The Christmas Bike by Tara Mayoros Day 2 of the Christmas Countdown

Tara Mayoros teaches guitar, paints, occasionally bakes, and loves working with plants. She's an avid collector of globes and maps, as they help with her incurable case of wanderlust. The Rocky Mountains are her home and they call to her whenever she is in need of inspiration. She explores them regularly with her husband and three children.

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Christmas is already going to be tough for Marie and her family. When a series of events is set in motion long before a Christmas Eve tragedy, she is too occupied to notice God's grace. An emergency letter to Santa sets her on a quest for a Christmas miracle. With time running out, she prays for the first time in a long time. A miracle does happen, but it is not what she expected.

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Q & A with the Author:

1.  Describe yourself in 50 words or less.

* As an author, artist, baker, music teacher, gardener, and nature lover – I the beauty in the process, and the miracle, of creation. The Rocky Mountains are my home and they call to me whenever I'm in need of inspiration.

The Christmas Bike is my third published novel. I have 10 other books I'm working on, and most of them have a fantasy element to them.

2. What do you love most in the world?

* My husband and kids. I love how supportive they are to me. I love to create - whichever way possible. It makes me feel like a Goddess.

3. What do you fear most?

* Scorpions - I hate them! They are the spawn of Satan. We killed over 50 one summer while living in Phoenix.

4. What is your largest unfulfilled dream, and what are you doing to reach it?

* Travel - I want to see the world and do humanitarian work. My first novel was about cleft palates and orphanages in China. My dream is to start a Non-profit to help them.

5. What is the hardest thing you've ever done?

* Running half marathons are always hard, but I'm so happy to have done them. Also, publishing books have been pretty dang hard - but worth it :)

6. Now that we've gotten to know each other, tell me a story. It can be long or short. From your childhood or last week. Funny, sad, or somewhere in between. Just make sure it's yours. What's your story?

* I will tell a true story of when someone gifted me a guitar for no reason. I entered this story into a writing competition and it won an award! Here ya go:

MY BEST GUITAR LESSON EVER!

I can be cynical. Cynical: believing that people are motivated by self-interest; distrustful of human sincerity or integrity. A general distrust of others’ motives, believing that humans are selfish by nature, ruled by emotion, and heavily influenced by the same primitive instincts that helped humans survive in the wild.

I wasn’t always a cynic. It is a trait that has evolved over the past five years or so. Yes, I fight it. I take my thoughts to battle. But still, with all of the heartbreaking news and depressing social media feeds, it compounds the issue.

So, yesterday when I went to a local guitar shop, my mind was churning over a cynical situation that had been really bothering me. I grabbed my old guitar out of the trunk, walked into the store, and placed it down on the counter. I breathed deep, because this was hallowed ground. The smell of wood and lacquer and musicians reliving the good ‘ol days, rested my mind. I smiled as the shop owner stopped jamming with the only other customer in the store and then walked behind the register.

“What’s this?” he asked, eyeballing my ratty old guitar. His gaze skimmed over the not-so-sexy lines of my unusual guitar.

I pressed my lips, feeling a wave of protection flood over me. No one makes fun of my blue guitar. This instrument was bought in China for $5 US dollars. It had been my companion on the dirty, rancid forty hour train rides through rice fields and bread loaf mountains. I was stopped and searched at customs in Malaysia, Thailand, and Macau because I as too stubborn to leave this guitar.

I told him these things. He played it and confirmed what I already knew… My guitar had died, but I still clung to our memories in hopes that the shop owner could resurrect life into it again.

No, he couldn’t.

I stared down at it a long time, looking over the doodles and the collected stickers and stamps, which mirrored my old passport. What would I do with it now? I couldn’t just throw it away, or donate, or keep it as a decoration. Maybe I could just hang it on the wall for display, but I knew the o.c.d. decorator inside me would never let me do that. I had even written this guitar into one of my books and considered it a character. My heart clenched and I strolled over to the wall of guitars to hide the emotion on my face. Who cries over a buried guitar, one that would most likely end up collecting dust in the back of my closet?

The new guitars with their shiny wood and shimmering metal strings, sang to me, beckoning. Their voices rich and full. So much different than my humid warped, aged guitar. I caressed the lines of the beautiful instruments with jealousy and longing.

I stopped. There it hung. An acoustic electric that I had always wanted. Not so extravagant, and yet it would take me a while to save for. The shop owner pulled it down, selling me all the bells and whistles. Yet, I had already been sold. I just couldn’t get it yet… not for a while yet.

“Sit down and play. See how it sounds, how it feels,” he urged.

I pulled up a cushioned stool and sat down. It was like meeting a new friend. I’d like to imagine that my fingers flew up and down the frets with fluidity and grace, but I’m sure they weren’t, as I was still a bit frazzled. Picking and strumming, getting a feel for its song.

I began to tell the shop owner and other customer about an amp I had in the basement that wasn’t working anymore. We chatted. Small talk about how I was sad about my guitar and maybe someday I’ll buy this one. They were nice people. I’d hung around enough music shops to know that they are all generally nice people.

I continued to play. Time stalled as it usually does when I create music, or art, or novels. The walls faded away. I was falling in love.

A tap on my shoulder and a show of a receipt. “It’s yours.” He pointed. “The guitar.”

I stood, almost dropping the instrument. “What? No. I’ll have to come get it another time.”

“No really. He wanted you to have it.” He pointed to the only other customer who was getting ready to leave. The man was unassuming in his faded jeans and t-shirt.

I wondered why…

Right here… Here is where my cynicism makes an appearance. What did he want in return? What were his motivations? I looked down to see what I was wearing. Turtle-neck sweater, no make-up, and hair in a bun. I had my wedding ring on and I had talked briefly about my kids playing guitar earlier.

“Why?” I asked.

The customer paused, then said, “because I have money and it has caused me nothing but heartache. I want to do something nice with it.”

I refused — even went to hang the guitar back on the hook.

The kind man just shook his head. “It’s already been paid for. It’s done. Just be happy.”

I was happy. I was ecstatic!

Tears welled in my eyes. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. “I don’t know how to thank you.” I struggled for words.

“You just did.”

I stopped him from leaving. “Well let me get a picture with you.”

He refused this time. He didn’t want any fan fare.

“Let me at least give you a hug.” So I did. It wasn’t strange or awkward. It was a meeting of similar hearts, bound by the innocent love of music.

Driving home, I felt both joyous and inadequate. What to do with such an unrequited show of generosity? People are good. He restored my faith in humanity. I thought of the many ways I could pay it forward because I knew I’d never see him again. And I also knew that’s the way he would want things to end.

I learned a lesson yesterday. Yes, there are tough things that we go through that can turn us cynical, doubtful, and hopeless. But little miracles happen everyday. It doesn’t have to be something as big as this to make you see the good in people. Look around. It seems everyone is in a funk. What can you do to brighten their day? I promise it will make your day better in return. It will make you feel rich with happiness. I think back to that man and how he said, “money gave him nothing but heartache.”

When I was leaving the guitar shop, with my old lifeless guitar in one hand and my new hope-filled guitar in the other, I looked back. The kind man had a huge smile on his face and I knew that the act of giving… is where the treasure truly lies.

Has there ever been a time when you were the recipient of unrequited generosity?

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Great Summer Countdown Day 2- The Wizard's Heir by Devri Walls

Devri Walls lives in Meridian ID with her husband, two kids and the cutest must you've ever seen. After suffering from an abundance of creativity with not enough places to put it, she turned to writing. Which in the end, turned out to be exactly where she should have been putting it all along.


Q&A With The Author:

1.    What is the thing you struggle with the most while writing? And how do you defeat it?

Self-confidence. I feel like a fraud most of the time. I don’t think it will ever truly be defeated, I’ve just had to learn to ignore it and work anyway. Messages from readers help a ton, and so do those moments when I read a passage I just edited and it rocks! I walk away going, Devri, you got this! At least for today.

2.    What kind of music do you listen to while you write?

I bounce around a lot depending on my mood. If I am ready to go, creativity flowing, I listen to my “fun” playlist. Ella Henderson, Fall Out Boy, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and many more. If I’m struggling a little more its instrumental, 2 Cellos, Piano Guys and Lindsay Stirling, to name a few. If I’m stressed or anxious that day I will choose more classical pieces, Beethoven, Bach, Handel. Etc.

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Tybolt’s a Deviant, a hated race immune to direct magic in a world where Wizards ensure survival. But when he loses his entire family to a spell-made storm he joins an elite group of Wizard hunters, organized beneath the new non-magic wielding king.

Now eighteen, he spends his days capturing Wizards. But the nights are his, reserved to feed the starving villagers of Eriroc under cover of dark. There’s always more people in need than he can help, and one of these days he’s going to hang for theft from the royal kitchens.

Although Tybolt and his fierce partner, Auriela, have imprisoned many Wizards, the one partially responsible for the storm that killed Tybolt’s family is still out there: Alistair. When an old informant claims to have information regarding their elusive prey, everything changes.

In a cruel twist, Tybolt realizes he isn't who he thought he was at all. How can he save himself, the people, and those he loves while keeping his secrets safe? Can he hide his true nature and allow the corrupt king to remain on the throne?

Or will he have to unveil himself and risk possible execution to save them all?

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Snippet:

Tybolt stepped out of the castle’s main gates and into the square. It was packed with people wearing the finest clothes they owned. For many that meant their rags had been cleaned.

Tybolt stopped at his favorite sweet bread cart. “Two, Darcia.”

Darcia’s collar bones jutted out from beneath her dress, and the hollows of her cheeks were pronounced. Although her children were some of the best fed in the village, raised on unsold sweet rolls, their mother looked like the rest of the villagers.

 “Skipping breakfast at the palace again, Lord Tybolt?” Darcia pulled two steaming rolls from a large brown basket.

“The palace?” Tybolt scoffed and handed over his coin, plus a little extra. “If the castle cooks could make a sweet roll half as good as yours, they would never get me out of the kitchen.”

Darcia blushed and suppressed a nervous giggle, tucking the coin away.

Tybolt glanced through the crowd to see a little boy ducking behind Pete’s cart, the only fat man in the entire village, and begin digging through his garbage. Tybolt inwardly cringed. “I’m going to need another one of those rolls,” he told Darcia, fishing another coin from his pocket as he kept an eye on the boy. He took the sweet roll from her and darted through the crowd. He slipped behind the cart and grabbed the little boy’s wrist.

The boy looked up, startled. All eyes in his gaunt face.

Tybolt put his mouth next to the boy’s ear.  “Pete doesn’t take kindly to thieves, even from his trash.”

The little boy panicked and jerked back, knocking over a crate of turnips in his haste.

Pete turned to find them both crouched between bins of vegetables. His portly cheeks and neck grew red at the sight.

Tybolt stood and pulled the boy up by his bone-thin wrist. “Pete!” He grinned and casually took a bite from his sweet roll. “I was just trying to pick a few of your finest vegetables with the help of my young friend here. It appears we’ve made a mess.”

Pete’s face began to return to its normal color, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Lord Tybolt, you know I only keep my most expensive produce behind the stall.”

“I do, I do.” Tybolt handed the second roll over to the boy, who snatched it as if it might disappear at any moment. He ravenously shoved it in his mouth. “Surely you noticed Lady Auriella and I with our catch yesterday.”

Pete broke into a grin and leaned back to tuck in his shirt—and part of his oversized belly—into his pants. “I heard the commotion but didn’t realize who the lucky Hunters were. What can I get for you?”

“Surprise me,” Tybolt said, flipping him a gold coin. “A bag full of your best.”

Pete took a burlap sack and began shoving in fruits and vegetables. “Taking some food out to your family, then?”

“Of course,” Tybolt said, shouldering his sack. “One can’t be too generous with family. Happy festival.”

“Happy festival to you.” Pete pocketed the gold with a satisfied gleam in his eye.

Tybolt steered the boy out of the main square and into one of the tiny alleys between the tightly packed homes. He knelt and looked him over. The child was in worse condition than he’d originally thought—skin and bones. His eyes were too big for his face, and his shirt hung on him like it would on a scarecrow.

“Blue-eyed Hunter,” the boy whispered. His eyes grew even wider.

“Listen, if you’re going to rummage through garbage, you must steer clear of Pete. He’s sent men to prison for less, and he’ll have no mercy on boys. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded.

“Who do you belong to, anyway?”

The boy looked away and shrugged. “Ma died last week. I haven’t seen Pa in two days.”

“What’s your Pa’s name?”

“Dain.”

Anger flared inside Tybolt. “Here.” He held out the sack of food. “Take this straight home. Don’t show it to anyone. Shove it in a cupboard or under the bed, and make it last as long as you can.” He paused. “Your Pa will be home tonight, I promise.” 

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