Interview with James D. Maxon, Cat Man and Upcoming Author

This week The Christian Fiction Blog Review is touring The Cat That Made Nothing Something Again by James D. Maxon (NOT to be confused, by the way, with The Cat Who... series). Once I began reading this book, I felt like I had discovered a precious little gem that has been hiding from the view of many, kind of like a certain turtle in the tale. And once I started learning about the author, I came to the conclusion that here, too, was one of God's precious treasures who only a few know about so far. I believe God has brought him out of circumstances that could easily have stifled someone else and raised up a young man who can reach others, especially youth that might have had some of his struggles. You'll see what I mean as you read the interview. And now, may I introduce you to James. D. Maxon.

Thank you for taking time to answer a few questions and chat a bit with me.
“Thank you for giving me the opportunity to discuss my story.”

First of all, could you share a little with us about you personally? Origin, family, 'real life' occupation and interests?
“I was born in Anchorage, Alaska, and at the age of three my parents were divorced so I moved to Minneapolis, Minnesota with my Mother, Sister, Aunt and Grandmother. I’ve been in Minnesota ever since and now live with my wife, Cindy, in a suburb of Minneapolis. I also just recently became a father of a little girl who is now six months old.
“I graduated from a Computer Graphics / Multimedia college which is my main career path. I have also composed Electronica style music, dabbled in drawing--along with other forms of visual art--developed Web sites, print materials, and I work as a Senior Designer at an advertising company as well as contribute my experience in computer technology.
“For me I consider writing as just another avenue to express myself creatively. There are many tools for creative expression, and writing just so happens to be one of the best. There are many opinions out there as to what classifies one as ‘a writer’ but for me it started before I even put ‘a pencil to paper’ so to say. The stories are inside of you, the tool is simply a way of getting them out.
“Whenever I have a moment of free time I like to watch anime, play Video Games, write (of course), read, and play racquetball.”

Congratulations on your daughter. I know she must be the joy of your life.
How did you come to a personal relationship with Jesus?

“My earliest memory of developing a relationship with God comes when I was around five-years-old. I had suffered from a barrage of frightful dreams, and one night my mother told me to call on the name of God while I slept. The next night I dreamt that I was standing by a lake and a large, white sea dragon reared its head out of the water and was about to attack me when I shouted out the name ‘Jesus.’ The dragon hesitated, and then I scolded it, shortly after it disappeared back into the water (with its head hung low). I then started to walk down the path when I passed by a clamshell, which somehow sucked me inside. I was in what looked to be a dark cave with pillars all around me. Behind the pillars were the red eyes and twisted voices of demons. I called out the name of God again and they suddenly fled, screaming in fear.
“In my story, ‘The Cat That Made Nothing Something Again,’ when the cat is about to be attacked by the enemy (sponges) he pauses to pray. This causes a fear response in the sponges, which came directly from my own situation in my childhood dreams.”

Wow, that's an amazing story. And another example of how God reaches down to each of us right where we are. It's so good that you had a mother who was able to direct you to calling on God.So what led you to write?
“Ever since I can remember, my mother would read me story books. They have always been a part of my life, and it was only natural for me to try and write my own. When I was thirteen my mother bought me a Smith Corona Typewriter, and that was the beginning of my first attempts to write. I actually started working on my wizard story back then, which many years later I’m getting close to finishing as my first full-length novel.
“What’s ironic is that I grew up with a learning disability and spent most of my school days in Special Education. English was one of my most difficult topics, but in High School I wanted to master my weaknesses and so I studied long and hard to understand the written word. In doing so I grew a fondness for writing.”

Considering all the things you do now, it's hard to imagine you had a learning disability. That in itself should be an encouragement to young people who are struggling though their own difficulties.
What kind of books do you like to read yourself? Has your own writing been influenced by any authors or books in particular?

“I tend to read several books at a time, including listening to audio books in my car on my way to and from work. I like the genre of Speculative Fiction (which is mainly Fantasy and SF) and usually ones written towards youth. Also, I am often reading a non-fiction book to help improve my skills. For example, right now I’m reading ‘Webster's New World Punctuation,’ by Geraldine Woods.
“I believe that every writer is asked questions like, ‘what famous writer are you most like?’ at one point in their lives. Where I understand the reason for the question, I think if a writer pulls a name out of their hat they risk being accused of being a copycat. The truth is that reading books dose influence a writer, but they do not make the writer. As C.S. Lewis said, ‘Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.’
“That said, I’d say the writer whose works most influenced me is Michael Ende, who is probably best known as the author of “The Neverending Story.” If I can become even half the writer he was, then I will have achieved more than I could have dreamed.”

Good answer. I never ask anyone if he or she is comparable to another author; No one, for example, is comparable to C. S. Lewis, for example, yet his work has profoundly influenced scads of writers.
I read some of your blogs at BooksForYouth.com. It seems that you have a special feeling for kids?

“To be honest, most of my life I have felt uncomfortable around kids. I had to grow up pretty fast and there was a lot I missed out on. When around children I often saw their behavior as odd and something I had a hard time relating to.
“Now that I’m older I’m becoming less like a grownup and more like a child . But seriously, my heart goes out to the children who are struggling as I did. Children often have negative messages locked into their hearts from a young age, and it is my desire to reach them by providing messages of faith, hope, and insight before the negative ones get engraved into their hearts and minds.
“My review blog is mainly provided to aid parents in knowing what their children are reading. Both for the sake of the parent and the child; sometimes parents can be overprotective. As I say on my site, ‘education not isolation.’ In each of my reviews I provide an opportunity for discussion. As I stated in an article I did in the Minnesota Christian Chronicle (http://thecatthat.com/files/MNCrChronical0809_TheCatThat.pdf), it is important for children to discuss the stories they read. My site is there to make it a little easier for parents to do so.”

I also noticed a lot of the reviews are for manga. Is that due to your personal preferences or another reason?

“For those who don’t know, manga is similar to comics. They are Japanese graphic novels. I actually didn’t start reading manga until a few years ago. The reason for me adding them to my reviews is due to their increased popularity among children and teens today, and I think it’s important for parents to know what their children are reading.
“Another reason is that I am fond of anime (Japanese animation), and a lot of anime originates from manga.”

Where did the idea for TCTMNSA come from?

“The house I grew up in had many cats, and I had an idea to write a fairytale story about one in particular named Sam, who was my mother’s favorite cat. I wanted to write a story about him mainly for her, but after receiving such positive feedback from people I decided to put the story into book format.”

Just curious, do you prefer cats or dogs, and do you have any pets yourself?

“If you asked me this question a few years ago I’d have definitely said that I like cats better. However, after my wife convinced me to get a dog I have to say he is the best dog I’ve ever known. He is a Japanese dog called a Shiba Inu, which looks similar to a fox. Needless to say he won me over. We also have a cat who we nicknamed Sybil because one minute she is the sweetest cat in the world and the next the worst terror one can imagine. At this point I have to say in general I like cats better, but right now I like my dog the best.

In your own words, could you give us a brief summary of The Cat That Made Nothing Something Again?

“In a fairytale land, there is a cat that lives in a small town. He is a selfishly content cat, having everything he could hope for, but there is one problem: life is boring. The reason for his dull existence has to do with a pair of living-sponges that drained the moisture from everything and everyone. Children forgot how to play, birds forgot how to sing, trees dried up, and adults never engaged in anything fun or exciting.
“Taking it upon himself to get things back to normal, the cat goes on a journey to figure out a way to return the moisture. Along the way, he meets some colorful characters, including a wise old turtle, a seemingly sinister troll, a smart little bird, a childish fool/jester, and a simple seed who remind him how important it is for people to do what’s right and take care of each other.
“Of course good wins out over evil in the end, and the moisture returns, but in a most unusual way. Anyone who has ever owned a house cat will appreciate the irony in the villains’ demise.”

You're right about the irony. I laughed when I got to that part. I didn't see it coming, either.
What do you hope readers will take away with them after reading the story?

“First of all I hope that the reader would have enjoyed reading the story, and I don’t mean just children. Michael Ende used to say that he wrote for children ages eight to eighty. I write in a way that can reach all ages, providing stories that children can understand, yet still giving enough depth and symbolism for adults to relate to. I believe I have achieved this with TCTMNSA.
“There are several messages in the story, but the main one is that of doing for others as you would have them do for you. In other words, it’s a story that attempts to thwart the idea of selfishness.
“One of the other main messages is that of worth. I created a character called ‘the seed.’ The nameless cat finds the seed--which a farmer dropped by accident in the middle of the path--and tries to help him to no avail. He decides that the best course of action is to eat the seed and put him out of his misery. Later in the story we find that the seed becomes the main tool in defeating the dreaded sponges. The message here is that every life, no matter how hopeless it seems, has a purpose.”

Some worthwhile goals, and I believe you have succeeded if my own reaction counts.
Do you have any more books in the wings or in the works?

“I'm currently working on a story about a 15-year-old boy who dreams of becoming a wizard. Even though his father is known throughout the land as a powerful wizard, both he and his mother have forbidden Traphis from learning magic. A year after the death of his father, Traphis finds new doors opening and the world of magic more than he bargained for.”

Thanks again for chatting with us. I hope we'll be seeing a lot more of your writing in the future.
“It was my pleasure. Readers can follow my latest updates on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/pages/James-D-Maxon/57187132704) and I post new reviews weekly at http://booksforyouth.com/ (or you can follow on Twitter: http://twitter.com/booksforyouth). Please feel free to drop by and share your thoughts.


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The Cat That Made Nothing Something Again

This month, CFRB presents The Cat that Made Nothing Something Again by James D. Maxon.

About the Book:

A nameless cat lives in a town of dry, unhappy people devoid of moisture, joy and creativity. How did the townspeople get this way? Who stole the moisture? And how can one crafty cat return moisture -- and life -- to his town? The Cat That Made Nothing Something Again tells the tale of how a feline hero discovers these answers. On his journey he overcomes obstacles with wit and determination, finds new friends in unexpected places and learns the simple joy -- and transcendent power -- of helping others.

About the Author:

James was born in Anchorage, Alaska, and now lives with his wife, Cindy, in a suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota. A writer of stories, poetry, expository, narrative and persuasive genres, James targets children and teens with messages of faith, hope and insight. Current work in progress is A Wizard Tale, which is a story about a fifteen-year-old boy who is involuntarily forced to walk in his father's footsteps-after his death-and finds himself fighting against a powerful and opposing force.

Visit the author's website.

View the book trailer.

Purchase The Cat That Made Nothing Something Again at
Amazon or download for FREE from the Author's Website.
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Interview with Mike Mason, author of The Blue Umbrella

Q&A with Mike Mason, author of The Blue Umbrella

Where did you get your inspiration for The Blue Umbrella?

I live at the top of a hill. At the bottom of the hill, a couple of blocks down, is the real Porter’s Store. A few years ago I awoke in the middle of the night to a flash of insight. I recalled that when I was a little boy, many years ago and many miles away, I also lived at the top of a hill and at the bottom was an old store. How interesting! With this strange convergence of my present and past lives, the whole geography of a children’s fantasy novel flowed into my mind. I could set the story right in my own neighborhood! But it would really be the neighborhood of my childhood, which is the deepest source of all writerly inspiration.

There was also a third old store, Foster’s, which I knew as a young man living in a small prairie town. Old Mr. Foster was always talking about the weather and he even made up little poems about it. In winter he might say:
Snow, snow, the lovely snow,
You step on a bit and down you go.
Or on a rainy day he’d say:
Sun, sun, the beautiful sun,
It never shines, the son-of-a-gun!

Listening to Mr. Foster recite his silly poems, one day my imagination got to wondering what might really be going on in that store …

Which character is most like you?

There is quite a bit of me in Zac Sparks—in two ways. Firstly, as a little boy I was very active and excitable and I got into a fair amount of trouble. I used to climb on top of the piano and shout, “Jump, Mommy, jump!” and from wherever she was in the house my mother would have to come running to catch me. And I once pushed the neighborhood bully off a high stone wall into a big tub of water! I picture Zac, under normal circumstances, as being like that.

This story, however, does not take place under normal circumstances. Zac’s mother has died and he’s been plunged into a dark situation, so for most of the book he struggles with grief, shock, fear, and confusion. This changes him. While he still has “sparks” of mischief and excitability, on the whole his behavior is much subdued, his natural character repressed. Interestingly I think this side of him reflects, to some extent, my adult self. Life has a lot of hard experiences that can knock you sideways. At some level aren’t adults trying to get back to the fully alive children they once were?

So yes, I identify with Zac. But to say which character is most like me, I have to admit it’s Ches. I like Ches a lot—so much that I decided to write book two in the series from Ches’s point of view. Talk about repressed! Due to his background he has so many problems. But precisely because of that, he has a great journey to make from darkness to light.

Who is your favorite character?

Chelsea! I love her because she is the one who has most retained her childlikeness. Through her connection with Eldy, she has resisted all pressure to conform to the evil that has Five Corners in its grip. Book three in the series will be from Chelsea’s point of view and I can hardly wait to write it!

This story seems to be an allegory. Did you start out intending to write an allegory or did it just happen?

For years I’d written nonfiction books with a message, and I was tired of that. I had nothing more to tell anyone; instead I just wanted to tell a good story. I had just turned fifty and I realized that fiction is what I’d really wanted to write all along. Somehow I’d gotten away from that, and it was time to return to my original dream.

So with The Blue Umbrella I set out with no message in mind, no allegory, just a story. As I went along, I myself was very surprised at the spiritual depth that developed. But I don’t think this makes my book an allegory, so much as a work of literature with an allegorical dimension. An allegory tends to feel wooden because there is a clear one-to-one correspondence between all the elements of the story and some other reality. An allegory is so linked to what it represents that it cannot really stand on its own, whereas a good literary story, while it always points beyond itself, is fully alive in its own right.

What is the main thing you hope readers remember from The Blue Umbrella?

Weather: how it looks and feels, and how it suggests something much more than meets the eye. I want readers to remember Zac in his room at the Aunties’ house, listening to the wind as it moves tree branches against his windowpane like someone tapping to be let in.

Have you ever wondered why weather is the number one topic of conversation? It seems like the smallest sort of small talk, but I think weather is really a very BIG topic. This is obvious in our own time, when the world is heading for climate disaster and everyone’s talking about it. But even just normal chitchat about weather is, I believe, far more significant than it appears. I think it’s a safe way for people to acknowledge something very important. We all have a deep yearning to discuss the big questions in life (such as “Why are we here?” and “What’s it all about?”), but often we cannot talk freely because there are so many different beliefs and it just gets really awkward. Weather, however, is something right in our faces that both deeply affects us and that we can all agree on. It’s perfectly obvious if it’s raining or snowing or the sun is shining, and it’s also perfectly obvious that such magnificent phenomena reflect a greater reality. Weather is the ultimate metaphor.

The Blue Umbrella by Mike Mason
David C Cook/October 2009
ISBN: 978-1-4347-6526-0/425 pages/softcover/$14.99

http://www.davidccook.com/ - http://www.mikemasonbooks.com/

Opening Up THE BLUE UMBRELLA by Mike Mason

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!



You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Mike Mason

and the book:

The Blue Umbrella

David C. Cook; New edition (October 1, 2009)

I didn't have the chance to review this book, but I intend to get a copy as soon as possible. From what I read in this excerpt plus the slightly different excerpt and information on the website, it looks like a really delightful book. Well, perhaps delightful isn't the right word, since it appears to be in the melancholy vein of the Unfortunate Events series. I expect, though, that since the author is a Christian, there should be more hope and a ray of light somewhere along the way. Most likely this will appeal to those who enjoy reading The Series of Unfortunate Events, The Spiderwick Chronicles and books of that sort.

Book Summary (Taken from Amazon.com):

An orphan faces an evil magician in this literary fantasy for readers of all ages that probes the depths of good and evil.

The life of ten-year-old Zac Sparks changes overnight when his mother is killed by lightning. He's sent to live in Five Corners with his Aunties, two cruel old hags who obviously don't like him. It isn't long before Zac knows something really strange is going on. Five Corners is populated with weird characters--a midget butler, a girl who doesn't speak, a blind balloon seller, and a mysterious singer who is heard but not seen. Then there's the Aunties' father, Dada. Zac's first encounter with Dada is so terrifying he faints dead away.

The one bright spot is Sky Porter, the proprietor of the general store across the street, a friendly soul who encourages Zac--when the Aunties aren't looking--and shows him a kindness that is sadly lacking from his dismal life. But Sky isn't what he seems either, and when Zac learns Sky's amazing secret he realizes, to his dismay, that this wonderful man may have a very dark side as well.

Discovering that Dada is an evil magician who has found a way to live forever, Zac knows many lives are at stake, including his own. With time running out, he must turn to the one person who might be able to help: Sky Porter. Can Zac trust him?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Mike Mason is the best-selling, award-winning author of The Mystery of Marriage, The Gospel According to Job, Practicing the Presence of People, and many others. He has an M.A. in English and has studied theology at Regent College. He lives in Langley, BC, Canada, with his wife, Karen, a family physician. They have one daughter, Heather, who is pursuing a career in dance and the arts. The Blue Umbrella is Mike’s first novel.

Visit the author's website.

The Blue Umbrella, by Mike Mason from David C. Cook on Vimeo.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 448 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (October 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1434765261
ISBN-13: 978-1434765260

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

FIVE CORNERS


Not many people are killed by lightning.


Zac’s mother was.


Zachary Sparks, though small for ten years old, had a look perpetual astonishment that made him seem larger than life. His eyes were nearly the biggest part of him, round and wide, and his eyebrows had a natural arch as if held up with invisible strings. His voice was high and excitable and his whole body

seemed full of little springs. Even his hair, fiery red and frizzy, looked as if he was the one hit by lightning. Everything about Zac Sparks was up, up, up.


Until his mother died and everything changed.


Zac lived with his mother beside a golf course. Every day after school he picked up balls from his backyard to sell for fifty cents apiece. He was happy and carefree and his mother was good to him. He had no father. At least, he’d never known his father.


At night, when there were no golfers, Zac’s mother liked to go walking across the wide, rolling lawns of the course. To her it was like a big park. She never met anyone else out there. This was a small town and it was quite safe (except for lightning). She liked being in nature and she loved all kinds of weather, especially weather that had what she called character, the kind you could feel on your skin: wind, cold, hail, pelting rain, thunder, and lightning.


Whenever a good electrical storm happened in the middle of the night, Zac’s mother would wake him up and they’d sit on the veranda listening to the long, almost articulate rumbles and watching the lightning illuminate the great treed corridors of grass. The two wouldn’t say much. They didn’t have to. The sky did the talking for them. Some of Zac’s happiest memories were of sitting up with his mother at night to revel silently in storms.


The irony was that Zac’s mother was killed by something she loved. It happened one night when she went walking in the pouring rain, carrying, as usual, her umbrella. Of course, she knew better than to go walking on a golf course with an umbrella in a thunderstorm. But this was not a thunderstorm. On this night there just happened to be one stray bolt of lightning.


One was all it took. Her crumpled body was found the next morning in the center of a fairway. The canopy of her umbrella had been completely consumed, leaving nothing but the skeletal metal frame.


It was the first day of December, just weeks before Christmas, and Zac Sparks was an orphan.


That day and the next were a blur. Even the funeral, on the third day, Zac scarcely remembered—except for the moment when the coffin was being carried outside through the church doors. The weather was unseasonably mild; instead of snow a light drizzle fell. As the coffin moved down the steps and was

loaded into the hearse, the rain turned to sleet, then to hail. Small white pellets of ice filled the air and bounced all around like popcorn—one bounce, then still—as though the ground were alive. The clatter, especially loud on open umbrellas and on the wood of the coffin, was like applause.


Then Zac saw something he’d never seen before: a hailbow. Though he didn’t know to call it that, he knew it was special. It was one of those days when about five kinds of weather were in the sky at once. There were towering clouds, black ones very black and white ones very white and fierce-looking. Between the two the sun came out and brilliantly illuminated the hail. It was like being inside a living diamond. Then the ice wall began to move away and against its glitter he saw the hailbow. It was like a rainbow but pale, almost white, with just the loveliest hint of ghostly hue. The whole scene was so dramatic—huge clouds, falling ice, sunshine, the bow—and in a few minutes it was all over. But it stayed in Zac’s memory, just as if his mind’s eye had snapped a photograph.


After that, everything was swallowed up by the Aunties. Zac didn’t know them; they lived far away in a place called Five Corners. When he first met them at the funeral reception in his home, he began to understand why his mother had never mentioned them. They were horrible.


They were very, very old. Auntie Esmeralda, especially, was so ancient she looked ready to crumble away like a frail piece of lace. Her skin, where not obscured by a thick paste of makeup, was an unnatural, papery white, and she was draped in a long white fur coat. Very tall, she carried a cane, held herself rigid as a ruler, and wore her gray hair long and straight like a girl’s.


As Zac stood bewildered in the midst of the reception crowd, that gray curtain brushed his face and a thin, metallic voice rasped in his ear, “You poor, dear boy. How tragic to lose your mother. And in such a horrid way.” Auntie Esmeralda sounded as if she had a file stuck in her throat, scraping the human warmth off every word. “But don’t you worry. You’re coming home with us, isn’t he, Pris?”


Home with them? Zac’s home was here. With his mother gone, Mrs. Pottinger from next door had been staying with him, just as she had every evening when his mother went walking.


“Dear boy, you have nothing to fear. Your Aunties will take good care of you.” This came from Auntie Pris in a voice two octaves lower than Esmeralda’s. Much shorter than her sister, Pris seemed almost as wide as the other was tall. More than fat, she was big: squarish, broad-shouldered, solid as a stump. In contrast to Esmeralda’s fur, Pris was dressed in a short pink skirt with matching polka-dotted blouse. Perched on top of her blockish head was a pink pillbox hat. Zac was torn between amusement and horror.


Of course, the Aunties were terribly nice to him, hugging him to pieces, patting his extraordinary hair, crooning condolences, and plying him with cookies. Zac hated it all. These strange women were more suffocating than the stiff collar and suit he had to wear.


Sure enough, their tune soon changed. When the reception was over and everyone but the Aunties had left (including even Mrs. Pottinger), they began barking orders: Do this, do that, shut up, stop moping or we’ll give you something to mope about. Finally Zac was sent to his room, where he listened restlessly to a fitful wind that developed into driving rain, horrific lightning, and great claps of thunder exploding like bombs. Amidst this clamor, for some reason the most terrible sound was the occasional tap-tap-tapping of Esmeralda’s cane.


Early the next morning he was roughly awakened as the Aunties, each yanking one of his arms, dragged him from the house and shoved him into the backseat of their big black Cadillac. Throughout that long, stormy day they drove, stopping just once for gas and food. Where did these old women get such energy? It was bizarre—their mysterious vitality combined with an appearance of decrepitude. Throughout the trip

Zac sat silent, dozing or staring out the window, his left leg jiggling in a nervous tic.


Only once did the Aunties speak to him. Esmeralda, who was at the wheel, turned to him and glared. “Zachary”—she spoke his name as if it were a dead rat she held at arm’s length by its tail—“is a ridiculous name. From now on we’ll call you Boy.”


And so they did. But his name wasn’t all Zac lost that day. He’d had no chance to pack any of his belongings or toys—not his giant monkey, nor his collection of soldiers, nor his box of interesting bits of metal. Not even a toothbrush or his army camouflage pajamas. All he had was the suit on his back and a

photograph of his mother that he’d slipped into his pocket.


In this rude fashion was Zachary Sparks uprooted from his childhood home and whisked away to the town of Five Corners to live in a mansion with a plaque by the door that read THE MISSES ESMERALDA AND PRISCILLA HENBOTHER. The Aunties were, it seemed, his only living relatives; there was no one else to take him in. Their house, built of stone—even the floors were marble—had the bleak, dank feel of a castle. No

wonder Auntie Esmeralda always wore furs, though Auntie Pris huffed and puffed about in short sleeves, her bright pink skin glistening with sweat.


The place was loaded with china. Hundreds of figurines occupied coffee tables, glass cabinets, windowsills, every available surface. Zac noted a preponderance of elephants, but there were also large vases, luridly painted plates, baskets of swollen fruit. All were made of the most delicate-looking porcelain, as fragile as they were ugly. How did two such large and ancient ladies manage to navigate this glass jungle without breaking anything? All Zac knew was that it was no place for him.


From the moment they arrived, the Aunties bombarded him with warnings: “Don’t sit there, Boy … Be careful around that lamp … Do try to keep your leg still …” What was Zac to do? At least the Aunties’ silence in the car had left him to sort through his own thoughts. Now every word they spoke froze him tighter until he felt like one of those awful china figurines, condemned to hold one position forever. He was so nervous that, while trying to avoid a row of plates, he backed into a whatnot (a piece of furniture whose only purpose, he decided, was to hold knickknacks in ambush for boys) and broke a small pink elephant.


“Idiot! What have you done!” screamed Auntie Esmeralda in a voice itself like breaking glass. Auntie Pris, down on all fours to scoop together the fragments, sobbed as though tears might glue the elephant back together. How strange to see this huge woman crying over a trinket! Meanwhile Auntie Esmeralda, tall as a thunderhead, planted herself directly in front of Zac and croaked, “You … you wicked, clumsy imbecile! Go straight to your room.”


Zac didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.


“You heard me, young man. March!”


Still he didn’t move. He’d turned to stone.


“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.


“Auntie,” he finally managed, “I don’t know where my room is.”


Esmeralda’s pale head on its long, wrinkled neck turned once to the left and then around to the right, like a bird’s, as though examining him with each eye separately. “Well, we’ll soon fix that. Pris, escort this boy to his room. Something tells me he’ll be spending a lot of time there.”


Leaving her precious pile of shattered china, Auntie Pris, with considerable effort, heaved herself to her feet. Drying her eyes with an enormous pink hankie, she growled, “That boy needs a cage, not a room.” Spinning him around with surprising force, and poking him in the back with a finger stiff as a billy club, she marched him out of the parlor, up a broad staircase, and along the hall to a door on the right. There, completely filling the door frame, she panted, “You’d better change your ways, Boy, or you won’t survive long around here.” Thrusting him inside, she shut the door and rattled a key in the lock.


So there he was. The room had a bed, an end table, a wooden chair. Its one window was already claimed by darkness. Though the storm had abated, a wind still blew and tree branches scraped against the pane. Rain drummed steadily.


For a long time Zac sat on the edge of the bed, his mind numb. Eventually he recalled the picture of his mother, still in his suit pocket. He pulled it out, but it was too dark to see and he couldn’t find a light. Cold, he climbed under the thin quilt and lay there, stiff as a corpse. He returned the photograph tohis pocket but kept his hand on it.


And so concluded Zachary Sparks’s first day in Five Corners, the first day of the end of his life. The Aunties might as well have put him in the coffin along with his mother and let the dull rain pound them both into the ground.


©2009 Cook Communications Ministries. The Blue Umbrella by Mike Mason. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.