Content: father

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I want to know about knitting, rips and tears. I'd also like to know if this is a unique plot idea. Have you ever seen this plot twist in fiction before. If so, where?

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Thank you all for the helpful tips. I have updated this poem as suggestions are made. Sometimes a poem needs to be written over and over. I am not afraid to turn a poem upside down and start from the top. Just like Hollywood. I am working on this poem as part of a collection I am writing, PRIVATE LETTERS. Note: I have opened twelve of my brother's prison letters. I have not been able to read the remaining letters.

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This is a (short) short story I've been working on for a writing class I'm taking this semester. Any comments welcome.

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Going for big emotions and distances and essence. Any suggestion to improve are appreciated.

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I have no poem for Fathers Day and had no Father for this day so will share what I have seen through others Fathers. Okay.. Have been getting pressure to write! I say I can't unless the words simply come. This most likely will sound trite and song like. In a way it is meant to sound that way. Not trite! But like a song It is a simple piece about a father who cannot give his family much. Out of work etc.. But he realizes he can bring his boy joy if only for awhile

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A young woman finds her long lost father, in more ways than one. Would appreciate feed back on pace, characterization, integration of back story, and, of course, if you enjoy it. Note: 9K word story posted in two parts, but meant to be read continuously. Thanks.

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Second and concluding part of a 9K word story. A young woman finds her long lost father, in more ways than one. Would appreciate feed back on pace, characterization, integration of back story, and, of course, if you enjoy it.

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a vignette from southeast texas... way down some farm-to-market road that ain't marked by no signs...

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A woman I respect a lot said that I should write a story about my elders. So I have written this piece about my father, just to share. I have no idea if I'll clean it up and try to publish it or not. While I'd love to hear how people react to it, you don't need to tear it up. Be gentle please.

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This is something that came together in my mind, but is clearly not fleshed out. I need some help with the ending - it is too abrupt. And I need to move Ron's life further forward. But there are probably other things that need fixing. I am not happy with this, but I'm not sure where to start. HELP! All feedback welcome.

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Memories are precious, especially when the act is difficult to give. To all you fathers who’ve impacted and nurtured your children’s lives by stepping out of your comfort zones to dance, whether it be in mind, body or soul - this one’s for you! You are the choreographer that gives a child the courage to stand on the center stage of life

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"We Own The President" (set a few years in future; 116,000 words) Why it’s unique: father-daughter buddy story meets 007-type thriller... Harry Evans works for secret government agencies, sees himself as the last line of defense against the evil people in the world. He’s good at it. Kate Evans, studying for an MBA at Wharton, is contemptuous of her father and has as little to do with him as possible. After all, he’s nothing but a killer... Readers get a big swirling thriller--mad-genius twins try to "own the President"--plus entertaining inter-generational conflict. Harry Evans, daughter Kate, and her friend Carmen are increasingly in the center of the vortex, not sure what is real or where their loyalties should be. The country is coming apart. President Simpson declares war on Mexico, and hints at worst. Kate and Harry, alone against the world, start to function as partners -- but don’t try to tell Kate that. The question is, can these two alphas stop squabbling long enough to save the country from a conspiracy to seize control of the president and to accomplish this in a way that conceals what has happened. Any feedback is welcome.

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Since you've hung in this far, any comments on the second part of the story are welcome.

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The narrator of this story is a young girl about ten years old. Since I've never been a young girl I'm interested in how she comes across. Does she sound older? Younger? And any other comments are of course always welcome.

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A boy on his first hunting trip; a proud father showing him the ropes; and some unfortunate geese. Any comments are welcome.

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This is a quick piece that I fired off after a really transendant baseball game the other day and I would love any and all feedback from others.

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This is a story about the relationship between tragedy and necessity, and the changes we make to keep breathing.

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An ode to my father...Horace Silver's "Song For MY Father" just happened to be what I was listening to at the time.

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Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip. The familiar crunching sound of tires on the gravel driveway gave away her surprise arrival. She had planned to arrive undetected, take a look around at her former life, and if necessary, leave undetected. As she pulled up to the once-white, house with the slanted front porch and broken screen door, she was at once joyfully nostalgic and severely repulsed. Before Chris could turn off the engine and step out onto the gravel and oil driveway, Ma was already waving from the window in the big bedroom upstairs. Chris shook her head when she notice Ma wearing the same faded red, pansy-printed house dress she was wearing exactly one year before on Easter Sunday and likely every other Sunday for the last thirty years or more. The hem of this dress must have been re-sewn by Ma’s plump hands a hundred times or more and the buttons were a mere rumor, replaced by multi-colored diaper pins. Even without seeing it now, Chris could describe each frayed piece of the fabric, not only because she seen it in her mind whenever she pictured Ma, but because she’d spent so much time as a child, hiding from the world on underneath it. They met inside the house, at the bottom of the stairs and greeted one another the way they always had. No “I love you,� or “good to see you.� No touching moment and definitely no embracing, just right to the business at hand – avoidance. “Lawd chile, I ain’t know who dat was pullin’ in my driveway all fast.� Ma said, barely stopping at the foot of the staircase. “Uhn, uhn, uhn. What you doin’ wit’ ya hair now?� “All that money, - cant you pay somebody to do something with that hair?� Chris sighed. “It’s called the natural look Ma, and I did pay somebody to do this.� Uhn, we’ll you done thrown dat money away. Look like a natural mess to me. I’ put a pressin comb on it fo’ ya fo’ free.� Ma laughed. “Lawd have mercy, now I got to go upstairs an’ put some clean sheets on dat bed. Go on out back and say somethin’ to Dad.� Chris walked through the old house, through the dog’s room on the back porch and out into the back yard where Dad sat atop his ancient, red, riding mower, mowing and drinking what was almost surely corn liquor, wrapped in a brown paper bag. “Hey there, Lil Bit, what you doin’ here? Dad slurred. “You done drove all the way from New York City to help me cut all this grass.� All morning, Chris sat in the kitchen with Ma snapping peas, peeling potatoes and soaking greens. “You listen here girl, now I ain’t gonna have none of that mess you pull last year at my Easter table, you hear me?� Ma warned. “What’s past is past.� “Now, ya Mama an’ them comin.’� “Again, Ma, she is not my Mama� Chris said. “Well, she carried ya ‘round in her fo’ nine mont’s di’nt she?� Ma exclaimed. Chris started, “Ma, but she never did nothing for me….� At this, Chris was immediately shocked by her improper language, and how easily it came back to her. “She my daughter, and yo’ mama, an’ this is my house and I say she’ comin’ here to have Easter dinner wit’ us, now you just keep ya mouth shut if ya aint got nothing nice to say, hear.� ‘Ma, if she brings him again, I can’t sit at the table and act like everything is ok.� Chris explained. Ma fidgeted. “Don’t you say it.� Suddenly, Chris felt possessed. “What, Ma, that he raped me and my Mama was too high to do anything?� Ma looked around for something to hold on to and settled on a bag of flour on the. Ma said, “Don’t ya talk with dat nasty mouth in my house girl, now, I jus’ ain’t gon’ have it.� Brushing flour off her dress, Ma quietly demanded, “Now make yourself useful and go set the table.�

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