At the Intersection of Crow and Buckthorn

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

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

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 5^th 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 3^rd 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 21^st 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, 2^nd 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 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.