MY HANDPRINT

By Dennis Lantz Time capsules fascinate me. Somehow, the concept of opening a sealed vault to find objects that were purposefully hidden away just for you to discover is the essence of Christmas, archaeology and time travel combined into one blissful event. Letters, photographs and trinkets from that earlier time not only can reveal a different period, but also the spirit of those who placed the items there. Not all time capsules are intentional. In my early twenties, after a couple of rather poor short stories were rejected by various magazines, I changed my focus to poetry. Oddly, but quite tellingly, I didn’t read poetry. Today I can appreciate good verse, but even now I struggle to distinguish the quality of this genre. I didn’t consider myself to be a poet; more of a wordsmith using certain meter in an attempt to capture a particular meaning. I readily admit that a few of the poems were not good, but I put a lot of time into them. A few still make me smile and that is a

By Dennis Lantz Zander was a medium sized, short-hair primate; bigger than the light-furred tail swingers, but not nearly as big as the paunch-bellied orange coats or the large muscled muzzle chins. His hair was mostly dark brown, the color of deep forest, but there were sprouts here and there of a lighter cream. All in all, he was a pleasant fellow with a head maybe just a bit larger than average. Heavy amounts of summer rain had turned the forest into a mass of green and gold and red and pink and so many other wonderful colors that it was amazing fun just to lie around and look at them all. Of course, the young are not always content to just lie around, especially when their hearts and minds are soaring with enthusiasm. Zander was excited about life, though he wasn’t too enthralled with the educational class he was receiving on this day. Impatient he was at his aged teacher, Cato and anxious instead to be racing through the grass and trees on some adventure that his young

By Dennis Lantz When I was younger I devoured books like dessert. I went to the library weekly and brought home as many as a dozen books each time. Some were quality. But even those featuring substandard work taught me valuable lessons about plot, character development, dialogue, word choice and much more. One minor theme in both of my stories is that we can learn from anyone and anything. We can learn from what someone says or from what they do, just as we can learn from what they do not say or leave undone. I acquired knowledge from good writing as well as poor. I believe I was a more polished writer when I was younger because I read more, but I was far less disciplined. My mind wandered easily and my efforts displayed the lack of focus. I am relearning this craft with a superior sense of dedication. I have never done much the conventional way, but have always dreamed of bigger and better ideas. Now my dream is to join other notable authors who waited until their fourth or fift