2Seconds
Life is like 2Seconds, you’ve two seconds to decide
Will you face your fears with bravery or will you run and hide
2Seconds is a cricket chirp, a blade of grass in a field
2Seconds is a drop of rain before umbrella’s shield
2Seconds is a first impression, a change of heart, a sigh
2Seconds is a newborn’s growth in the blink of an eye
2Seconds is the shortest time a kiss should ever be
2Seconds is a hundred years within eternity
Life is a mere paperclip strung on a thousand foot rope
Death and pain and suffering, life and health and hope
2Seconds is a couple chords plucked from a happy song
2Seconds is a friendly smile in the midst of all gone wrong
2Seconds can take your breath away, forever you are changed
2Seconds is learning to breathe again when life is rearranged
2Seconds is the first step of life’s weary marathon
2Seconds is the final stride before the race is won
Unraveled
It happens every time. And there's no way around the distance from here to there.
The raw material forms a tangled mess. The kind with gum stuck in it. That’s when I need to start again from the beginning and cut out the strands too mangled to salvage.
Words churn and turn and spin until rinsed clean in the washing machine of My Voice. Spun into yarns. Woven and pressed into garments I ease into. Folding around me like they'd always been worn.
My persistence pays off.
I win. Every time.
Yeshua
He entered the tomb a lamb. He left the tomb a lion. Imagine the look in his eyes... The knowing.
He'd split time in two. The second book of the trilogy was finished. The third and final, yet to be written, but he knows how it will end. That's the look. The knowing in his eyes as he steps from the grave.
The Kingdom Come.
This Mountain
He clenched the rope, knuckles raw from scraping against the granite. He swayed inches to the right and then back to the left in a perilous embrace with the mountain. His palms burned. His fingertips had become numb long ago, minutes or hours, he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. The stiffness had set in, like something long since dead.
He dug his toes into the rock, searching for a foothold that wasn’t there.
It wouldn’t be long now.
He thought of her.
He’d promised her he wouldn’t let go, but that was years ago, and he was beginning to think she might be hoping he would now.
Falling would be easy.
The wind burned his eyes, drawing a soundless tear over cracked skin.
He was thirsty. Hungry too, but the thirst was what demanded. It screamed. It tore at his throat like the claws of an eagle cinching hold of its hunted.
It won’t be long now.
Strength, he resurrected from the grave.
He would never let go. He promised.
This mountain will move.
Risk
Gwen tilted her head and greeted Max, who was always manning the check-in counter at the Do Jang this time of day. “How’s your day been?”
“Good. Yours?” he answered.
“Better now.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” His right eye crinkled more than his left.
She was certain he didn’t really have to ask. Her lips curved in a subtle smile. “I like coming here. It’s very inspiring.” She thumbed through a brochure of classes offered at the Do Jang.
“You thinking about joining another class?”
Gwen brushed a few stray hairs behind her ear. “Thinking about it… What classes do you teach?”
“I teach the 4:00 pm Tae Kwon Do and the 6:00 pm kickboxing class.”
“I’ll be sure to avoid those classes,” she said, her voice playing games. “I don’t want to start hating you.”
“Hating me?”
“Yeah... If you are yelling for me to keep moving and I’m about to pass out… I think I’d start hating you.”
His face brightened. “Which class were you thinking about joining?”
Her eyes trailed to his defined arms and then bounced back to the smooth curve of his bottom lip. “If I try the kickboxing class, will you promise to make me hate you?” Her insides flooded with dizzying warmth.
Max let out a pleased breath and shook his head. “Only if you let me make it up to you after class.”
Gwen couldn’t hold back her blush and turned her attention to the stack of brochures to her left. After all these weeks of checking each other out and small-talk, they were finally making a move. “Making up sounds like fun. Why don’t we try that?” Her eyes met his again, this time with hopeful expectation.
“So… Like… Coffee later tonight?” He seemed a little nervous. The effect was surprising. Endearing. Even a guy as self-assured as Max had needed a little encouragement before risking rejection.
“But, I don’t hate you, yet. Don’t you want to torment me a little first?” she teased.
Max leaned over the counter top, moving inches closer to her. “What time should I pick you up?”
Gwen's heart fired. “I’m sure you could do that anytime, but, 7:30 works for me.” She paused for a breath. “Although, if I drink coffee that late I’m going to be up all night.”
She could see his pulse beating wild beneath the skin of his neck.“Me too,” he said.
She tossed her bag over her shoulder. “Then, pick me up at 8:00.”
A Place Called Home
Jakob Pierce sifted through a stack of envelopes piled on the red enameled table before tossing the whole bit into the trash bin. “J. J.” he called out. “I’m home.”
When no one returned his salutation he sat down in a red vinyl chair, pushing an empty melamine cereal bowl back from the edge of the table. “How many times have I got to tell that boy?” he mumbled.
He'd just opened up the newspaper and set his reading glasses lower on the bridge of his nose when a yip from the living-room drew his attention. A white and brown pup yawned and then curled back into a ball on top of an old plaid that lay crumpled on the floor. “Well I’ll be." Jakob folded the paper and tossed it on top of a stack of the rest of the week’s papers.
It took effort these days to rise from the chair, but the curiosity of the critter in his living room made it worthwhile. He approached the sleeping pup, which opened one eye when the man bent low. Jakob smiled at the pup and nodded approvingly. “Not much of a watch dog yet are ya?”
He heard the familiar sound of the propane torch burning out back. A sound he’d heard often over the long years of his marriage to Isla. A sound he hadn’t realized he’d missed after she’d passed away until his grandson came to live him seven months ago and started back up where Isla had left off. She’d taught J. J. the craft, and if Jakob were honest with the boy he’d have told him long ago his work was far superior to Isla’s. His faithfulness to Isla kept him from telling the truth, and he didn’t want the boy to get the idea that being an artist would get him anywhere in life. A boy like J.J. needed a real trade. Making mouth-blown baubles and stained-glass panes, no matter how beautiful, weren’t what provided for a family. Jakob knew this for certain.
He hadn’t changed a thing in the house since Isla’s passing. The same old yellowed curtains hung in the living room windows. The same green, nappy couch was still pressed tightly against the wall. The old rosebud lamps with the too-big shades still set on cheap wooden side tables. Everything in the house was dated, but it made no difference to him how Isla had decorated, just as long as the place was kept clean. Isla hadn’t been a good housekeeper, another trait she shared with her grandson. Their minds were always on their projects. “It’s the stuff of life,” Isla would always remind him when he’d gotten too cranky about the state of the household.
Jakob picked up a t-shirt from the arm of the couch, and a mug still half-filled with black coffee. He tossed the shirt into the laundry room that also served as the back entryway where he saw a big bag of dog chow tossed haphazardly over the top of a few pairs of boots and sneakers. He shook his head and then collected the melamine bowl from the table and washed it along with the mug. He dried his hands on the dingy dish towel that hung from the refrigerator door before putting his cap on and making his way to the studio.
It was a short walking path from the house to the studio out back, but it was overflowing with knick-knacks and baubles Isla had either made herself, or purchased at the garden centers over the years. Each decoration had been perfectly placed to look like they’d grown right out of the clumps of purple cone-flowers and black-eyed-Susan come mid-summer. Several stepping stones lined the path, each with special designs made from broken bits of glass that hadn’t made it from Isla’s artistic attempts. Jakob guessed she didn’t mind they’d ended up becoming artwork of a different form. He stepped over the stones gingerly. They were more precious to him now that she was gone.
He stood at the entryway of the studio and watched his grandson who was hunched over a project. The boy’s greasy hair poked out of the backward-turned ball-cap. Isla’s propane torch flamed in his hands. At least he was wearing the safety mask.
Jakob didn’t want to interrupt the boy. He’d learned long ago not to disturb an artist mid-work, especially during the smelting of the metal framework. He watched J.J. curiously. How could someone be so tirelessly inspired to create endless works of art without regard to their own needs? The boy needed a shower, needed clothes that fit properly. Jakob noted the baggy jeans the boy wore that hung low on his waist, the band of his blue underwear showing whenever J.J. lifted his arms, which seemed a good enough reason to interrupt the boy now.
“You get anything to eat for lunch?” called Jakob.
J.J. looked over at his grandfather then cut the torch. “Yeah, cereal.”
Jakob nodded. He thought of the sleeping pup in the living-room. “You went to town, eh?”
“Yeah,” said J.J, a small smile lighting his face. He re-lit the torch and went back to his project.
Jakob wasn’t a man of many words and it seemed if nothing else, J.J. had taken after him in this manner. He turned back toward the house. He knew the boy wouldn’t be in until after dark.
J.J. had always been a good boy. He had always been quiet, even as a little one. Now when J.J. spoke, it was only when he really had something to say. Even then the boy’s words often went unheard. Jakob had given up trying to get the boy to be more assertive. At least he’d gone to town today. That was a step in the right direction.