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John Hancock
John Hancock
Amazon.com Amazon.com
Powell's Books Powell's Books

Bo gives an overview of the book:

John Hancock is a book about a young boy who receives a gift from his Uncle that makes his thoughts come alive. The young boy's name is John Hancock. Only when he signs his name does his imagination take flight.  John is a twelve year old boy living in North Carolina. He comes from a caring middle class family. John has gone through his entire life without speaking. He has chosen not to. The pen becomes his voice and gives him ability to change things. His clarity from not participating in the spoken world is seen by some as an asset. Is it one that will benefit us or doom us? John Hancock is a book that challenges perspective. The underlying theme in the book breaks through what you consider as true and trods over the fact that we may be moving forward in life at someone else's accord.
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John Hancock is a book about a young boy who receives a gift from his Uncle that makes his thoughts come alive. The young boy's name is John Hancock. Only when he signs his name does his imagination take flight. 

John is a twelve year old boy living in North Carolina. He comes from a caring middle class family. John has gone through his entire life without speaking. He has chosen not to. The pen becomes his voice and gives him ability to change things. His clarity from not participating in the spoken world is seen by some as an asset. Is it one that will benefit us or doom us?

John Hancock is a book that challenges perspective. The underlying theme in the book breaks through what you consider as true and trods over the fact that we may be moving forward in life at someone else's accord.

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The taxi pulled into the drive and the back door slid open immediately. Uncle Ken had been dozing on the bench seat in the back. He was a good napper. Traveling as much as he did, he had programmed his body to be able to sleep on command. Sitting up, laying on boxes and having chicken peck at his feet were all nuisances he had managed to deal with across countless countries all over the world. Stealing a few extra minutes sleep to freshen up for a meeting or wear down the grueling time between here and there, some of which were in the middle of nowhere, was normal.

 

He popped out of the back and stretched his long arms. A miniature yawn escaped his mouth and then he doubled over, grabbing the back of his calves as he rested his head on his knees. His last trip to India a few years back had gotten him hooked on yoga. He had tried to get the rest of the family doing it as well, being an obvious testament to its benefits, but yoga isn't something you up and get southern folks accustomed to immediately. It's not cool until the right cliques of people start doing it. Ken wasn't one to press people, which is why his first few jobs out of school in sales didn't take him flying off into the heights of success he imagined.

 

            The cab driver got out and walked around to the back. Uncle Ken handed him the cab fare to keep the man's hands busy for a minute.

 

            "I got it, buddy. Thanks anyway. Last time I let a guy handle my bags was in Laos four years ago. Threw my bags down and then put a cage full of chickens on top. It was a wire cage."

 

            "Ewwww."

 

            "Yeah, that was my reaction as well. A bit of advice for you, if the jerry rigged motorcycle wagon has chickens aboard, wait 20 minutes for the next one."

 

            "What's the box for?

 

            "That's my bike. Best way to get around. Especially in crowded third world countries. They will haggle the crap out of you on foot, but can't keep up with a bike. This thing is a jewel in most parts of Asia. I'm in, around, through and out the other side of a city in half the time it takes a car and a tad slower than a motorbike."

 

            "They all got a motorbike, don't they?"

 

            "Damn things scare the piss outta me. You ever get any emails of pictures of people carrying 20 odd pigs on a scooter and wonder if that stuff's for real?"

 

            "My sister sent me one like that a few months ago. I always thought that was digitally enhanced. There's no way they can cram all that stuff on a scooter and still mange to drive."

 

            "They manage. I wouldn't say well, but they manage."

 

            Obviously, mesmerized by his guest, the cab driver wished he had a chance to chat him up a little more during the ride. He jammed the cash in the pocket of his jeans and tried to help Uncle Ken once more.

 

            "I appreciate it buddy, but I tell you, if you're dying to help grab my hang up bag and drop it on the side steps over there. Stuffy old suits I could care less about."

 

            "Where you been?"

 

            "This time? Taiwan. Not a bad little place to visit. Have to know your way around, though. Cities are cities. I try to spend as little time as possible there. Most of the scenic spots are beyond touristy. People there are extremely predictable. Like a bunch of yellow lemmings. Country side and mountains are the jewels. Some of the Aboriginal towns there are wonderful. Real Taiwanese people. Good people. I like the countryside people best in any country.  "

 

            "What's your business there?"

 

            "I'm a buyer for plastics. Kind of a middle man. Last of a dying breed. Internet's got most of us scared silly but you got to inspect the stuff and trusting those some of the factory owners is easier said than done which is why I still gotta job, for now. Thanks for the hand. I'll manage from here."

 

            Uncle Ken had planned on being in New Bern and the surrounding areas for a few days, maybe even a week. His nephew's birthday was today. He usually showed up late, but was able to switch a few flights around and managed showing up early for this engagement. He knew where the key was. Same place it has always been: under the cement frog on the back porch with the geraniums sprouting out from the hole in his back, but he doubted he'd even have to use it. Chances are the door was wide open.

 

"Home sweet home. Man, if I don't miss this place. I like coming home. Love leaving too." He tipped his Brave's cap to the cab driver as the car backed out the driveway.

 

Ken started taking the box apart. He had to dig through his hang-up bag and zip open his dop kit to find his pocket knife. Customs had done a bad job of taping the box back shut. There was tape in all the wrong places and a hole in the middle of the box you could easily see through. The corners had been done thoroughly and he thought a weed wacker would be more useful, but he managed. It took him 6 minutes flat to reassemble the bike once he had it out of the box.  He took the panniers out and tossed them on the side steps with his other luggage and looked at the sky.

bo-bissett's picture

I loved writing this book. I am even more excited about writing the second one! I love the ocean and "The Blue Hole" is wicked fun writing for me right now.

About Bo

Bo Bissett (1976) was born in Durham, NC but spent most of his childhood years closer to the coast in New Bern, NC. Bo attended East Carolina University and then worked for his father as a Stock broker for a few years before deciding to leave America. Since then he has lived...

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