Storytellers and the Stories they Tell...

I've come to find out, writing in itself, is nothing more than storytelling. A fairly straightforward concept I know, but that's the reality of it. So the first prerequisite to be a writer is to simply be a storyteller. And at least that part I have down. I've been a storyteller for as long as I can remember, and not just the lying type of story telling. That doesn't count.

My earliest member of story telling goes back to maybe the third or fourth grade. For some reason the teacher gave me free time to do as I chose (only God knows what she was thinking) and I being the studious young man that I was decided that I would write a story. A comic book actually. And I did. A wrote a captivating tale about a villain with a skull for a head and buzz saws for hands. (Yes, two buzz saw hands!) 

I even animated it, I drew the characters inside little story boards within the margins of the yellow sheets of notebook paper than stapled them together along the edges. It was amazing, even if I do say so myself, but it wasn't only me who said so. I showed my teacher and she was so... so... I don't know what she was, I guess impressed is the best word to describe it. But she was so, whatever he was that she had be read it to the entire class. I got to sit up in the front of the class, you know like it was story time and the class sat around me and I read my little story to them all and I would look up between horribly formed sentences and terribly drawn doodles and see eyes wide with excitement and intrigue, waiting in eager anticipation to hear what happened next.

I remember distinctly at the end of the story the Villain or Anti-Hero being violently kicked out of a window and falling to his death, or perhaps not actual death, I can't remember if I was already planning a sequel or not but you get the point. Skull Head and Buzz Saw Hands goes out the window and my story ends. And afterwards the little handmade comic book goes into the unknown void that was my little desk and was lost for the remainder of the school year. That is until, nearly the last week of school, when everyone is cleaning out there desk and cubbies in preparation for summer vacation, I pulled out this crumpled yellow little book, and in retrospect quite foolishly, announced to the class that it was up for grabs and flung it carelessly in the the center of the room. I suppose half expecting no one would be interested and it would go into the trash with a thousand other un-submitted homework assignments, failed spelling test and everything else we would stuff into our desk in hopes of never seeing again. However much to my surprise, my classmates jumped on the crumpled little comic with so much fervor and enthusiasm that it was ripped into a prime number of little pieces and taken by multiple kids a souvenir for kids to remember the school year.  Which means they probably forgot it even existed the moment the last bell rang or perhaps they didn't but i know for a brief moment in the fourth grade I was a storyteller in its purest form. So I guess that's the feeling I chase now every time I write, to simply tell a story I love and hope that someone else will love it too.

Sometimes I wish I would have kept that little handmade comic book, but I've come to realize that's what stories are for. Not necessarily for the storyteller, but for the tell-ee or the audience, or the reader or whatever the case may be. Once you tell your story, once you get your story out it's no longer solely your own, but it then belongs to everyone who loves it, and I think I like that.

Anyway.

Till next time,

Lefty

The Boy Who Cried...

I'm still working on Chapter 24 but I've decided to post an excerpt from the book. This is from early in the book and is the first appearance of the main protagonist. Comments are always welcome.

A key hung from a shoestring, and the shoestring hung loosely from the neck of a small boy. He fiddled with it, struggling to pull it from underneath his shirt and place it into the front door. He was sniveling; remnants of tears could be seen along either side of his face, along with a large welt stained across his right cheek, it would turn dark purple by tomorrow. A school yard fight, with a school yard bully was the source behind his unusually frantic disposition. He was usually a happy and joyful child, but this had been his first fight, ever. He was eight.

            He knew his mother would be upset that he had been fighting, but truthfully it wasn't his fault. Nick Abernathy had followed him half-way home from school, teasing him about his father. He was dead. But Nick said he was probably just a “dead beat” who ran out on him and his mother, and she probably just made up the story about him being dead because it was better than admitting he and abandoned them. He tried explaining to Nick – along with the small group that had gathered to watch his persecution – that his father was a hero who had died bravely as a U.S. soldier. A hero who had died protecting everyone and everything that he loved. A hero like in his comic books, a hero like Powerman, or the Olympian. Nick and the other kids laughed at this explanation, then Nick pushed him… so he punched Nick, and our small boy fought for the first time, and he lost.

            The key served its purpose, there was a catch and a loud click as the door unlocked, and the sobbing young fighter made his way inside.

            “Mom!” he called out, but received no response. The house was dark, the curtains drawn over the windows, blocking out the afternoon sun. He darted to the bathroom, making a futile attempt to clean himself up. He splashed water on his face, ran a cold towel across his eyes and took a deep breath, all in the hopes the he could wipe away the smell, look and shaky nerves of a fresh fight. None of it worked, not even in the slightest.

            He crept slowly into his mother’s room, opting to get a jump on explaining himself first, before she found out what happened by some other ‘unscrupulous’ means. Her room was just as dark as the rest of the house, perhaps even more so.

            “Mom?” he called out again, his voice already prepped for pity. She still didn’t answer. She lay in her bed, her back to him, apparently sound asleep. It was odd, she never slept during the middle of the day, and her room – which usually carried the delicately sweet scent of roses and wildflowers – filled his small nose with the strong and pungent odor of what he thought to be rotten eggs, in actuality it was sulfur; specifically it was brimstone. He stepped forward, and at that moment a bright yellow butterfly fluttered from his mother’s bed, landed on his open, awaiting hand then floated silently out of the room. His heart sank and immediately he knew something was wrong. He ran to his mother’s side.
            “Mom? Mom wake up!” she didn’t respond.

            “Mom!” he shook her shoulder. “Mom wake up please!”

            Nothing.

            “Mom you have to wake up now! Please mom, wake up!” Hot, wet tears began to streak down his face once again. “Mom please wake up! Don’t – please I’m sorry, don’t leave me!” by now he was screaming his face wet with tears, his nose runny and red; he struggled to catch his breath between pleas of desperation.

            “Mom please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m… so, so sorry.” He buried his face into her chest and neck, she was still warm, she stilled smelled of roses and wildflowers. He inhaled the sweet aroma, taking in long lungfuls, desperate to breathe in as much of her as he could before the rotten stench of sulfur and pain pushed her out of his memories.

            “Mom?” he called out again, this time more gently, less hysterically as if his overactive emotions were what kept her quite. But still she didn’t reply, she simply lay motionless, lifeless, her beautiful brown face frozen in the last expression she would ever wear, a peaceful and serene smile, now stained with his tears and phlegm.

            “Nate,” whispered a hushed little voice from out of the darkness of the room. It sounded slightly like a small child, probably no older than the boy himself. “Nate can you hear me?”

            “Wh-Who is that, who’s there?” he sobbed.

            “It’s ok, I’m a friend.” The voice replied.

            “Why can’t I see you?! Where are you?”

            “There’s no need for you to see me, at least not right now, but I’m here, I’m with you now, that’s all that matter.”

            “Well if you’re a friend then help me, my mom is hurt, o-o-or she’s sick, she needs to go to the hospital.”

            “No Nate… she doesn't, I’m sorry but it’s too late. She’s gone.”

            “NO! You’re lying! She’s not gone, she’s not! She wouldn't leave me here, she wouldn't leave alone like this, she wouldn't  I know she wouldn't ..” Nate clenched tightly to his mother, crying frantically into her shoulder.

            “Nate I’m sorry, it’s true. But you don’t have to be afraid, you’re not alone, you’ll never be alone. I’m here –”

            “Shut up! Get away from me! Leave me alone! I don’t need you! I don’t need anybody… WE don’t need anybody, get away… get away.” Nate held on, sobbing and panting, determined not to let anyone pull him away.

            “Nate… you have to leave… it’s time – it’s time for us to go.”

            “No!” he sobbed.

            “It’s too late, I’m sorry… we’re already gone… its already over… besides, you have a job interview in 3 hours.”

            “What?!”

            Nate awoke covered in a cold damp sweat. Sunlight peered in through his bedroom window. He checked his alarm clock. 6:58 a.m. It was scheduled to go off in 2 minutes. He had his first job interview since graduating college at 10 a.m.

            “It’s going to be a long f***ing day.” He mumbled to himself, no one replied.

***