A New Writer's Rambling

Kurt Vonnegut's 8 basics of creative writing

2011-11-10T08:08:00.001-07:00

I have many many many blogs about how to be a beeter writer, how should a writer do that. The best advice I have ever read on writing fiction are:

Kurt Vonnegut's 8 basics of creative writing

Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.
Start as close to the end as possible.
Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

The greatest American short story writer of my generation was Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964). She broke practically every one of my rules but the first. Great writers tend to do that

My Facebook Status Update for Jan 1, 2011

2011-01-01T08:39:00.001-07:00

Well 2011 is here. I didn't post anything yesterday because I didn't want to insult 2010 too badly. Though it was a decent year on the bike, changing jobs was months of misery. I went from one job that stressed me to exhaustion to another where I didn't want to get out of bed in the morning. I was, however, able to work through my current situation to get to a point where I am content in my work.

I can't be too cynicle though because I have had truly ugly years. The kind where I was amazed that my family and I all still had heartbeats on Jan 1.

I had a few highlights however and they overshadow anything bad that might have been. The first was reuniting with old friends. Two, specificly, one whom I haven't seen for nearly 15 years and reuniting with him drove me to tears. Though he is a very motivating person and has had the biggest influence on me last year. The other has an aura of spirituality that is inspiring. I can always look to her facebook updates if I need a spiritual lift in my day.

I also began writing again, in more ways than one. I have been working on a novel and have finished a few short stories. There are a ton more locked in my head and I just need to get them out and share them with the world. More importantly I started writing icons again, and was the first person in history to stream the writing live.

My most important highlight, that which is my life force, is of course my family. Nuff said.

Let us stay on the offensive in 2011. Let's keep pushing ahead to the future and remember those men and women overseas who are keeping us safe.

The Breakaway

2010-09-19T07:32:00.000-06:00

Quiet, out of site, in the back

Shifting, moving, pulling hard

Thighs are burning, heavy

Heart pounding harder, faster

Teeth gritting, wasting energy

Relax

Breath

Pedal

A look ahead

Standing

Pushing

Pulling

Pedaling

Hands in the drops, off the breaks

Quick under the arm

Distance made, no one out

Cadence high shifting, standing, pushing

Pulling more

Sitting and settling

Speed and heart

Over the shoulder

No reaction, need distance

Where’s the wind

Alone

Front tire

Check gears

No noises

Heart Rate

Breath

Cadence

Head Down, out of the wind

Head Up, Check the road

Head Down, watch the crank

Out of the red what's for dinner

Cruising now alone, in front

Nothing more in the tank

20 miles check the rear

Large mass, Helmets

10 miles, 5 Kilometers, never make it

3k,

Caught!

My LIvestrong Challenge

2010-07-02T23:37:00.000-06:00

This was printed on a message to all my facebook friends. Please check back for updates and the donation links.

In this event I have added everyone on my friends list. That means for one reason or another I know you, are friends with you or am married to you.

What some of you may know is that my mom was diagnosed and treated for breast cancer last year. What most of you don't know is that over the past 20 years I have lost way too many friends to this horrible disease. From friends I have watched in their final days to those whom I have regrettably lost touch with. I think about all of them all the time. I think about what I could have done to help them or their families. What I discovered is that I needed to do something now.

I started riding a "racing" bike at the age of 13. I rode all over Albuquerque, everyday of every summer. Though by my senior year I had put the bike aside until I started riding again in the mid 90s. About 5 years ago I stopped again and gained an inordinate amount of weight. Given a bike by one of my best friends, I started to ride again only to be held up a year until I had a knee fixed. That was literally a year ago. I have lost over 40 lbs and have put thousands of miles beneath my wheels.

At the same time, Lance Armstrong returned to the pro pelaton and he had a great impact on me. He rode a Time Trial bike that had the words "Never Forget Your Beginnings" on the top tube (the danger tube). I remember my beginnings very well. It started with my mom and all she has given me. But I had given so little back and when I saw that top tube I remembered that I had forgotten. I needed to do something, so I got my knee fixed and I got on the bike

So, here I am a year later with the Tour de France starting tomorrow and I decided I needed to do something for those who need it the most. Those suffering with cancer and their families.

And here I get to the point of this event. I want your help. I want your friend's help. I want your friend's friends' help. In the next day or 2 I will post the link to a page where you can donate your hard earned money to the Livestrong foundation. Just click and donate.

Now I know it is hard for people to give up money when money is tight so I have decided to give you all a chance at getting something back. Each month I will raffle off a prize to be won to those who chose to donate. Each $10 a person donates will be 1 entry in that month's raffle. One winner will be drawn from the entries.

The prize for July will be an original 16"x20" framed photographic print by myself. My very popular "Wild Daisy at Sunset" Seen here: http://www.pbase.com/praetoriv/image/83621479

Now, if I don't have contact info on the people who donate I can't call them so they need to come to this event or email me at m.patrick.mitchell@gmail.com.

So what is my part in all this? Obviously the ride, and more riding. I hope that by the end of October to have 2000 miles ticked off the odometer. Every mile is for my mom, every pedal stroke for those whom have lost their lives to cancer and every heart beat to those who will fight the good fight.

Second Timothy 4:7
I have fought the good fight.
I have finished the race.
I have kept the faith.

Albuquerque-Roubaix

2010-04-12T09:15:00.000-06:00

I was sore. The previous day was a killer day in the saddle. But this day was different. I just wanted to get back in that saddle. There was no clock, no heart rate monitor, no power meter, no competitors and no workout scheduled. But this spring day was perfect. Full sun and a slight breeze for an easy Sunday ride. When I got into my riding kit I did not imagine the journey I was about to take.

I have ridden in Albuquerque for most of my life. The discovery of two bike trails in 1984 was a leap pad to my favorite activity for years to come. Soon after the end of the school year I found one trail I would start in the north east heights and finish west, near the University. Twenty five years later I still do not know the distance of that trail and have not ridden it for at least 15. The Second trail I found stared just three miles south of the first and ran East to the base of the Sandia Mountains.

Because of my starting point this day I would take the second. A fairly gentle 2% constant incline with intermediate steep hills would get the muscles warmed up and allow me to clear my mind. Since the original trail was built a bridge spanning Interstate 40 near the uptown malls was put in. This lead to my original start point. I took off easy and made my way over this bridge. The moment I hit the trail head, though, I felt it.

It was a jolt in the recesses of my mind. Hit by an odor of charcoal lighter fluid and grilling meat I looked down and saw the flash of a red bike. But mine was white. I sat back, blinked, relaxed and peddled. I rode a bit and started to think about how my work week was going to play out. Soon I arrived at the first of 3 small wooden planked bridges that spanned arroyos, ditches that drained rain water into the Rio Grande.

My front tire hit the wooden bridge and once again my olfactory sense was bombarded by an age old smell. The smell of hot wood. As I bumped over the small arch the smell of the sun baked oils used to treat the wood met me with another jerk. This time my jersey cracked into a white T-shirt. I looked down again and the red bike was back. This time a shaking of the head did me no good. I felt my helmet-less head and the white T-shirt with crude pockets sewn into the back.

I immediately knew that I had shrunk. The bike was big and made of steel and the riding position awkward. I reached to the down tube where I knew the shifters would be and moved the right one enough to hear the rear derailleur move. My cadence increased and I continued along my path.

I hit the second bridge and the scent of plum blossoms whisked me to a cobbled street. I was in the Peleton and I was ready for the break. I stood in the peddles and bridged the small gap made by Sean Kelly, Ireeland's greatest cyclist, who was trying to catch Gregor Braun and Alain Bondue who had made their own break early on in this spring Classic.

But the rarest of occurrences of the Paris-Roubaix thwarted my efforts to win this prestigious race. Traffic. Six lanes of cars and trucks were negotiated carefully but to no avail, Sean Kelly would win this day.

However, something was looming in the distance, the Koppenberg. A cobblestone incline of 22% that beat down the best riders in the world. I rode with Sean Kelly and we were a mere 30 seconds behind Johan Lammerts. I stood at the base of the climb, felt and heard the clacking of the cobbles beneath my wheels. The Tour of Flanders was mine for the taking.

That wasn't right, though, cobbles did not clack. As I crested the mighty hill I looked down to see the white top tube of my modern carbonfibre frame. The large stones faded into large wooden planks. I slowed to a stop, atop the last and largest wooden bridge. This one stretching more than a hundred feet over a major Avenue.

I unclipped my shoes and dismounted. Walked around and looked through the arch of the Bridge to the West. The expanse of Albuquerque stretched before me. The roads, defined in a grid, that I rode everyday in the great races of Europe.

I remounted and headed back down the way I came. Listening to the clackety-clackety of the wood I rode slowly down the winding ramp and back over the trail and through my memories reliving every race I dreamed of winning as a kid.

At the Intersection of Crow and Buckthorn

2010-03-05T18:58:00.000-07:00

I pushed my foot to the floor locking the wheels of the truck. Coming to a complete halt the dust that followed me drifted past on the slight breeze of the hot desert air. There was no traffic so I stepped out and the heat hit me like opening a furnace door. It was oddly calm. Nothing stirred, only the wind spoke.   My GPS and the street sign confirmed I was at the intersection of Crow and Buckthorn. Something was wrong though.

I was late and expecting a tongue lashing, but no one was here. I took out my phone and dialed a number from memory. No answer. I tried again but was greeted with a no network beep. I looked at the phone and saw that I had no bars. I walked in a circle with the phone raised like some demented Olympic torch bearer. Nothing.

I stood atop the hood of my truck and held my arm up as far as I could reach. There it was, a bar. With my free hand I grabbed the blue-tooth from my breast pocket and stuck it in my ear.   The bar disappeared again. Dammit. I moved onto the roof of the cab and held the phone up, adjusted it slightly here and there and then, there it was, the bar again.

I quickly dialed and the phone on the other end rang.

“Hello,” came the voice.

“Hey, Where the hell are you?” I asked with a little impatience.

“I'm still in the theater, where the hell are you?”

“I'm at the corner of Crow and Buckthorn, where you told me to go.”

“I told you to go get popcorn.”

“Shit!”

The Alpha Chronicles / Part 2 A Clean Sheet

2010-02-26T22:30:00.001-07:00

USFR Alpha
N 9°49'24.40" W42°22'27.77" Altitude 820km
2300 UTC
Feb 24, 2141 (+176 days)

Lieutenant-Colonel Marco Lidmann floated in the center of white foam streams of spent shaving cream as the unintended, yet not surprising, results of his elementary school experiment began to coat everything within his quarters. No, spraying a can of shaving cream will not propel a person across the room in zero gravity. It will, however, cling to every surface that is nearly impossible to clean. It will also escape any attempts of capture and containment. The designers of the Alpha 1 living quarters did not take into account a bored man with the curiosity of a 3 year old. They used every square inch of wall space for something useful. Though he shared bunks with 2 other Marines, both were currently on duty and scheduling made for comfortable living arraignments. This new development, however, was not good.

He tried to gather the remaining airborne cream, grabbing at it with his hands and scraping it into a plastic bag. What did not squeeze through his fingers, though, was divided a hundred fold and while some was drawn to the walls of the living space the remaining foam continued the slow motion circuit of the pod. This feeble attempt lead to idea number two, where he set to work getting all the froth onto the walls. The idea was to squeegee the cream toward and into the vacuum assisted trash chute. Simple enough except that shaving cream does not take orders from anyone less than a full bird colonel. More than half of the cream still floated, as if tired from a slow game of tag.

Following numerous failed attempts to wrangle the unruly suds using his hands, gloves, shoes, a couple different hats and a helmet he was at his wits end when he realized he needed a larger surface area. Retrieving a sheet and four Velcro ties from one of the numerous lathered storage compartments he tied each of the four corners to his hands and feet. Starting at one end of the capsule he propelled himself toward the other end. Spreading his arms and legs like a giant flying squirrel he caught the shaving cream in the large sail and pressed it against the far wall. He removed the sheet, gathered it into a small bunch and shoved it down the laundry chute. He turned to look at how well it worked and startled. His reaction, in a gravitational world, would have been a jump. In this weightless environment, though, it could only be categorized as a involuntary spasm. Not unlike a baby lying on a bed and kicking his feet out.

Two people floated upside down in the hatchway at the far end of his living quarters. Their eyebrows were raised and their mouths twitched with contained laughter. Marco's room mates, 1st lieutenant Michael S. O'Loughin USMC and Captain Carlos M. Rodriguez USMC, were temporarily struck mute at the sight of a man, a sheet, and shaving cream.

“You, uh, OK there colonel?” Michael asked with more humor than concern.

“I had a bit of a problem with the shaving cream.” Marco answered, his face turning red.

“Can we offer some assistance?” Carlos choked over the laughter.

“No, no, I can take care of it. Thanks.”

“By your leave then, sir”

“Certainly.” Marco said and turned to grab another sheet hoping the audience would leave.

“You know,” came Michael's voice, “if we were to set up in an echelon, we could probably get it all in one sweep.”

Marco turned and, with a chuckle, threw each man a sheet.

The Alpha Chronicles / Part 1 The Alpha and Omega

2010-02-07T18:54:00.001-07:00

USFR Alpha  

N 38°39'21.02" E4° 9'3.23" Altitude 643km

1400 GMT

September 1, 2140

Preparation was more of a work out than the actual run.  A harness had to go over each shoulder so  when he ran on the treadmill there was pressure on his legs.  Though it was required of all personnel to partake in at least 2 hours of impact exercise per week as the highest ranking Marine he would set the example for the others.  After a minute of struggling with the straps however,  Captain Marco Roman Lidmann of the United States Marine Corps 5th Marine  Spacecraft Wing  gave up and buckled himself into the recumbent bike.   Exercise in micro gravity was a constant necessity in order to maintain muscle strength and skeletal density.

After 2 years in the giant hamster habitat the 38 year old husband and father of two was ready to return to solid ground and open spaces.   It had been a week since he had exercised on the treadmill but he didn't care.    Soon enough he would be back on earth, running through the foothills of the Sandia Mountains which loom over the city of Albuquerque, New Mexico.   

Orbiting the earth at an altitude of 400 miles, the newly completed High Altitude Refueling Depot (HARD), christened the USFR Alpha I,  was ready to start accepting craft that would make the voyages to Mars to begin the steps of colonizing the planet in an attempt to find a solution to the overcrowding of earth; nearly 20 Billion people now inhabited the 3rd planet from the sun.   

A contingent of 13 Marines were on board the nearly 1.6 million square foot facility in their standard capacity of security force which had, in the past two years, fought off multiple attacks by the Chinese and Brazilians.  Both countries allied against the United States and the United Russian Federation to gain control of the more than one-hundred-thousand tons of solid fuel stored in the holds of the depot.  The last attack, three weeks prior, took the lives of two of his Marines and gratefully none of the 230 civilian contractors nor space agency non-combat personnel were injured.

In the mid 21st century all oil production had stopped and the depletion of the Lithium mines once again created a need for a fuel that was more readily available and  highly efficient to burn.  That fuel came from the laboratories of MIT and New Mexico Tech.  A chemical cocktail of titanium and potassium  combined with iron oxide.  When ignited in an Osmium alloy nozzle it was a stable burn with high power output and a slow rate of decay.  Unfortunately the fuel was not viable for personnel vehicle use, but the capabilities for space travel were limitless.  

In the year 2110 a United States Space craft filled with less than 2000 lbs of fuel flew to the moon, 287,000 miles, and back in less than a day.  The 50,000 mile per hour record was broken a dozen more times when, 10 years ago, 2nd Lieutenant Marco Lidmann made the trip  in 1 hour and 30 minutes.  A speed just over 382,000 mile per hour.  Speed is limited only by navigation but would allow a craft to travel to Mars in just over 15 days.

A collection of forward facing sensors were essential in extreme speeds to avoid debris that litters the solar system.  Super computers making millions of calculations per second could adjust to avoid the debris, but in order to navigate around anything larger than a small asteroid the speed must be slowed dramatically.

Marco drowned out all external stimuli with his music and his cadence.  Staring forward  his body peddling automatically his mind focused on a single story ranch style house with a lush green lawn waiting to be cut.  Breathing heavily from the exertion, his head moved toward the disturbance on the Earth's surface.  Looking through a 6” thick clear polycarbonfibre dome above the gym his eye was drawn to the Straight of Gibraltar.  The direct sun usually reflected the cool blue strip of water separating the European and African continents.  Now a large black mass of smoke pushed aside the cloud cover with incredible hostility.  He stopped peddling and stared, sure his eyes were playing tricks on him.   

The origin of the smoke cloud erupted in flame of orange and red.  He struggled to grasp the magnitude of the explosion; the size of a large city, waves of water and air pressure radiated from the center of the blast.  He stared in disbelief as another flare-up burst through the Mediterranean Sea.  With it a massive wave of water raced toward Sardinia and Italy.

He unbuckled himself and floated to the top of the dome.  A sense of dread possessed him and his skin rippled at the thought of what was taking place.  Like a giant silent Movie playing itself out the wave increased with every visible inch as it neared the Italian coast.  

“Anna!” he yelled through the passage, “Anna get in here.”

Anna Sokolov, a 26 year old Cosmonaut, flew into the gym,”What is going on?” she asked as she slide in next to Marco.

“I don't know.”

“Oh my God,” she said, wide eyes on the planet “Look, there.”  She pointed to the Eastern Horizon.

Marco turned his head to see more black smoke rising into the atmosphere and across the landscape from more explosions.  He turned back in time to watch the boot of Italy swallowed under the unforgiving wave of destruction.  Unable to do anything he turned to look to the West.  As far as he could see surging fire and billowing smoke rose from the ocean and began to cover the earth. Four more people joined them to watch the horrific spectacle below.  

It took less than 30 minutes for the smoke and ash to cover the entire European mainland.  When there was nothing left to see but the black smoke clog the atmosphere, Marco came to his senses and raced out of the gym toward the main bridge in the center of the half moon station.  It took him  a full 5 minutes to reach the center where he was met with a fury of activity.   

Space agency personnel were strapped into computer terminals talking frantically in the various languages that represented the diversity of the crew.  He sought out Admiral Vance P. Parrott, commanding officer of Alpha 1.  The admiral was talking into a headset and acknowledged Marco as he floated into the large cylindrical room.

“But you can't give me any more information than that?”  the admiral asked into the microphone. He listened for another full minute, then, “Yes sir I understand.”  He took the headset off and a grim expression crossed his face.  He looked at Marco, “Start assembling all personnel now, captain.  It's as bad as it looks.”

“Aye, aye sir.” he responded and turned to relay the command to his Marines who would round up the remaining 230 souls aboard.  When that was done he returned to the admiral's side.

“Nobody knows for sure but it appears the tectonic plates have had a cataclysmic shift.” the admiral began as Marco settled next to him, “There is a ton of chatter from all over about earthquakes, volcanoes and storms, like the Goddamn plagues of Egypt,  but so far we have heard form all our stations except Japan and California.  You saw what is happening in Europe.  From what we have heard the faults have opened on many of the plates and magma is just pouring out.  Dr. Garcia believes, and I agree, that the oceans are pouring into the fissures, super heating the water and erupting.  The scale of it is unbelievable.”  He stopped and choked, his expression even more grim.

Marco said nothing.  His own thoughts were not on what the Admiral was saying.  They were in that small ranch house with a woman and two young boys.  He told himself there was nothing he could do.  He had a job here and he had to concentrate on that now.

“Captain Lidmann,” the admiral paused, “Marco,” he said, swallowing his tears, “Let's get everyone into the auditorium.  They need to know what we know and we need to keep everyone calm.  We don't have a clue how this is effecting anybody on the surface.  Communications are getting cut quickly.  We are loosing ground stations like crazy.  We are going to be cut off entirely in less than an hour, I have no doubt.  Whatever happens down there we need to keep cool up here.” He rubbed his head, “If this is not some sick nightmare then we need to start making a plan.   You good to go?”

“Yes sir.”  Marco understood the double meaning of the question.  No attempt would be made to contact the crew's families.  He turned to leave but held short of the hatch and said,  “Sir, I am going to set guards at shuttle points the gardens and food depositories.  Just casual, unarmed.”

“Unarmed?”

“Concealed.” he conceded with a hint of a smile.  

The admiral nodded his head in agreement.  Marco flew from the bridge toward the first of the two arcs that made up the HARD.  People were clinging to the walls and talking in whispers.  All surmising about what was happening.  He found two of his Marines about halfway to the first ring, gave them orders to gather everyone and moved on.

It took nearly an hour to get everyone into the auditorium.  A ship wide search turned up few stragglers.   Some were crying, some just in shock.  All were scared.  The palpable fear hadMarco face his own anxiety of the situation.  When admiral Parrott's voice began to speak to the assembled, Marco slipped away and headed to the gymnasium.   

His music player still floated in the middle of the room where he had removed it from his ears.  Everything else was silent.  He grabbed the ear buds and made a point to slip them back together into the pill shape in which they were stored.  Slowly, with great reservation, he raised his head to the clear dome.  The sight that greeted him caught a breath in his chest.  The lampblack swirling color of death covered the expanse below.

“That's the West coast of the U.S.”  said admiral Parrott as he made his way into the gym.

“How thick is that?”  Marco asked.

“Thick enough to cut off communications.  Nothing but static.”

“I'm sorry, admiral.  I needed time, because now we're, we're alone and I had to,”  Marco choked and the tears began.

“You will have your time, but not now.  We have to work on our new objective.  I have combined all departments within the station to work under one command. Continued efforts to contact the surface and break through that layer of smoke is the obvious purpose in light of this development.  I need your leadership.  I am promoting you to Lieutenant-Colonel and you will be the S2 officer in charge of security.  Captain Klein will be S6 , communications, and I will act as S1, personnel and administration, until we can get a bearing on what we should be doing directly we should keep everyone working and their minds off personnel tragedy.”  The admiral continued, “Give me your recommendations for a Logistics officer and let's start working on theses problems.  The first of which is to get everybody calmed down and into a routine.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”  Marco replied.  He had something to focus on now and that is what he needed.  He turned back to the dome and the destruction.

“I have a feeling, son,” the admiral said putting a hand on Marco's shoulder. “we are going to be here for a long time.”  

The Priest

2010-01-28T22:53:00.004-07:00

Author's note: Based on true events this is a chapter rough in of my larger work in progress. It takes place in the Carpathian mountains 3 years after the end of WWII.

The lone man floundered in the deep snow. The thread bare coat covering a black cassock tangled in the branches of trees that hung low near the bed of the nearly frozen stream. His legs heavy with exhaustion, his heart pumping hard against his chest he moved in slow motion now after two days of running.

“Hospody Isuse Khryste, synu zhyvogo Boga, pomylui mene grishnyka” He muttered.

Another step.

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, Have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Another step.

The voices behind him were unmistakable now, snickering and growing louder.

“Look at the little man run.” it was the young Russian junior lieutenant with the Moscow accent. A brash and

merciless youth who had led this hunt from the beginning.

Flanked by two even younger soldiers of the army of the Soviet Union; none of the three were winded from their part of the chase. They walked easily and deliberately through the snow.

“Come now my friend, I am getting farther away from my vodka and my bed.” Nikolai yelled. Born in Kiev and raised in a Ukrainian family he was now part of the larger Union of the Soviet Socialist Republic.

The young priest, unable to work past the fatigue, submitted himself to the inevitable. No matter what happened they would not win this race. They would not beat him. The Germans had tried to subdue his father and they had failed. These three were not the first Soviets to try. They would be the last though, he knew that now.

He sat on a low stump and turned to face his perusers. He knew that far from this spot another race was run and something greater than himself was fulfilled because of what he accomplished today.

“Hospody Isuse Khryste, synu zhyvogo Boga, pomylui mene grishnyka .”

He grasped the Chotki, the prayer rope he received from

the Bishop, and twisted it around his wrist. Taking a hold of his frozen silver pectoral cross and signing himself he broke the chain, kissed it gently and said his prayer one more time, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me a sinner.”

“Did you really think you were going to get away?”

“Did you really think I wanted to get away, Pasha?” the priest replied calmly.

“I am Lieutenant Pavel Deimdenko!” he barked, “save your pleasantries and give us the Icon.”

“I can not give what I do not have.” The priest said

trying to hide the fear that rose in waves inside him.

“Goddammit, you lying son of a bitch!” Anatolii Potemkin yelled as he kicked out in a fury, catching the priest in the face and breaking his jaw.

Though he felt and heard the bone break but the pain he expected never came. He felt very little physically. No longer tired from the long days of running, his lungs filled slowly and his legs relaxed. Once again he kissed the pectoral cross, now warm to the touch, and was immediately rewarded with another boot to the face.

“None of that for you, God does not save Catholics. Now, give us the Icon.”

“I told you, Pasha,” he repeated through the now shattered

teeth, “I do not have it, and now you will never have it.”

“You lying fool,” Pavel took a knife from his belt and cut the cassock down the front, exposing the pale skin, a second slash revealed a line of blood.

Nikolai rolled him over still tearing at the garments. There, covered in fabric and strapped around his waist with a strip of fabric was a small square bundle. Unceremoniously, Nikolai and Anatolii pulled at the knot trying to free it from the priest's possession. Standing, Nikolai put his boot on the priest's back for leverage and yanked on the rope, but it would not budge.

“Let go of it!” he demanded of the priest, but the cleric's arms were scratching at the frozen ground. “Let go!”

Anatolii stood and started to jump on the motionless body of the man they had run down. A mirthless smile flitted across his face, like that of a child jumping on a bed. Breaking bones with every thrust an expiration of air whistled with the final blow.

“You are idiots.” Exclaimed Pavel, shoving the soldiers down as he bent with his knife to cut the rope.

Laughs proliferated from all three as Nikolai and Anatolii

struggled to stand. Now seemingly unaware of the lifeless body they turned back from whence they came each grabbing at the small square package trying to extricate it from its wrappings.

“What is this?” Pavel asked to no one in particular as he removed the small piece of wood from the linen. It was just that, a piece of wood with four letters poorly stenciled in charcoal on one side.

ICXC. The letters of Jesus Christ.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Pavel yelled as he turned back toward the body of the priest. Though the body was not there. It was not hard to find though. The blood stained snow lead 10 meters to the struggling priest as he continued his escape.

“I don't think so” Nikolai said. Picking up a rock he hurled it at the priest hitting him in the back.

The priest grunted with pain yet continued to drag himself across the frozen ground. Hands grabbed at what was left of his garments and lifted him to his feet. A rifle butt collided with his knee, but the strong youthful hands did not let him fall. Two more rifle strikes to the head and he prayed for the end of the pain.

“Where is it? Where the fuck is it?” Pavel screamed as he struck again and again at the broken man. “Let him go”, he ordered his junior thugs.

The priest's body slumped to the ground and was kicked again in the head. A small groan was evidence that he was still alive. His lips, stained with blood, moved.

“What was that? What did he say?” Nikolai asked.

Pavel knelt next to the dying man and said in a very compassionate voice, “Tell us where the icon is and I promise you will live. We will take you to a doctor, you will get better and then we will give you a Church, a great Orthodox church for you to worship in. You will be saved. We just want that icon. Your life for a picture.”

Still kneeling he watched as the priest's eyes opened looking skyward and his lips began to move. He bent lower putting his ear to the man's mouth.

It was nothing more than a whisper, “Hospodu Pomilu.”

The Story Continues and Continues and Continues

2010-01-24T17:14:00.001-07:00

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

2010-01-21T23:38:00.008-07:00

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.

2010-01-19T11:30:00.005-07:00

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.