student working their first afterschool job. Suddenly shy from lack of human contact, other than family and the school librarian, the young boy said nothing.

            “Fiction or nonfiction?” the sales clerk asked, staring through the boy as if probing for answers. “Fortunately we only have fiction. Young boys at your age need only fiction. It helps the imagination to grow with the legs and arms, and last into old age. Science fiction or fantasy? Realism or modern? Tales of foreign lands and jungles, or of Victorian names and customs? Whatever you need to become the man trapped away inside those bones can be found on these shelves and tables.” The old clerk bent down and tapped the young boy’s chest. He stood up as he continued to speak.

            “Any life, date, or time is trapped within the confines of each page that has passed from one owner to another; from one child’s hands that have matured into adulthood to finally end up here once it has fulfilled its purpose for that individual. Not to die!” he said sharply to the boy, making him jump. “Oh no, never to die. The written word never dies. To hibernate, maybe, but to be ready at a moment’s notice to pass into another person’s possession to teach the lessons the fictional characters have to give. To take the reader from the deepest heart of darkness, or to the moonlit skies on a flight with Tinker Bell to battle Captain Hook.” He picked up the book of the boy in tights for a moment before putting it back on the table.

            “From water to land, Europe to Asia, there and back again in 1001 Arabian nights to continue on in the never ending story of life. That’s what these books do. They take you on your wildest fantasy, whatever they may be, and in the process teach you a small portion of what it means to be human – to tell stories.”

            The old man paused. He looked around the store as if he stood in the center of the Coliseum and the books were his adoring audience. He wore a half smile that portrayed youth locked away behind his creased features. After taking in the moment of make-believe applause he looked down at the boy. The smile remained on his face.

            “So, tell me young man, what fantasy are you in search of?”

            The young boy said nothing. He stood in awe that there was another individual like himself and his father that loved books as much as they did – possibly more.  The old clerk continued.

            “I know what you want. A young man like yourself, secluded from the rest of the world as you trap yourself inside the realm of literature. You’re seeking adventure in a strange land. You want castaways. How about… The Mysterious Island? I have a first edition that will make the words come to life before your very eyes.”

            Surprised, the young boy spoke. “What did you say?”

            “The Mysterious Island? By Jules Verne?” the old clerk said with the same smile spread across his face.

            “No, about being secluded from the rest of the world.”

            “Well, you are, aren’t you? If you weren’t than you wouldn’t be in here, now would you? You would be outside on that sidewalk with all those other people, or playing with other boys your age somewhere causing mischief.” There was a pause as the young boy went over the logic of the sales clerk in his head.

            “I guess I didn’t think of it that way.”

            “So, what do you say? Is the Mysterious Island the book you’re looking for?”

            “I’ve already read it, sir. And I didn’t come in looking for a book,” the young boy said shyly.

            “Sure you did. We just have to figure out which one it is.” The old clerk rubbed his hairless chin methodically in contemplation. “Already read The Mysterious Island, huh? Not too many boys your age have. Not too many people have, period, especially in this day-in-age. I thought you looked exceptional. That’s why I suggested it.”

            The young boy slowly spoke again, unsure of where the conversation was heading, or the intentions of the eccentric sale clerk.

            “I like to read the classics. They are my favorite. My father has most of them. He says they are from when he was a boy.”

            “You must take your love of books from him. Surprised I haven’t met him. Maybe one day.” The young boy said nothing. “I take it you have read Robinson Crusoe?”

            The boy shook his head yes.

            “How about the Hobbit, The Odyssey, The Picture of Dorian Grey, Tarzan, Journey to the Center of the Earth, Pride and Prejudice, The Count of Monte Cristo?”

            The young boy shook his head yes to them all.

            “Read them all? I’m impressed. Seeing as how you have read most of the books I was going to suggest, and you are a very well read young man, what brings you into my store?”

            The young boy thought of the best possible way to answer the question.

            “I’m not sure, sir.” He paused for a moment, trying to find the words. “It seemed…it seemed as if I needed to come in. Almost like this store appeared one day and it was all I thought about. I know it sounds crazy, but…I guess, what I’m trying to say is, for lack of a better word, it was curiosity that brought me in.”

            “Curiosity?” Letting the word hang in the air for a moment the old clerk smiled, then chuckled lightly before responding. “Follow me.”

            With no other words between the two of them the old clerk began to walk towards the back of the store, the young boy followed close behind through the make shift paths of books to the rows upon rows of shadowed shelves. The old man continued to speak as he walked.

            “Curiosity. That is the first time anyone has put it so elegantly. You have the makings of a good writer, my boy. I can sense these things. Being around books all my life allowed some hints of the craft of storytelling to rub off on me. I’m not an expert by any means, but I know talent when I see it. Most people think the key to good writing is to throw a bunch of words on the page and see what mess they can make when, in actuality, it’s about limiting your words to tell the most effective story. But, like I said, I’m not an expert on the matter, but I have picked up a few pointers on good literature over the years.”

            The old clerk continued to speak as he searched the shelves. The boy studied the titles as he walked past, recognizing authors from all ages he had already grown to know very well, but would love to understand better. The pages seemed to call to him to be picked up, held, but he resisted the temptation and listened to the hypnotizing words and attitude of the ancient sales clerk.

            “Let me guess. You were curious about what/who occupied this lonely space.”

            The boy said nothing. The old clerk did not take his eyes off the un-alphabetized shelves.

            “I’ve seen you looking in through the window from across the street.” The boy looked up startled. “It’s okay. Many people are, I should say, were curious, as you so eloquently put it. Not too many people pass through my door these days, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

            “How long have you been here?” the boy asked.

            “For quite some time,” the old clerk said softly as a pulled a small, black, book from the shelf. It looked beaten, used, and old. The young boy stared at it as he spoke.

            “Every time I looked through the window the books were always arranged differently, but I never see any customers. It’s almost like they don’t even know the store is here. They walk by without giving it the slightest attention. Everyone I mention it to seems to have noticed it at one time, but have forgotten about it. It’s like they wanted to come in, but never did.”

            “So why did you?” the old clerk asked. The boy paused again. Feeling as though he was being tested he thought of the best answer he could.

            “Because…because there was something about this place I couldn’t walk away from. I didn’t want to be like them and forget. It was almost like I was…”

            “Looking for something?” The old clerk said, finishing the young boy’s sentence. He didn’t answer, but he could feel the clerk was right.

“Why won’t people come in? Why do they seem to have forgotten this place exists?”

            The old clerk paused to consider this question. As he continued to dwell on the best answer to give, his demeanor took a slight turn from joyous to nostalgic. He stared into the boy’s eyes and spoke slowly about the changing world in which they lived.

            “Because the need for books is becoming extinct. People in your generation want information, fast. Always fast. Whoever can supply the quickest knowledge is deemed the winner by an audience that has grown ignorant over the years. They know nothing of the dedication it takes to obtain the wisdom they think they have and so know nothing of the work it takes to live a good life. Not a rich life, or a mistake free life, or pain free life, because there will always be mistakes and there will always be pain, but a life filled with purpose cannot be obtained with ease.”

            As if waking from a dream the old clerk blinked a few times, paused, and focused on the book in his hands. He laughed to himself.

            “Perhaps it’s just my old age talking. When you get older you see the problems of the world and think of a mythical golden age that never existed.”

            “That sounds like something my dad would say.”

            “Mine too,” the old clerk said too softly for the boy to hear. He turned to look at the boy and their eyes met. One was filled with the passing of time looking into those that still had an entire lifetime to look and learn. The old man smiled as he handed the book to the boy. Breaking eye contact the young boy took the book in his hands while studying the cover. It was black, and worn away, almost as if the pages on the inside had been ripped out and replaced with those of another. Although it looked old it was sturdy.

            “Who is the author?” the young boy asked, not seeing a name or a title on the front cover.

            “Someone I am sure you have not heard of.”

            “Is it fiction?”

            “In a way,” the old clerk said while passing the young boy and walking back towards the filtered sunlight of the front of the store. The boy’s interest was piqued.

            “In a way? What do you mean in a way?” The boy followed behind.

            Once leaving the catacombs of ancient books the old clerk stepped to the side. He looked out over the store, through the glass to the foreign world he did not understand, enjoying the sight of the now busy sidewalk of strange people with a renewed smile. The young boy stood beside the old clerk, staring at the man, wondering why he never saw him though the dust layered windows when he had been there the entire time.

            “There was a man,” the old clerk said slowly as if feeling the words in his mouth before speaking them. “He wrote stories. Short stories and nothing else, as far as we know of. His name was Oliver Lee, or, rather that is what people called him. No one really knows who he is or where he came from. All anyone knows for sure is that he wrote. We call it fiction, he called it reality. Not because he thought of himself as anything more than a normal man, but because every story he ever wrote was told to him by a stranger, whether they wanted to tell it to him or not. They may not have come out and said it to him as I am talking to you, but it was through their own voice they told him of their dreams and nightmares. It is said they spoke to him through…a subconscious stream of thought. I am not sure how it was done, I’m not sure anyone is, but apparently Oliver Lee had the ability to do so.” The old clerk turned to look at the boy. He gestured with his hands as he spoke.

            “You see, Oliver had the ability to read people’s thoughts. Not all people’s thoughts, but only those who had a story to tell. The words would come to him as if in a dream and he would write them down on loose sheets of paper, paper towels, napkins, anything he could get his hands on. Once finished he would leave them for others to read. It is only through these stories that we know of him and how he became silently famous. Some people say they have seen him, but no one knows for sure. He traveled from one end of the country to the other, from state to state writing stories and leaving them on tables or abandoned counter tops for all his life. He never spoke, only wrote, except once. When he gave me the book you hold in your hands.” The young boy looked down at the beaten cover. “It’s his personal diary. It has the few stories he decided not to give back to the world. It’s all written long hand, and can be hard to read at times, but it’s worth it. It gives you a glimpse at what it means to be human - to have emotion and to tell stories.” The old clerk stopped a moment before finishing. The young boy stared into the cover. “It’s now yours to read.”

            The young boy looked up confused.

            “What? I don’t want this. This isn’t why I came in.” He held out the book for the clerk to take back.

            “Are you sure about that?” The old clerk smiled. Ignoring the extended text in the boy’s hand he began picking up books, moving them to different places throughout the store as he walked. He had a speed to his methodology that made the young boy marvel. Regaining his focus, the young boy tried to come up with a plausible excuse to not leave with the book

            “Excuse me, sir. I can’t pay for this. I didn’t bring any money. If you would hold it while I ran home…”

            “I didn’t ask for money.”

            The old clerk continued to do his work.

            “Do you want me to return it when I’m done?”

            The old clerk said nothing.

            The young boy looked around the store in hopes of finding any sign of explaining what was happening. He looked down at the unopened book in his hand. He began to open the cover when the old clerk noticed what he was doing and ran to him, dropping the books he held in his hands onto the floor.

            “No! No! No! You can’t open it here.” The old clerk explained.

            “I don’t understand,” the young boy said with frustration. “All I wanted was to come in and see who worked here, maybe look for a few books I haven’t read yet. Now you are giving me something I didn’t ask for. What is going on?”

            The old clerk smiled at the young boy’s innocence.

            “You have read a lot of books, and I’m sure you are extremely intelligent, but there are a lot of things you don’t know or understand. Not all knowledge can be found in a book. Sometimes we just have to trust that we are making the right decisions. That’s something you are going to have to learn. And whether you admit it or not, you know that book is the reason you came in here, and it is what you were looking for. It’s what kept you standing outside of my shop all summer long in hopes of discovering what lay in wait for you on the other side. You’re different from the rest, you are different from your father, you did what he couldn’t; you came in. It is up to you to find the rest of your way. ”

            The old clerk said nothing else. Confused, bewildered, but knowing the old clerk spoke the truth, the young boy began to walk towards the door. Upon reaching for the handle he turned to ask the old clerk a question, but he answered before the words could leave his lips.

            “He said, ‘Read.’ Nothing else as he handed me the book and walked out the same door you are.”

            The young boy stared into the faded wooden floor for a moment before opening the door and walking out. The bell above the door jingled for a few seconds before finally settling into silence.

            The young boy walked into his house and closed the door as if in a daze. His father was sitting in the living room, reading the newspaper - the young boy did not notice. He was completely engrossed in the mystery he held in his hand that he had yet to open.

            “What did you find?”

            The young boy looked up as if emerging from a dream.

            “A book.” The boy mumbled more to himself than his father as his gaze shifted back to the cover of the black diary

            “What kind of book?”

            “Fiction.”

            “Who’s the author?”

            “A guy named, Lee…Oliver Lee.”

            “Never heard of him. What does he write?”

            “Mostly short stories.”

            The young boy’s father leaned forward in his chair to have a better look at the binding of the book. “That looks like a pretty old book. They made them to last back then, you know. Not like books today.”

            The young boy did not hear his father. His mind was on overdrive attempting to process all of the events that had just taken place. Everything seemed so strange; the old clerk, the constant rearranging books, the giving away of a diary the only of its kind, and the knowledge the sales clerk had about him and his life. It all happened so fast the young boy wasn’t sure what to make of it all. There were so many questions, and yet no one there to answer them.

The father noticed the young boy’s lack of attention to their conversation while studying the boys perplexed expression. He was amused and impressed at the boy’s focus on a universe of words rather than other problems, and troubles most kids his age were getting into.

            After realizing he had been silent for quite some time the young boy looked up from the book and at his father.

            “What are you doing home? I thought you had to work.”

            “I came home for lunch,” the father said. The young boy shook his head in understanding and returned to studying the black cover.

            The father laughed. “That book must be pretty interesting if it’s absorbing so much of your attention without even reading the first page.” The young boy smiled. “I won’t bother you. Go on and start reading. Just make sure you tell me how it is. We’re still on for this weekend right?”

            The young boy nodded in agreement and went up the stairs to his room. His father went back to reading the daily paper before returning to work.

            The young boy sat in his room confused and dazed. In his hands was a book he did not ask for, from an author he did know existed. His room was filled with books he loved to read. His shelves were filled with classics, the dark spaces beneath his bed hid away horror and fiction rather than old issues of Playboy other boys his age claimed to have beneath theirs. Corners and window sills contained tales of adventure, wildlife, nature, humanity, friendship, anything he ever wanted to do or be was found on those pages.

            Black letters on a white page was food his soul could not get enough of; books were his passion and was why he decided to take the journal from Antique Books at the request of the old clerk, along with an unexplainable attraction. He hoped the contents would lead him to answers the old clerk refused to give.

            Leafing through the pages he saw the words were small and had been written in different forms of ink, pencil, and upon closer inspection different handwriting. The pages appeared rough, and woven into the cover as if from another book. He had never read a book that had been written free hand before. Being one of the first to read the words of another person before anyone else made him shiver with excitement. It was like discovering another planet, and being the first to explore its surface. There was no telling what lay inside. After settling his curiosity on what was in store he began to read.