The First Cut

By Michael J. Alcorn

A close escape from the police. A surprise invitation to Thanksgiving. A sweet but foolish family. A chance to score big.

Just a normal Thursday in November for a low-level street punk like Justin. What Justin never counted on was how this day would challenge him about his habits, his beliefs, and, maybe, whether he could find redemption and change the course of his destiny. Answering the eternal question: does one act of random kindness have the power to change hearts?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael J. Alcorn
• Release date: Nov 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310378539

Michael J. Alcorn

The first thing you need to know about this author is that the most important title I hold is “family man.” I have been married to my wife, Sheryl, for almost 20 years, and we have three amazing children who motivate and inspire me every day. We live in Arvada, Colorado, a suburb of Denver, close to where we both grew up.My second title is “teacher:” I have been a public school music teacher for 23 years, after earning degrees from the University of Colorado and the University of Northern Colorado. Actually, writing is a relatively recent development, starting with political blogging and doodlings about 14 years ago. That passion has grown over the years, leading to the completion of a collaborative self-help book in 2009 ["Get It"], a regular column on culture and life for The Arvada Press starting in 2011, periodic contributions to the Denver Post as a “Colorado Voices” columnist, and, now, four novels.In my free time, I am a personal trainer and fitness enthusiast, a martial artist, and a bad golfer (aren't we all?). We worship at the Arvada Covenant Church, where I am a member of the worship team.

Book preview

THE FIRST CUT

Also by Michael J. Alcorn:

GET IT! Wake up NOW (!) to Build Your Perfect Life

(With Jay R. Charness)

The Accidental Christmas

Enemies Unseen

Gameplan: Inside Hell, Inc.

The First Cut

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 by Michael J. Alcorn

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, or transmitted in any form, without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Michael K. Ikeya

Visit us on the web at MichaelJAlcorn.com

This work represents the time, energy, and creativity of the author. While it was a joy and a blessing to write, it is also the author’s livelihood. If you enjoy this story, pass our information along, but not the book.

Happy Thanksgiving!

For the whole team—and yes, whether you wanted to be a part of my team or not, I have come to think of all of you as

critical parts of my team.

Sheryl

Jay

Steven and Jennifer

Lizzie

Cassie

Joey

For all those who do the hard work of changing the world….

one meal,

one handshake,

one life at a time.

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,

for they will be filled."

THE FIRST CUT

BY MICHAEL J. ALCORN

CONTENTS

Bringing Them All Together

Preparing For The Feast

Answering Some Questions

Making A Friend

Breaking It Down

Putting It Back Together

Starting All Over Again

BRINGING THEM ALL TOGETHER

NAH, MAN, it wasn’t like that.

Well, what was it like? ‘Cuz it sounds like you got taken for a ride!

The group of children gathered at his feet were laughing at him now, amused that little 8-year old Trey Wallen was getting the best of this conversation.

Justin looks at the kids, maybe twelve of them, sitting on the faded orange carpet that covered the floor of the gym/cafeteria/community center of the Northwest Congregation Church. He could feel his jaw clenching, his teeth working to sit evenly amongst the gaps and chips, his heart starting to race.

He recognized this feeling. There was a time that this feeling was immediately followed by a flash of blade, his trusty butterfly knife his own, personal mandala. On the streets, that had usually been enough to make people think twice, walk away. Actually never had to use it, but it looked bad enough that people left him alone. Earned him his nickname: Flash.

But that would never do in the middle of the church. Somehow, Justin thought Pastor Greg might frown upon that.

Listen, friends, came the piercing, high voice of Dr Merrifield from behind him. He felt the hand rest on his shoulder as the Greg Merrifield stepped up next him and talked to the children.

Friends, Justin is our guest. I think we can do more to show him our courtesy, can’t we?

Yes, Pastor Greg, came the unison reply from the children.

Good. I knew we could. Now, let’s let Justin work into the story in his own way, okay, Trey?

Pastor Greg Merrifield pats Justin on the shoulder with his lanky hand, then takes one long, loping stride backward, leaving Justin alone again in the front of the room.

Justin takes a deep breath, then starts in. It wasn’t that way. It was, it was . . . His gestures speed up, a subconscious tick when he was searching for a word, as if the gerbils could make the wheel go fast enough to produce the word he was looking for.

It was, y’know, nice. They were trying to be nice.

He looks down, trying to find a way to tell them what he doing out on the street to begin with. That was going to take some explaining.

"They were trying, y’know . . . I was on the street on Thanksgiving Day, trying to clear a buck, and this guy pulls up, in the family Oldsmobuick. The girl, his daughter, lowers the window and shouts at me ‘how much for the yellows?’

"So I tells her, ‘Buck-fifty, six for eight, dozen for fifteen,’ ‘cuz, y’know, that kind of bargain gets rid of my inventory, and it’s still making me a good profit, so . . .

"So, she yells back, ‘hang on,’ and turns to her dad, and, like, they have this serious conversation for thirty seconds. Then she gets out of the car, and walks up to me like it’s nothing, ya know, like there’s nothing weird or dangerous about me.

I mean, look at me, he says, looking down at the torn jeans, the mismatched shoes, the tattoos all up and down his arms, obscuring the gray fade of his pale white skin, the dirt permanently lodged under his fingernails. What thirteen year old girl just walks up to me on the street like it’s nothin’?

How you know she was thirteen? He scans for the source of the question, finds her—a cute little girl, sitting in the back, a little away from the others, with light brown skin, green eyes, and long, curly, greasy black hair.

He allows himself a little smile, tries to look her in the face, but neither of them can hold the eye contact. "Well, I guess I don’t, really. Not like she showed me her driver’s license or nothin’.

But, y’know, she didn’t really know how to do her makeup, she had, like, like, cat’s eyes things going, he points at his eye and gestures awkwardly. Her hair was like she spent some serious time on it making it do things it didn’t want to do naturally, she was really super-skinny, kinda lanky, she hadn’t devel . . .

It was weird talking to a group of little kids, people he had to be careful with. He meant to say she was thirteen because her breasts were tiny and she wore pants that were too tight for her new curves. But you can’t say that to an eight-year old.

And you especially can’t say that to an eight-year old in church.

The little girl looked up at him, squinted a little, like she didn’t really believe him. But, she didn’t press the point, chose to look down at the floor instead. So Justin continued.

"So, I’m just kinda guessing. She might have been a little older than thirteen, maybe a little younger, but, ya know, whatever.

"So she walks up to me, says ‘I’ll take a dozen,’ hands me the cash, and just stands there, smiling. Kinda dumb, I thought. Y’know, at this point, I’m not really right with stuff, y’know. I’m still my old, kinda, bent self, so I’m thinking ‘how can I take this stupid girl’s money?’ But her dad’s right there, and, knowing my luck, it’s like, no way I get away