Phil RedBeard

League of Justice #1.8: “The Native Hue”

Central City Medical Centre
Central City, Missouri

Barry Allen awoke to a bright light and the steady beeping of heart rate monitors. He tried to look around, but found it was too painful.

“Dude, you’re awake!” The loud obnoxious voice was that of Barry’s best friend, Manuel Lago. They were randomly assigned roommates in their freshman year of undergrad, but now close friends. While Barry had gone into chemistry and the heavy sciences, Manuel was pursuing a PhD in applied engineering and mathematics. Often Barry would stumble on a discovery and Manuel could often figure out how to turn the discovery into a practical tool. Holding a few patents helped stave of starvation while the two continued their educations.

“Hush.” That was the soothing sound of love in the person of Iris West. Iris was a college newspaper reporter when she and Barry first met. She was covering one of his first big discoveries, and he was very eager to talk to her, though not necessarily about science. After a bit of a stop and go start, they became a constant couple. Iris now worked for the Central City Herald, one of the only remaining newspapers in the city, but still occasionally covered Barry’s work, though it had moved from front page college news to page six science column news.

“Hey you…how you feel?” the blurriness finally focused onto Iris’ lovely face. Her eyes were striking blue, and her hair the deepest chestnut. Barry felt he had never seen her as clearly before. Everything about her seemed to shimmer somehow. The colors were vibrant and effervescent.

Barry managed a groaning “oww” before he decided further audible communication would have to wait. His throat, lungs, and chest felt like they had been burned from the inside.

“Actually, you probably shouldn’t talk. You were struck by lightning three times and inhaled some vaporized chemicals along with some heavy water. The doctors kept you in a coma for a few days to make sure you didn’t have residual damage. But they say you should be ok, it will just take time to heal.”

Barry managed a nod. He remembered the lightning, the chemicals. Everything hurt. He felt something soft and warm on his lips. A kiss. That felt good. He must have managed a signal of some sort because the good continued, longer this time.

“Get a room, you guys…” That was Manuel again.

“Actually, Manny, Barry already booked the room. Maybe you should leave.”

“Ha. Right. I’m sure lightning boy will be doing all sorts of loving. But I gotta go anyway. Take care, buddy.”

Barry felt Manny squeeze his shoulder, saw him look over into his eyes, then he left his field of vision, a field that was promptly filled with Iris, and Barry didn’t mind the switch at all.

“Hey lover. I’m so glad you’re ok.” Tears filled her eyes briefly before she wiped them away. “I was so worried.”

Barry held her hand and tried to look as loving as possible. Hooked up to tubes and oxygen and catheters it was hard to manage, but manage he did. At least she smiled back.

A week later…

Barry coughed. Doing so was still painful. He was out of the hospital and at home under strict orders to rest. His first night of rest with Iris was a bit vigorous, but since his bones hurt and breathing hurt, after that she let him rest in peace. It took nearly a week before he could move without constant pain, and breathe without feeling like he was inhaling fire, but he slowly mended. Actually he healed much faster than the doctors first thought, but it felt long enough to Barry. It was at a week that he noticed the first alteration in his body: his eyes were now a dark shade of crimson. Where his irises had been brown, they had lightened to red, with flecks of yellow. He was shaving in the mirror when it suddenly hit him.

“That’s new.” he murmured. Beside him, Iris was applying her makeup.

“What’s new?”

“My eyes. Take a look.” He opened them wide and stared into Iris’ crystal blues.

“Wow. They’re red!”

“Yeah. I wonder how that happened?”

“A reaction? Can you still see ok?”

“Yeah, in fact, better than I used to. I don’t need my glasses anymore.”

“What? You’re kidding?”

“Nope. I have an appointment with an ophthalmologist later, but as far as I can tell I’m fine.”

“Wow. All that from lightning?”

“No, I think the lightning catalyzed the chemicals I was working with. As the lightning was striking, a beaker I had in my hand exploded. I felt the chemicals splatter all over me. That must be it. Once I get back to the lab, I am going to run some simulations.”

“Ok. But take it easy, Bear.” Leaning over, she kissed him hard.

“I will. I promise. Oh! I forgot to mention, my laptop wasn’t plugged in when the lightning hit, so it continued to record data. My heavy water experiment was a success. I have a meeting with someone at LexCorp next week to present my results. This could be my big break!”

“That’s wonderful. I can’t wait to cover it for the Herald. And then celebrate with you after.” She flashed a wicked grin before flouncing out of the bathroom.

Barry turned to follow, but realized he had only shaved half his face. Sighing, he stared back into the mirror and his new scarlet eyes and carefully laid razor to skin. By the time he was finished, Iris was just about to leave.

“See you later, darling Bear. I love you!”

“Love you, Iris. Happy reporting.”

She blew him a kiss and left.

Barry felt like the luckiest man in the world. After all, he had survived not one but three lightning strikes, still had a beautiful woman to come home to, and some new eyes.

Barry dressed for the day and wondered what else the lightning charged chemicals had done to him. He picked up his phone and sent a text to Manuel.

“Come to lab after class. Need 2 run xpermts.”

Barry felt charged with extra energy as he left the apartment and locked the door. It felt like there was an extra bounce in his step. On a whim, he decided to walk to class instead of riding the bus. It was a beautiful day, and good to be alive.

League of Justice #1.7: “A Weary Life”

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

Little Dinah loved the smell of cookies baking on a rainy evening. Somehow the damp air inside the efficiency apartment made the smell carry farther, not that there was all that much space. Anyway, it made the apartment smell like love, because Dinah always knew her mother loved her as she baked cookies. The Drake family never had much money, and things like cookies were a luxury, at least the store bought premium cookies. But when her mother splurged food stamps on chocolate chips and made cookies, Dinah felt that something extra special was happening.

Even at 15, Dinah still loved the smell of chocolate chip cookies. Her mom was in the kitchen baking, and Dinah was doing her homework.

Suddenly the door to the apartment slammed open, the door jamb splintering under sudden assault.

“Where are you, whore?!” A massive white man with a thin mustache and slicked-back hair charged into the apartment. Behind him were two bald, white thugs with shiny hand guns. Dinah’s mother ran from the kitchen.

“Not here, Marko. For God’s sake, my daughter is here!”

“Shove it. Bitch aught to know what a whore her mother is. You busted up my friend.”

“He tried to rape me.”

Marko laughed, too loud and too long. “How can you rape a whore? Isn’t that what they are for?” His thugs chuckled. “Bitch, I sent you a premium client and you scratch up his face? Ain’t good for business.”

“Fuck you, Marko. He wasn’t following the rules.”

“Goddamnit, bitch. My rules. My friend. You are as stupid as you are ugly.”

Finally, Dinah had enough. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She thought her mom worked as a waitress, but apparently she had a side business as a two-dollar darling.

“Shut up! You can’t talk to my mom like that! Get out of here!”

Marko responded with a vicious backhand that sent Dinah sprawling. Before anyone could react, he pulled a small pistol and shot Dinah’s mother through the eye. Blood and brains splattered the living room wall. It was then Dinah found her voice. She screamed.

The sound was piercing, loud, and powerful. Glass everywhere in the apartment shattered, the thugs grabbed their heads, and Marko’s ears started to bleed. Dinah stood up and screamed again. Marko sank to the floor and lost his grip on his gun. In that moment, Dinah moved. She grabbed the gun and pulled the trigger again and again and again and again until she emptied the drum magazine. Blowback from what was left of Marko’s face had splashed all over Dinah’s face and shirt. He crumpled to the floor, his head a mass of blood and bone.

Dinah screamed again, this time the thugs just ran, wiping blood from their ears. Dinah fell to the floor sobbing. From the kitchen she could smell chocolate chip cookies burning in the oven. Dinah vomited.

Ten years later…

Dinah sat on her motorcycle as it idled at a stop light. Next to her a bakery was baking fresh chocolate chip cookies. Dinah could smell the cookies baking on the breeze. It made her sick to her stomach. She hated the smell of chocolate chip cookies. As soon as the light turned green, she revved her engine and sped through the intersection. She couldn’t wait to get out of Gotham.

After crying for what seemed like forever that day, Dinah had left the apartment. She never bothered to turn off the oven and discovered the next day that the apartment had burned down and she was presumed dead. The news suited her just fine. From that day, she lived on the streets, bound to nowhere and no one. She even left her name behind, calling herself the Black Canary.

Her mother had always called her that, because ever since Dinah was a tiny girl, she could sing with a beauty that brought tears to her mother’s eyes. “You are my little black canary bird,” her mom would say as Dinah sang and her mother braided her hair. “Sing for me some more, my black canary.” And Dinah would.

For reasons she didn’t understand her larynx could emit sounds at a higher frequency and power than any other she had ever heard of. She made her voice her weapon, as it could incapacitate people with ease, or at a close range, shatter glass, brick or concrete. She could even send resonant waves through metal. The Canary’s Cry she called it.

And so Dinah died, and Black Canary wandered the world, from Metropolis to Gotham and all points in between, and wherever she saw women being taken advantage of, or hurt, or under threat, she made a stand and usually left blood and death and a survivor in her wake.

Dinah never imagined living a life of a vigilante outlaw killer, but then, she never thought she would hate chocolate chip cookies.

Violence changed everything in her life forever.

Finally she reached a highway on ramp leading away from Gotham. Dinah wanted to hole up somewhere quiet and small town-ish for a while. She saw a sign for Metropolis and headed that way, but her destination was a city just outside Metropolis called Smallville. She had heard of a country fair there once, and thought they had a singing competition. Maybe she would enter.

She gunned the engine of her motorcycle and sped off into the brightening day. The storm was past, and a new time was shining through the clouds. Miles raced beneath her wheels and the highway sang a song of peace.

For a rare moment, Dinah smiled beneath her helmet.

League of Justice #1.6: “The Undiscovered Country”

Isla Paraíso

The sky was dark, and threatening, lit from behind the clouds by a sun that wouldn’t shine today. The air was heavy with water and warm, warning of a storm to come.

Her feet pounded against the heavy sand whump whump whump in uninterrupted rhythm. Behind she left divots marking the path she made since she left the jungle.

The ocean waves crashed against the shore, relentless as her footfalls. She let her mind wander their dark and restless surface, then below, where the wet things roamed.

She remembered a day when she went swimming, farther off shore than ever before, racing dolphins. She was faster than most, but there were a pair of wolphins, dolphin-killer whale hybrids, that outpaced her, the first time anything had beaten her in a race other than the wind.

She loved her morning run, especially when it turned from jungle to beach. Isla Paraíso only had beach on half the island, a good fifty miles or so. The other half of the island was comprised of rock cliffs rising hundreds of feet from the ocean floor. Thick jungle with a few plains breaking out of the overgrowth covered the rest of Paradise Island.

She snorted, then regretted it as the snort interrupted her breathing. Paradise Island is what she and her sisters called the island, but it really was anything but paradise. Situated in the heart of the Atlantic, it was prone to be swept by hurricanes, in season and out. It was full of dangerous predators. And, other than the several hundred women who called it home, it was void of intelligent life.

But, she then recalled, there was plenty to make such a place like unto paradise: myriads of exotic birds, thousands of wild flowers in all colors and shapes. Everything seemed to be so vibrant and alive here, like it was protected and blessed in some special way. The pace of life was slow, uncomplicated, unhurried. At least, that would have been paradise for someone that wasn’t her. She craved adventure and excitement, which was why she enjoyed her runs so much. It was the one time of the day she could escape the doldrums and move as fast as her heart desired. While in the jungle, she had to be wary and alert to evade predators and venomous plants and quicksand and dangerous muck and ooze that could ensnare her and leave her somewhat easy prey. She loved the way her pulse pounded when a wildcat caught her scent and swept along in hungry pursuit. Never really in danger, her heart nevertheless quickened with the sensation of being chased in an earnest life or death struggle. She was strong and deadly herself, but one wrong step would leave her vulnerable. She reveled in the excitement of winning the chase when, without breaking stride, she leapt up into the trees and ran along the branches or swung from vines, or when she flat outpaced the wildcat, leaving it breathing hard and searching for slower prey.

She ran barefoot, as always, and relished the sensation of digging her toes into the sand, grabbing it, and throwing it behind her as she ran. She knew that an endless spray of grit was being left in her wake. She again reasoned, like usual, that Isla Paraíso was a paradise to her as well.

Diana reached her favorite place on the shore, a large broken rock that jutted out into the sea. It was an anomaly on this part of the island, there was plenty of rock on the other side, but not here. Diana leapt to the summit, and stood watching the stormy waves. They were gathering energy from the coming storm, more angry and violent than before. She paused from her run, breathing in the tangy salt air. There were few smells, even among the heady aromas of island flowers, that she loved more than the smell of the sea. To her it was a wild call for more than she knew, for a life lived beyond the confines of the island, no matter how paradisiacal. She longed to see what was beyond the sea.

She knew of course that out to the east lay Europe, and beyond it, Asia. That beyond the rock cliffs lay America, arrogant giant that fancied itself a ruler of the world. That above lay an Arctic Circle, and below her island lay an Antarctic wasteland of frozen ice and blinding white snow. She knew the world was vast beyond the confines of Paradise Island, but she was forbidden to see it. Diana and her sisters lived in exile, and had for hundreds of years ever since they found the island. Using selective breeding from the few males who first came with them, and then later science of their own devising, the sisters maintained an entirely female population, ruled by a matriarch. The Sisters of Paradise, as they called themselves, were stronger, smarter, and more potent than most strong men elsewhere on the planet. They were almost goddesses in the genetic perfection they had achieved, and so they named themselves as gods. Diana herself was named for an ancient Roman deity. Diana was the goddess of the hunt, of the moon, and of the giving of life. Diana loved the association, though she often smirked at the presumption of naming one’s daughter after a goddess. She was proud of the heritage her mother bestowed upon her by naming her Diana, and always strived to earn it, day after day.

Dismounting the rock, Diana continued her run along the beach. A light rain began to pelt down from the darkening sky. Diana didn’t mind the rain, mostly she ran fast enough to avoid all but the occasional drop, unless it down poured which it seemed it would do any…now. The falling water was so thick it obscured Diana’s vision, but she laughed and ran faster. Nothing unleashed her soul more than the wildness of the elements.

A loud crack and boom sounded overhead, but it wasn’t lightning nor thunder. Breaking through the clouds, a military jet, smoking and on fire, dove towards the beach. Another explosion rocked the craft, though it little mattered. In seconds the vehicle smashed into the beach in a plume of sand. Diana ran towards it, defying searing heat and striking flames. There was a pilot trapped in the cockpit, a woman. Diana raised a fist and smashed it through the clear canopy. Grabbing the pilot she jerked her from the plane, and ran backwards. There was no time to spare as the rest of the fuel and munitions the plane was carrying exploded spectacularly. A dark, oily smoke rose to join with the dark clouds of the storm.

Diana laid the unconscious pilot out beneath an overhanging banana plant. The large leaves gave shelter from the falling rain. Diana gazed at the military aviator, noting a lack of injuries. She then allowed her eyes to linger on the beautiful visage revealed beneath the helmet, which Diana removed. Diana wondered who the woman was, and how her plane managed to pierce the shielding the Sisters had erected around their island specifically to ward off intruders from the outside world.

Diana smiled. This was different. This excited her more than the wildcat, more than the run, more than the storm.

This was new.

League of Justice #1.5: “When We Have Shuffled Off”

Smallville, Kansas

Clark sat in the dim light of the bunker beneath his dad’s barn in the middle of Kansas. He was staring at a computer terminal, familiar and yet alien. It was built by a long dead society by his real father to yield to Kal-El (Clark’s real name) any information he needed.

The screen read: ENTER SEARCH TERM OR QUERY

Clark typed: KRYPTON

The computer loaded multiple articles on the planet, the word, history, economics, population studies…Clark stopped reading headings after the first 100. He sighed.

“What happened? Where are you?” He whispered to the semi-darkness. Without warning the hologram of Jor-El appeared.

“‘Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.’ As it says in Proverbs. Of course, the assembled wisdom of all Krypton couldn’t save us from ourselves.”

“Wait, you know the Bible?”

“It was written, partly, by ancient Kryptonians who visited earth in disguise to learn of the cultures and environment. Of course, we intended to only leave behind scattered writings as humans. We had no idea our thoughts would one day be thought of as Scripture.”

“Woah.” Clark just let that one sink in a moment. “But what does the quotation have to do with Krypton. What happened to you? Why are you dead?”

“We are dead because we were arrogant and stupid. Our pride preceded our fall. We exploited and ravaged every single fertile planet in our solar system and beyond. We visited a wreak of destruction everywhere we went. We were smarter and stronger than any race we encountered and we assumed any resource we found was ours for the taking. We stole and we pillaged and we burned. We left nothing for anyone else. It was our undoing. Eventually the White Lantern took notice and sent the Black Corps to punish us. When they arrived we…”

“Wait. White Lantern? Black Corps? Who are they?”

“The Lanterns are intergalactic Peacekeepers who have been around as long as time itself. There are various corps who are tasked with different roles. The White Lantern rules all. The Black Corps deals in judgment. When the Black Corps arrived and started attacking our outposts, we knew our time was up. The Black Corps used to simply reset the balance. They would force an aggressive species back to their home world and allow them to slowly rebuild and explore more wisely. But the ages corrupted their purpose and they only sought vengeance and death. They were intent on our total annihilation. All of this occurred while you were still in womb.”

“So the Black Corps destroyed Krypton? How did I escape?”

“Eventually they did. At first we held them off. General Zod, leader of our armed forces, mounted a furious defense. At first we stood ground, but we were outmatched. The Black Corps beat us all the way back to Krypton. It was then I knew I needed an escape plan, but not for me. For you. Our sector’s Green Lantern visited and…”

“What do the Green Lanterns do?”

“The Green Lanterns guard justice. They are peacekeepers and judiciaries of disputes. Our Green Lantern was Maskill, and he was from a nearby planet, similar to Krypton, and Earth, in many ways. He visited and told me there would be no stopping the Black Corps assault. I asked him for help, and he promised to talk to the White Lantern, intercede on the behalf of life. He was about to leave when General Zod landed where we were and attacked Maskill. I didn’t think Lanterns could die, but so great was Zod’s fury that he completely overwhelmed Maskill and killed him. During the battle I fled. I knew then that saving you was the only way to preserve Krypton.”

“How did you do it?”

“I’ll tell you…”

Krypton, 18 years ago

Jor-El rushed into his home, breathing heavily. Lara, very pregnant, wobbled over to him. “Jor, what is it?”

“Maskill. He came to visit me. But Zod showed up. Killed him.”

Lara gasped. “Why?”

“Zod is consumed with rage. He knows we will lose to the Black Corps and Krypton will die. He spends his rage freely on anything that is against him. We must act quickly, I fear now we have little time. With Maskill’s death, the Green Corps will join the fight. We have less time than we thought.”

“Our baby?”

“Yes. He must endure, and with him the knowledge and life of Krypton.”

“Then let us do this now.”

Lara and Jor-El had been planning during Kal-El’s gestation how to save him, at the least, if all went ill in the battle with the Lanterns. Jor-El had built an escape vessel, loaded with an intelligent artificial brain, and with it Kryptonian genetic material. Should their son survive, so would the Kryptonian race. If he came of age, he could artificially inseminate and Earth woman who would give birth to a new Kryptonian. They programmed the ship for Earth, a planet the Kryptonians had studied long ago. Earthling biology was very similar to, if less evolved than, Kryptonian biology. Kal-El would survive and be disguised by the local population. The AI would chose carefully of the millions of potential landing sites to pick an optimal spot.

Performing delicate surgery, Jor-El and a medical robotic technician transplanted Kal-El from his mother to the capsule. Not daring to lose any time, the fetus would finish maturing inside the capsule, and continue for at least a few years on life support, if need be. It wouldn’t take that long to reach earth, but it might take that long to find a suitable surrogate family.

Safely inside, Jor-El programmed the ship to leave, and it did, with a quiet whumpff of anti-gravity engines. Jor-El and Lara held each other close and watched their son rocket off world.

It was then the Black Corps arrived. Two alien beings, each with two heads, scales, and bright feathers trailing down the spine appeared. They were naked, but upon claws they held black rings. They spoke, rasping.

“What is on the pod, and where does it go, Jor of the house of El?”

“Please, it is our unborn son. He is an innocent. I have sent him to exile on Earth. He will know nothing of Krypton and his unborn hands are innocent of our crimes. Let him live.”

There was silence, then one head spoke.

“So be it. You will die. Your crime is known and your punishment will be swift.”

The black rings glowed and suddenly Jor-El and Lara were ashes.

Smallville, Kansas

Clark Kent closed the door to the underground bunker. His heart was heavy with the knowledge of his parents’ death. He walked over to the farm house porch. His mother was on her rocking chair, enjoying the evening, sipping a lemonade. Clark was 17, and leaving the next day for Metropolis and college life. He had won a scholarship and would have a free education. But tonight he was filled with sadness, both for the parents he never knew, and those he would soon leave behind. Ma could see her son was upset. She rose up, walked to him, and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Somewhere, out in the prairie, a bird sang to the dying sun.

League of Justice #1.4: “That Patient Merit”

Smallville, Kansas

Clark Kent, now 15, emerged from the bunker beneath his father’s barn. He had come to refer to it as his “fortress of solitude”. It contained an alien space capsule. A capsule he had been placed inside when only a few days old, a capsule that contained a hologram of his father. My space father. Clark reminded himself. His real father, Jonathan Kent, would be heading out into his fields to work after breakfast. Harvest was soon.

Clark had grown with the knowledge that he was more than he appeared, more than everyone thought. Clark had known ever since he had known anything that he did not belong on Earth, that he was an outsider, a loner, one of a kind, an entirely different species. The reality was hard to accept, most days, because he had arms and legs and hurts and dreams just like all his friends and everyone he knew, but there was that capsule. And, there were, well…other things. As far as he knew, none of his friends had nearly unlimited strength, quickness, or the ability to fly. Clark could hear the slightest sounds at extended distances, see the smallest objects or those far away. He could even shoot lasers from his eyes. He was a freak of nature that he didn’t understand. To make it worse, he had acne, often tripped over his own feet, and was incredibly awkward. In other words: Clark was a teenager with extra headaches.

When he was a small boy, he discovered that he could see and hear much more than anyone else, and more than he himself wanted to hear or see. The constant assault on his senses was more than he could bear. His mother, Martha Kent, had spent extra time training Clark to focus on the sounds and sights he wanted to see and hear and to let everything else fade away into a background buzz. Still, most times Clark wore noise canceling headphones that blocked a majority of what he could hear, making him almost normal, and he wore dark glasses that forced him to only see what was immediate. It was explained to his classmates and teachers all his life as a disability, but Clark knew the real truth: in human terms, he was the superior man, the ubermensch that obsessed Friedrich Nietzsche.

At key points in his life, five years old, ten years old, and today on his fifteenth birthday, the capsule that once kept him alive also would reveal history, information, science, or family details in the form of the hologram of his father, a man named Jor-El from a dead planet called Krypton in a far, far away corner of the galaxy. Today the hologram showed him an interface hidden inside a wall panel, an interface that would allow him to search for any piece of information the seemingly endless database held. The training hologram was finished, the rest of his Kryptonian education was up to him. What he would do with it, Clark had no idea.

He took the porch steps two at a time, which meant a single step from ground to porch, and walked into the old farm house. The screen door closed behind him with a slight bang. It was September, but Kansas was still warm. The fading summer warmth swept through the house on the prairie breeze. Clark could smell his mother in the kitchen, and more importantly, the eggs and bacon she was cooking. His father, from the sounds of it, was still dressing upstairs.

“Good morning, Ma.” Clark hugged his mom from behind while she flipped bacon and stirred eggs.

“Good morning, Clarky. What did your father have to say?” He knew she meant Jor-El. Jonathan Kent was always “Pa”, just as she was always “Ma”.

“The rest is up to me. No more guided lessons. He showed me a built in computer, and how to use it. I can look up anything I want to, read anything stored inside.”

“Wow. Well, Happy Birthday from Krypton!”

“Ma-a” Clark elongated the final “a”. He was less enthused by his galactic heritage than was his mother, but then, Ma always was fascinated by anything and everything scientific. It was she that speculated how he could shoot lasers from his eyes: she postulated light emitting cells embedded in his retina, much like those in bioluminescent animals on Earth, but more powerful, that were focused by Clark’s lens and cornea in the reverse way in which they worked for normal sight. But, speculation it remained since the Kents had never let anyone closely examine Clark for “abnormalities”. His special abilities remained a family secret for now.

Meanwhile, Clark poured some coffee into a “World’s Best Dad” mug, and walked it up the stairs to his dad. He knocked on the door.

“Come in” came from inside, specifically the master bathroom. Clark could hear the scraping of his dad’s razor against his face. He was shaving.

Clark opened the door and walked past the bed into the bathroom. Pa Kent finally smelled the coffee.

“MMmm. That smells good. Coffee for the old man? Thanks, Clark.”

“You’re welcome, Pa. Oh, you missed a spot.”

For a brief second Clark’s eyes glowed red, then a small beam of scarlet light leaped from his eyes, ricocheted off the bathroom mirror, and ended on Pa’s face. There was a small flash and a wisp of smoke curled up from just above Pa’s chin.

“Ow! Scamp! I told you not to do that!” Pa’s anger was a mascarade. In truth the laser felt like a bit of a pinch, and wasn’t all that bright, just enough to singe hair. Clark and Pa were close, and they constantly teased each other. It was around Pa only that Clark felt comfortable being completely himself, relaxing into the full range of his super human abilities. Pa rubbed his face ruefully and sipped the coffee.

“Hm. That’s good coffee. Your mother must have been awake this morning when she brewed it.”

Clark smirked, leaking a small laugh. Martha’s intermittent coffee making skills were a long established family joke.

“Ma says breakfast will be ready soon. Better hurry or I won’t leave any for you.”

“Yeah, right. Then you can walk to school this morning.”

“I’d rather fly!”

“Yeah, that’ll be the day. You keep dreaming, Clark.”

Clark floated down the steps just because he could. Today was a good day. Someday he knew that his powers would be used for more than just playing or showing off. When one could do what Clark could do, it wouldn’t stay hidden for long. And once the world found out about it all, it all would change. When that day would come, or what it would hold, Clark didn’t know. All he could do was patiently wait, and remember what his father told him that morning, in the dim light under the barn:

“You will change the earth, Kal-El. You will be an impossible standard for humanity. They will strive to master you, but will be unable to match even your shadow. Be better than we were. In our arrogance we invited our own end. Use your power only for good, reach down from the heights, and build humanity up. They are young and violent and proud. You will fly in the sun and they will run to catch up. You are an example of the best they can strive towards. They are mere men. You are the super man.”

Let’s Go Buy a Bike!

Hello everyone.

My health is not the best, and some medications I am currently taking for my mental health issues are not helping. To that end I need to lose weight and exercise. Therefore, I need to buy an exercise tool.

My doctor, and mother (separately) suggested a recumbent exercise bike, like this one. This bike is available on Amazon.com for $157.

I’m NOT asking for money.

I am having a bake sale instead to help raise money for this life necessity which I am otherwise unable to afford. I have been shooting LEGO Portraits for a while now. I am offering Lego Portraits for sale. They are perfect for that eclectic piece of art for the living room or hall. They are great for a kid’s room, or an office. They work fantastically in a man cave or crafting room. I’ve got a portrait for anyone and any space. Fun is the key, creativity is the aim.

I am offering one 8×10 for $12.
I am offering one 5×7 for $5.
I am offering one 4×6 for $3.

I am offering 10 random collection of 5 4×6’s for $10.

I have two autographed Lego Portraits (20 pages) preview photo books for $20 ea.

I have one other autographed book of Instagram photos for $15.

If I sold all of the above, 1 each, I would have $105.

Shipping is included in all the prices.

I also am offering commission pieces. You tell me what you want to see and I shoot it. Say you have a thing for drummers or auto mechanics. I will shoot you a custom Lego Drummer Portrait or Lego Auto Mechanic Portrait. These would go for $25 and would include a 4×6, an 8×10, and a digital download.

Please, share and tell your friends. Help me raise what I need to live a healthy life.

Check out the existing Lego Portraits here. Contact me via email at myself AT philipjoel DOT com.

Thank you for your help.

By Way of Apology

I feel like I should apologize.

After all, my mother was there, and saw the whole thing. My grandmother was honored at the occasion, and some of my best friends were on hand to see it all go down. My oldest brother stood beside me, I looked across the aisle to catch the eye of my sister. My father cried, at the time with pride and joy. I stood before God, and everyone, and said two words that would change my life forever: “I do.”

And, right now, I don’t. I’m not. I…can’t.

My marriage is practically over, and has been since sometime in June, maybe July, I don’t know exactly when it ended because I didn’t end it. My wife did. To be clear right here right now: I am not blaming Hannah for the failing of my marriage, I guess I should say, our marriage. I’m not blaming me, either.

Blame implies intent, and it was neither Hannah nor my intent to end the marriage we started three years, nine months, twenty five days, and roughly six hours ago. At this time then we were in our bed (no, don’t get icked out) reading all the cards we got, absorbing the well wishes of those who gave us their best on our special day, listening to the Atlantic Ocean crash against the beach.

When Hannah packed her bags and left this May it was on a relocation for work that happened to coincide with an agreed upon separation. Our marriage has been enduring my depression and mental illness and Hannah’s burden of caring for me and working full time. One or the other would have been manageable, perhaps, but not both. Also, two years back, I dealt her a hard blow: I de-converted from evangelical Christianity. In the process I inadvertently damaged my wife’s religion and her marriage. She married one person, one person who prayed with her during our wedding ceremony and stood before God to promise I wouldn’t ever hurt her, and now she was married to a person who now not only no longer had a God to promise to, but was adamant no God at all existed. In my religious self-destruction, Hannah caught a lot of shrapnel and collateral damage.

Along the way, we struggled with each other and ourselves over who we were, what we were about, and what we were doing with our lives. I, for much of the marriage, have been completely unable to answer those questions or even reasonably approach them. Hannah felt trapped and unable to assert herself, a self that continually diminished the longer she was with me. More and more of her life was spent trying to keep me on an even keel.

The failure of the marriage was my fault. Had I been mentally well and able to share my burdens and care for Hannah as a husband, and had I regained my faith, Hannah would not have felt so alone, so tired, so scared all the time. The failure of the marriage was Hannah’s fault. If she had stuck by her vows and her promises and not left me, she would have been around to see breakthroughs we never thought possible in my condition, and the start of me standing on my own two feet. But the failure of the marriage is not Hannah’s fault. It is not my fault. It is our fault. It takes two to tango, and just as strangely, it takes two to keep tangoing. One person dancing is not a tango, and it really doesn’t matter who stopped dancing, or who started dancing a different dance. When both partners stop being in harmony, the tango is over.

But, because the marriage failed and many of you were there to see it begin and witness the promise I made, I feel I should apologize to you for failing to uphold the marriage, for letting it fail, for not keeping it together. I’m sorry the words I spoke proved empty and vain. I am sorry that I wasted your time and your trust and your well wishes. I am sorry that I proved a failure as a husband and that you had to see it. It was never my intention, never what I wanted.

At this moment, I feel empty. There is a massive, gaping, bleeding hole in my heart and in my bed, and on my couch, and in my life. My wife is missing. I want her back. I really feel that we haven’t given this marriage our all, not yet. But I am only one person. No matter how hard I dance on the hard wood, I cannot dance a tango solo. I don’t know what is going on for Hannah, not anymore, so I can’t speculate or talk about that. Everything else in my life is finally starting to go right. As soon as I can get a job, I’ll be good. I just need someone to share it with for the rest of my life.

And since you were there to see me promise that of and with Hannah, and that has shattered: I offer my apology. And I thank you, for all your support and love along the way. I learned a lot from Hannah, she will always be incredibly special to me, and I will love her till the day I die.

Hannah, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I failed you. I wish you all the happiness in the world. I love you.

League of Justice #1.3: “This Mortal Coil”

Smallville, Kansas

Clark was like any other boy, the first few years of his life. He burped, he messed his diaper, he learned to talk, he learned to walk. It was when he learned to fly that Ma and Pa Kent knew he really was from another world. Clark was five, and was hanging from the ceiling fan in his bedroom, spinning in a slow circle and giggling incessantly.

“Clark! Come down from there this instant!” Martha wasn’t going to put up with any horseplay. Not in the house, anyway. Clark released his grip on the fan blade and floated downwards. Martha snatched him out of the air.

“You know better than to do that!” It was only then that Martha realized what exactly had happened. She was so used to being unsurprised by anything that it took a few seconds for the surprise to hit her. She clutched Clark tight, who by now was squirming to be let go, and ran into the kitchen. There Jonathan was enjoying a ham sandwich for lunch.

“Jon…our baby can fly.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘our baby can fly’!”

“Yes. I heard you. Doesn’t look like it.” Jonathan gestured to the struggling toddler, still in his mother’s arms.

“He was hanging from his ceiling fan and when I told him to get down he just floated into my arms.”

“Well.” Martha expected her husband to say more, but he didn’t.

“Well what?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never encountered a flying baby before.”

“I’m not a baby.” Clark entered the conversation with indignity on his face. “Can I go play?”

Martha looked at Jonathan and he looked back. Eventually he turned to Clark. “Yes. But stay on the ground and inside, ok? No…” he searched for the right way to explain things to a child “…floating. Understand?”

Clark looked at him curiously for a second before he nodded and twisted out of Martha’s arms. He scampered off towards the playroom.

“So…our boy can fly. Or float, at least. That’s new.”

“Jon…what is he?” Martha, for the first time, appeared to be frightened.

“Our son, Ma.” Jonathan reached out to hold her hands. “No matter what else, he is our son. We always knew he was different. Now I guess we find out just how different he is. After all, he did come from somewhere else.” Jonathan gestured towards the ceiling, indicating the heavens. Then he paused. He remembered the capsule little Clark had arrived in.

“I wonder if there is anything in his basket.”

It took Martha a second to understand what he meant. “The capsule? Didn’t you say there wasn’t anything inside?”

Jonathan shrugged. “There was nothing inside where he was, but I never really looked anywhere else. I didn’t even open it myself. The canopy lifted on its own when I got close. It must have been set to automatic or something. I wonder now if there isn’t anything anywhere else in the thing.” He gave a half smile. “Well, we better look I suppose.”

Martha nodded. “Bring Clark, will you?”

“Why?”

“Well, it occurs to me that the canopy reacted to you approaching that night, and it would make sense that was a general sort of, I don’t know, trigger, to ensure the boy’s safety. Look, I don’t know, but whoever could build and launch that thing must have been smart and must have known about earth before they sent their child here. That’s what I figure. You wouldn’t just send your child off haphazard like. No mother would, without ensuring his safety.”

“Yeah…but what does that have to do with Clark?”

“Well, if there is any sort of information, about Clark or his parents or whoever sent it, doesn’t it make sense that it would only react to him? Maybe to keep it information secret until he needs to know it.”

Jonathan smiled. He loved that he married smarter. And prettier. “Sounds good to me. Clark! Come here!”

With a pounding of little feet, Clark ran into the kitchen and threw himself at his father’s leg. He clamped on and smiled, looking up.

“We are going on a little adventure. Your mom and I have something to show you.”

“A present?” Clark grinned, excited now.

“Sort of.”

The family headed towards the barn, little Clark suspended between his parents holding on to each by a hand. He would stand still while they strode forwards, then jump to land just ahead of them. Once in the barn, Jonathan led the way to a corner behind some old, rusted equipment. There he shoved a hay bale out of the way, revealing a cross patterned metal door. Grasping the handle, Jon heaved, opening the door. There was a quick rush of air as that beneath equalized with that above. A light flickered on, showing a ladder leading downwards.

“Ok, careful now.”

Jonathan descended first, then Clark, eagerly, but with halting steps as he slowly assessed each step before reaching with his foot. Martha came last. At the bottom of the ladder they turned, and saw a large, mostly dark room. Off to the side was an egg shaped object underneath a dusty blue tarp. Jonathan grabbed an edge of the tarp, and pulled it. It slid off the object, revealing Clark’s capsule, still as shiny as the day it crash landed.

“Wow.” Clark was wide eyed. He toddled towards it, reaching out a hand to touch it. As soon as he got within a foot, the capsule seemed to shimmer, and then, from nowhere, there stood a tall man, with a rugged white beard, long white hair, dressed in blue with a long, red robe. He spoke, in deep rich tones.

“Welcome, my son, Kal-El.”

Clark ran back to his mother, hiding in her dress, peaking out at the man. The man turned and assessed Jonathan and Martha.

“Identify.” Was all he said.

Martha looked at Jonathan, who himself seemed puzzled.

“Identify.” The man said again.

Jonathan looked at his wife. “I don’t think he is real. I think he is a hologram or something. A projection.”

At that, the man spoke. “I am a representation of Jor-El, of Krypton. I am father to Kal-El. Identify.”

Martha smirked. “I am Martha, of Smallville, and this is Jonathan. We are parents to Kal-El.”

The hologram man turned to her. “Martha of Smallville and Jonathan, I thank you for protecting my child. His mother and I were forced to send him into exile to save his life at the destruction of his home planet of Krypton. What you see here is how I appeared at Kal-El’s birth. I am an interactive information module. Over time, I am to inform Kal-El of his home world, of his nature, and of his history. Stored within this capsule is all the information Kal-El requires. It is time locked, so that when he is of age, he will know what he is meant to understand.”

Martha absorbed all of this. “But…he can fly. Is there information for us?”

The hologram Jor-El went silent and stared off absently. “Searching.”

After a moment he turned back to Martha. “It is suggested by the ancient scholars that at one time, when Krypton’s sun was yellow, it imbued the power of flight to all Kryptonians. Considered by many modern scientists to be mere myth, it appears my calculations were indeed correct. Earth’s sun has unlocked long dormant genetic abilities within Kal-El.”

Jonathan finally spoke up, but to Martha. “I guess it is some sort of computer. We ask it questions and it answers.”

Martha snorted. “Obviously.”

Overhearing, the hologram Jor-El spoke. “My interactions are limited. Please state a clear question.”

Clark stepped forward. “My name is Clark Kent!”

Jor-El looked down at him. “That is your earth name, and it serves you well. Your true name is Kal-El, son of Jor-El and Lara. You are from Krypton. You are the destiny of an entire planet, of an entire people. Return when you are of eight years and I will tell you more.”

The hologram of Jor-El abruptly vanished. Jonathan turned to go, but Martha called out. “Wait, what’s that!?”

The side of the capsule brightened, and a small door slid away. Inside was a leather bound book. Jonathan approached slowly and retrieved the book. The door slid back into place, once again presenting a smooth surface.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What is it?” Martha came to see for herself. Jonathan was laughing softly. “I guess babies do come with instruction books!”

On the cover of the book it said, in large, friendly letters:

RAISING A CHILD OF KRYPTON, TO THE CARETAKERS OF KAL-EL.

Martha suddenly turned. “Clark! Stop!” Eschewing the ladder, little Clark was floating up to the barn, content to propel himself by pushing down on the ladder rungs. Martha caught up to him rather quickly and swatted his butt.

“No flying!”

League of Justice 1.2: “We End the Heartache”

Gotham City

Rain was simultaneously beautiful and hideous when it fell on Gotham City. It was beautiful in the parts of the grand metropolis that still regained a facade of the respectable and the upright. It cleansed such structures and streets of the grime and filth of Gotham’s crime. It was hideous everywhere else. It overran gutters, flushing sewage down crumbling avenues. It liquified the grit and broken concrete, covering everything in a film of slime and oily ooze. Everything stank worse in the rain, and stuck to your clothes and hands and face.

Even so, Gotham in the rain was better than some places Dinah Drake had seen in the sun. When all you have are bad choices… Dinah mused. She was thankful for her tough motorcycle boots and armored leather. It gave her a layer of protection from Gotham’s muck. It didn’t make her smell any better, but it might reduce the number of showers she would need later. She wished she were astride her motorcycle, then at least she could also wear a helmet, but she needed stealth for this particular job, and her several hundred horses weren’t exactly quiet.

Taking advantage of her dark skin and black leather, Dinah moved from shadow to pool of darkness and back to shadow. Dinah had no idea who her father was, but he must have been of a lighter race than her mother. While still “black” to most people, Dinah was much lighter than her mother. Her mother’s blacker than night skin was velvety smooth, and as a child, Dinah had loved nothing more than resting on her mother’s chest, and staring into her deep, brown eyes. Moments of peace were hard to find in the Drake apartment.

Dinah pushed these thoughts from her mind, and concentrated. Up ahead was her target: Gotham Auto Loan and Pawn. No doubt another vulture picking over the down and out and nearly dead of the last of Gotham’s innocent, but poor, community. Who would be so desperate to remain in Gotham that they would put up their only way out as collateral on bad loans with such an obvious lack of a way to pay?

Dinah looked up and down the street. No one was in sight. This was the time. Closing the distance with quick strides that sent mini walls of water rushing away from her boots, Dinah rushed the door. Without breaking stride she kicked down the door and pulled a sawn off shotgun from beneath her jacket. Pumping a shell into the chamber, she barked at the geezer behind the counter.

“The cash. Now! In the bag!” She tossed a leather saddle bag at him. Going slowly, he fumbled with the keys to the drawer beneath the counter that held the larger bundles of money. The register, as Dinah knew, only held petty cash. “Move faster, old man.” Dinah spared a glance out the door, but still saw no one. Damnit! Where are they? A place such as this should be guarded by mob muscle. That they hadn’t shown was slightly more disturbing than if they had.

Finally the bag was filled. The man behind the counter slid it over to Dinah. She grabbed it, lowering her shotgun while doing so.

“Freeze, bitch.” The words were quiet, but dripping with menace. She felt the cold circle of a gun barrel press into her neck, tight against her spine. “One move and I’m raping a headless corpse. I’d do it to, cuts down on the struggling.” Where do all of these sickos come from? Gotham seemed to have more than its fair share of psychotic criminals. “What now?” Dinah kept her voice even.

“Hand the howitzer to Gerald.” Dinah held out her gun. The old man took it and aimed it at her. She gun at her neck backed away. “Spread em, bitch.” Dinah was spun around and shoved up against the wall. She saw then a doorway that she neglected to see when she busted into the place. Rookie mistake. You know better, girl! Her captor, whom she still hadn’t seen, patted along her arms and shoulders, down her back, and then, much more slowly, down her front, making absolutely sure she hadn’t hidden an armored tank division in her bra. Dinah endured the violation. She’d had worse, surprisingly, give this particular creep’s apparent taste. The hands reached her waist. He clicked his tongue.

“Too bad about the leather. I like me some smooth black skin.” Her penchant for jeans didn’t stop him from taking his time making sure she hadn’t stuffed an aircraft carrier down either side of her panties. He moved on to her legs. “Sorry, I left the fishnets and high heels at home, dick.” She took a risk with the insult, but the man just gave a grunting chuckle and finished his assault. “You are one stupid bitch. Now, you’re gonna scream for me.” He shoved himself against her, apparently not caring that he had a witness behind the counter. Still, Dinah obliged. She screamed.

An astoundingly loud and piercing sonic blast emitted from her mouth. The force of it snapped her head backwards and into the creep’s nose. It cracked audibly. In front of her the wall crumbled, cracking outwards from what looked like an impact crater from a non-existent projectile. Spinning, she savagely slammed a knee into the creep’s crotch and while he was sagging to the ground, Dinah screamed again, but with a lower volume and a higher pitch. In fact most of this scream was ultrasonic. The old man groaned and clutched his head. Blood trickled from his nose, ears, and eyes. Every bit of glass in the place shattered. He dropped the shotgun with a clatter onto the counter. Moving quickly, Dinah grabbed the bag of cash and her gun. She stabbed the barrel down into the creep’s face where it moaned from the floor. “Fuck this.” She pulled the trigger. The concussive blast shook the walls and counter. Dinah spun on her heel and ran out into the rain.

Death was nothing new to her, and besides, she felt less remorse than when she crushed a cockroach. Some breathers didn’t deserve the breath. Besides, living a desperate life had moved her past simple morals and quaint righteousness. A long time ago she had been left to fend for herself at the worst possible time in her life. A few years of selling everything and ruining her life out of survivalist necessity had hardened her to the choices she made. When all you have a bad choices, you choose the least worst option. Robbing thieves and murdering murders wasn’t even a bad choice in Dinah’s worldview. This was practically a good day.

A few blocks down the street, she arrived where she had hidden her bike. Securing the saddlebag, she revved the engine. Now that silence was unnecessary, she relished the roar. With a spin of the rear wheel, she shot off down the road. Water cascaded in crystal sheets. With the sun peaking out of the clouds behind her, ahead all she saw were shimmering rainbows.

For a second, the bleak dark world seemed to be a magical place.

The Recluse in No.8

I’m the recluse in No.8
the bearded creep with the little dog
the sounds of wailing and rage
filtering down to you who live below
I shamble out to the brambles
watch my dog do her business
and you wonder what mine is

I see the way you look at me
the recluse in No.8
with suspicion and dark
curiosity
am I a child molester?
do I deal drugs?
why do I never leave?

Wasn’t there a girl in there
a wife or lover
of the recluse from no.8?
where did she go, when did she leave?
if I was her, married to that guy
I’d have left long ago
who’d want to live with him?

You don’t see my tears
you don’t staunch the bleeding
of my broken heart
me, the recluse from No.8,
I’ve forgotten how to be happy
and it isn’t even always my fault
and these four walls keep me in

Without the crumbling white plaster
and battered, rotten wood
my guts and brains would have oozed away
in the strong midwest wind that shakes
the walls and rattles the windows
out of which the recluse from no.8
watches the outside world

I used to stand on my balcony
watch the birds fly by
and the squirrels scamper about
I used to count the bunnies and the minutes
wait for my girl to come back home
I wasn’t always a broken man
I wasn’t always a recluse in No.8