The Story Continues and Continues and Continues

I am truly a "new writer".  I have literally completed two short stories.  One printed here for Yesterday's #fridayflash.  The other written a couple weeks ago.  That's 2000+/- words arranged in order essentially executing a narrative, either true or fictitious, in prose or verse, designed to interest, amuse, or instruct the hearer or reader; a "story" according to Dictionary.com
 
Each of my stories has a plot, a setting and characters.  I included a problem and a resolution.  I used terms like protagonist and mono-spaced font when talking about my stories.  I even used, to the best of my ability, proper grammar and correct spelling. 

So, why now, why did I decide to commit to not only writing but finishing stories?  I have pages and pages of notes and partially worked on manuscripts.  Hours of tapes and digital recordings of plot and character developmental ideas that sit and collect dust.  Nothing is finished though.  I have opening scenes, closing scenes and scenes in the thick of it (close to 100,000 words) but until last week I had yet to pull together a complete narrative.

For years I thought my largest hurdle was my lack of time to commit to sitting down and completing a Manuscript or even a short story.  I have always worked long hours and had many hobbies.  A wife and kids just took up all my time. Recently though I have reflected on the pages and pages of partials sitting on one hard drive or the other and came to a realization.  I didn't really want to finish them.

I am, as my blog says, a story teller.  I have had incredible experiences and love to regale friends, family and strangers with them.  But the story never ends.  I see my adult life as an epic tale where I just keep adding chapters.  When I start I struggle to conclude these marathon sessions.  This is my true hindrance.



So now after years of unfinished business I have finished two short stories in as many weeks. I have finished writing 2 chapters of a novella/novel and I continue to write and edit with more enthusiasm than I have since typing my first stories as a kid.    


The biggest change in my attitude was watching tweets from  my friend Kristy Garcia Blea on Twitter.  Her eagerness to write is a true inspiration.  I sat down at the computer and started sifting through old hard drives and disks, compiling years of notes and scenes. I finally put it all aside to start anew once again.  

It was tough looking at a blank screen knowing what I had just sorted.  They had all been blank screens and all just filed away. This time, though, I had a middle and an end to a story I had wanted to tell for a long time.


I am reading a ton of blogs and short stories from people I follow on Twitter.  I am learning a lot and I continue to be encouraged by the greater enthusiasm of those I follow.  In that encouragement I am driven to tell the whole story, from beginning to end.  It's the best way to tell a story.


I might even try to submit something for publication.

A Grand Day with Dad

by M. Patrick Mitchell

I started running toward him as soon as the ball left my hand. I knew it was going to be bad. Sure enough, as I was about 5 feet from my son the ball flew straight through his hands and collided with his forehead.

The realization of pain came slowly. His mouth opened, stretching to the limit revealing a mouth full of tiny teeth. No sound came yet. His lips turned blue from lack of oxygen, but before grabbing him I paused, a smile widening on my face.

Next came the gasping intake of air and then the scream; it burst from the depths of his soul. His lips returned to pink and his arms slowly raised, searching for comfort. The initial wail continued the length of a minute. I lifted him up and held him to my shoulder. He melded deep into my chest and still the scream continued. It was too funny now and I pried him away as his need to inhale a second time quieted the neighborhood.

“Oh my, buddy, can I take a look?” I asked sweetly, near laughter.

Seeing my smile he continued to scream, grabbing me harder and lowering himself down onto my shoulder once again.

Again I pulled him away and checked his face. I wiped my son's tears away with my palm. Eyes red and swollen, face wet, and mouth open, he showed no initial sign of injury. I grabbed him again and held him close.

This second round of hugs and comforting words settled him down enough that his cries turned to deep soft sobs. Within a few seconds his body relaxed and he did not move. Eventually understanding that death would not descend upon him his breathing slowed. One arm lay on my shoulder and the other limp by his side. I set him back down on his feet and kissed away the remaining tears.

“I think we should stop, now.” I said, this time without the smile.

“Noooo!” came the cry and all evidence of the fear and pain were
dissolved with another chance at catching a ball.

He ran back, picked up the ball and in mid stride heaved it straight in the air. This time I screamed, jumped and tripped but it fell passed his head and shoulders landing at his feet. My head, however, collided with a lounge chair near him.

I cursed and he laughed.

I rolled over onto my back and my son jumped on my stomach putting a knee in my groin.

I cursed louder and he laughed louder.

Once again he got up and came down, harder this time. I was ready, though, and caught him. Sort of. He folded at the hip and his foot swung and caught me once again in the privates. Involuntarily my body crumpled, I tried to keep him up but he fell out of my hands and our heads met.

I heard the knock, like two porcelain bowls touching a little too hard. This time there was no delay, the wail rang out and immediately I forgot my pain. I sat up and tired to stand without success. Falling back I set him down quickly hoping he would stay standing.

He did, but I continued back head first into his tricycle. I recovered quickly, though I felt blood trickle down my face as I reached for him. He startled at my hulk stumbling back toward him and threw up his arms catching me in the eye with his fingers.

My slough of curses came now without check as I grabbed my now streaming eye. This did nothing for my son whose screams grew louder.

My wife walked out the back door and viewed the scene playing out in the yard.

“Oh my God, what in the world is going on out here?”

She went over to my son who had heard the door open and picked him up and held him in her arms. His sobbing ceased immediately as did my foul language.

“We're playing catch.” I said calmly.

“Well come inside and let me get you cleaned up.” She replied with a roll of her eyes.

I got up, walked inside, sat on the couch and turned on the TV. I was presented with a wet towel and a bag of ice. A few minutes later I was presented with my son who was now clean and wearing a new outfit. He sat next to me and I noticed the lump on his forehead. I leaned over and kissed it ever so gently.

“You OK?” I asked.

He nodded.

My wife entered and put a tray table in front of us. She disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with two cups filled with milk and a plate of cookies. I divided them up, dunked my first one and watched him do the same.

“Dad?”

“Yeah.”

"Can we play again tomorrow?"

Not My First Post.

I wonder how many people name their first post to their blog, "My First Post" or some variation. Mine is actually the truth. This is not the first time I have written to a blog. I have deleted all my other posts to start anew. Nobody read those anyway. Not that this is going to strain the data servers of blogger but those whom I am currently connected with on Twitter and Facebook tend to read more.

I do not have a plan for this blog really. I wanted to set this up for a place to put my #Flashfriday work and other ramblings I might have: some funny, some serious, some fiction and some non-fiction.

When I was a kid I listened to my Grandfather's stories. They were humorous anecdotes about anything and everything. I could list a multitude of adventures but I don't recall a single one. Well, his best joke was...OK so I can't tell any of them either but that is not the point.

The point is that we would sit around all day and listen to him. As I grew I had my own experiences and I wanted to do for others what he did for me. He kept me smiling. I became the modern age Homeric poet. My stories have always been oral and i told them to everybody. But My audience was limited.

Enter the written history of me. I hope that my writing will reach a larger audience and I can put a smile on others' faces. Getting published is not top on my agenda but not out of site either.

I will post fiction and non-fiction here, it will be up to the reader to decide what is true and what is made up. I will also try to post more ramblings on anything that pops into my head.

I hope it will put a smile on your face.