a simple man

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

League of Justice #1.1: “The Thousand Natural Shocks”

Central City, Missouri

Barry Allen hated running. He really, really hated running. As a young man he had been more interested in reading and school work, and as a result, never made time for athletics. The other kids on the playground used to love to race and run about, but the naturally slow Barry preferred to sit under the trees and work math problems. By the time he was a teenager, Barry had minted a catchphrase: “The quick of mind will always beat the fleet of feet.” It didn’t save him any harassment from the bullies, but it helped sooth his wounded feelings when his peers laughed at his discomfort.

As a young scientist, and PhD candidate, he was sometimes forced to run, especially when he overslept and was late for class. Again. Skidding to a halt inches in front of the large, glass doors that led into Garrick Hall, Barry stopped to take a few deep breathes. Garrick Hall was the main math and science building on the Midwestern University Campus. MU wasn’t as big as Metropolis University across Missouri in Kansas, but it was known for being a more intimate community of scholars. While every bit as prestigious, the “other” MU as Midwestern students called it, catered more to the rich and the famous and the upper class. Barry was a farmboy from Fallville, Iowa, and the smaller MU suited him perfectly.

Barry smoothed down his hair and absentmindedly tried to tuck in his shirt, but failed completely and completely failed to notice. Taking the steps two at a time, he scaled three flights of stairs, and walked down the empty hall to his classroom. He tried not to make eye contact with students in the other classrooms as he walked by. Finally he reached room 312 and opened the door as quietly as he could. He slipped into the back row of chairs and sat down.

The class was some variant of Organic Chemistry, and while Barry half listened to the lecture in progress, his mind worked an entirely different problem. Barry was currently obsessed with a new method to produce heavy water that would take half the time and a fraction of the energy currently needed to produce the coolant for nuclear reactors. He had been conducting an experiment all night, which is why he had slept late for class. He felt he was close to a breakthrough.

Later that night…

A bluish flame burned atop a chemical burner, and a cauldron-like flask bubbled. Elsewhere on the lab table, chemicals oozed through pipes or gradually mixed into compounds. Barry Allen was hunched over a laptop entering a large amount of data and simultaneously monitoring his experiments. He doubled checked some results, and toiled over a maintenance program on his supercomputer mainframe that was running a simulation. If he didn’t get the results he was looking for, he would be in serious trouble. He had procured a grant from the prestigious Wayne Foundation for the Sciences, but one thing foundations that granted grants wanted were publishable results. Without them it was hard to secure funding from their wealthy donors. None of that would matter, however, if Barry did succeed. He had secured a conditional contract for use of his formula from LexCorp, the industrial giant run by businessman Lex Luthor. Conditional meaning on the condition that his heavy water synthesis method was useful in some way. Luthor paid well, but only for working prototypes and applications. Otherwise he would blackball a scientist into oblivion. That was the danger of working for Lex Luthor: rich if you made it, forgotten if you didn’t. But Allen was running out of options to continue his education and fund his research, and couldn’t afford to turn down funding, no matter how shady the source.

Outside Allen’s lab, a heavy rain had begun to fall and in the distance, thunder rolled ominously. Barry barely heard it. He rushed from one side of his bench to another. Grabbing some large rubber gloves he grabbed some forceps and carefully lifted a test tube half full with green liquid. He slowly poured it into a flask that contained a purple powder, and ever so gently swirled the two substances together until they mixed. He turned to check the bubbling cauldron and noted the temperature on the attached gauge. Just a few more seconds. He set the flask down and removed his gloves. He pulled a tattered notebook from his pocket and opened to the first blank page. He scribbled a few notes before putting it down. Consulting the thermometer again, he saw that the liquid had reached the desired temperature. He picked up the flask, and stepped up onto a stool next to the lab bench. From here he was able to peer through the steam and into the cauldron. Taking care not to spill or splash, Barry poured his mixture into the boiling liquid. Instantly a thin stream of blue steam lifted into the air, but Barry ignored it. This was expected. What came next was entirely unexpected.

A loud crack of thunder shook the entire lab. From the corner of his eye, Barry saw a bolt of lightning descend from the dark clouds and arc towards the skylight in the lab. Everything afterwards seemed to take place in slow motion:

The lightning jumped to the skylight’s metal frame, shattering the glass. Barry hunched his shoulders and ducked his head against the rain and descending shards. From the frame, the lightning leaped to the top of the chemistry apparatus. It immediately spread throughout every metal frame and connection. It arced through the air, exploding the Bunsen burner and instantly boiling the liquid and the mixture therein. Barry felt a pricking in his thumbs and every hair on his body stood on end and repelled each other. A second and a third flash of lightning hit the exact same point on his set-up and this time shot right through his body. The flask he was holding shattered and for a nanosecond, the mixture within seemed to coalesce into a single point before expanding rapidly in every direction. Barry simultaneously inhaled the gaseous mixture, swallowed what was left of the liquid form, and felt the substance splash onto his skin, leaching into several slashes made by falling glass. A fourth bolt of lightning struck and with a loud bang everything went dark after a final eye searing flash.

League of Justice #1.0: “The Law’s Delay”

Gotham City

“Scum.”

The word once uttered was more growl than intelligible speech, not that it mattered. Once the gloved fist impacted the side of the head, the explosion of pain triggered a deep ringing that made hearing difficult.

“That’s the last time you’ll mess with the Phantom Stranger!”

Phantom Stranger? Is this guy for real? Despite the pain, scattered thoughts still filtered through the would be mugger’s mind. He would have followed that thought up with an audible retort, but the masked man that had gripped his shirt with one hand was landing another blow, this time across the nose, with the other hand. There was a crack and blood spurted. The crook decided cowardice was the better part of criminal enterprise, and blacked out.

The Phantom Stranger released his grip. His former punching bag sagged against the alley wall and slid to the ground like a bag of broken bones. In all likelihood, that was bound to be not just metaphor.

The Phantom Stranger reached down and retrieved an expensive looking leather handbag. He offered it to the woman standing on the other side of the alley, frozen in place.

“Here you go, ma’am. And next time, I’d park in a more well lit area if I were you. Gotham’s dangerous enough in the daytime.”

She took it without a word, and walked as fast as she could back towards the street. The Stranger watched her go.

The Phantom Stranger turned and climbed up a fire escape. Reaching the building roof, he strode to the edge and looked over the street. He watched as the woman made it back to her car, and only when she was safely inside and pulling away did he relax. He pulled off the ski mask he was wearing and ran a gloved hand through his hair.

Bruce Wayne flexed said hand, and vowed to sew more padding into the glove when he felt the familiar sharp pain of bruised bone. Criminals may be stupid, but skulls were still too hard to hit without consequence. Bruce briefly remembered the mugger in the alley. Usually he preferred to leave the thugs for the cops, trussed and waiting, but without evidence of a crime there was little point. Besides, Bruce was noticing that most of the crooks he did deliver to the police, evidence helpfully pinned to their clothes, didn’t end up behind bars. Someone seemed to have sway over the law which meant little jail time for offenders. Bruce was still working up his list of suspects, but it didn’t take a genius detective to connect dots. Crime in Gotham was a family business, and the Falcone family was large and prosperous and slightly beyond the reach of a seventeen year old vigilante.

Bruce’s phone buzzed. He edged back into the shadows before picking it up. The caller ID showed as “Wayne Manor”. Only one person ever called from that line.

“Yes, Alfred?”

“Ah. Master Bruce. How nice of you to answer. May I assume you are still at the library?”

By library Alfred Pennyworth meant Gotham Public Library, where Bruce had said he was going to be.

“Uh, yeah. Still studying.” Bruce was distracted, watching a bum in a ragged coat shuffle down the street. He couldn’t decide if the man was drunk or suspicious.

“That would be an achievement indeed as the library closed an hour ago. Where are you, Master Bruce?”

Bruce cursed. Caught again, and by his butler!

“Oh, right, uh, I mean I’m in the parking lot of the library. Still, uh, studying.” Bruce cringed. What a stupid excuse.

“Indeed. Shall I come collect you?” Alfred’s voice was cold as ice. He was upset. Because Bruce’s mother was dead and his father a coma patient, Alfred had assumed the role of surrogate parent.

“No. I’m on my way home.” The bum had collapsed against a dumpster and had presumably fallen asleep. No real threat there.

Bruce hung up on Alfred and retreated back down into the alley. By the time he emerged onto the dimly lit street, he had removed the mask and gloves of the vigilante known as the Phantom Stranger and had morphed back into Bruce Wayne, aspiring high school graduate. As a matter of fact, he should have been studying. Alfred was pushing him to finish with the same good grades he had always gotten so that he could apply to the prestigious Metropolis University, not that a Wayne would be denied entrance to any university in the country. Bruce’s family fortune guaranteed admittance.

Descending into the Gotham Metro, Bruce contemplated his chosen life, and not the public one that everyone knew. Even Alfred was unaware of the Phantom Stranger and Bruce’s penchant for late night pummeling. Ever since he was a kid, Bruce had felt a churning rage and frustration. He hated injustice and couldn’t stand criminal violence. He often wondered why it seemed more people didn’t stand up for themselves and fight. Without being fully aware, Bruce always felt like his parents’s death was preventable, and hated his younger self for remaining frozen while they were gunned down. He had promised himself he would never be that scared kid again.

He still remembered the first time he actually intervened against a bully, at school one winter a few years ago. The power and the sense of justice he felt was potent. Soon after, Bruce started looking for fights, and not just with school bullies. Leaving a Gotham Raiders baseball game one summer evening, Bruce noticed two guys grab a backpack from a older man after savagely pushing him down. They ran off with their prize, and without thinking Bruce was after them. Three blocks from the stadium he caught up to them. Up close, they were bigger than he was, and not at all intimidated by a kid, but Bruce didn’t even think. He demanded the bag back, and when they refused, grabbed for it. He acquitted himself well, but failed, and had to explain the blood and bruises to a curious butler later. After that night, he trained harder and decided to give himself a bit of an edge. Also he realized it wouldn’t do to be beat up as Bruce Wayne. He was, after all, fairly famous. And thus, the Phantom Stranger was born.

Arriving at the library stop, Bruce, exited the metro car and climbed the stairs to the outdoors. Summer was nearly here and he would soon graduate. Alfred would insist on another summer long journey to some far off country for a three month vacation or “cultural learning experience” as he called them, and then it would be off to Metropolis and college. Soon the Phantom Stranger would disappear from Gotham’s streets.

For some reason Bruce couldn’t quite pinpoint, that burned somewhere deep inside.

He swung his leg over his motorcycle, left in the library parking lot, and revved the engine. Pulling his helmet on, he glared into the darkness. With a spin of the tires, he gunned off for Wayne Manor. For tonight, the Phantom Stranger was off the clock. Bruce Wayne had finals to study for, and this time, for real.

World Mental Health Day

Hi. My name is Phil. I have a mental illness.

It just struck me as I was typing that line that mental illness is often the punchline of a joke or having a mental illness is played for laughs in some circumstances. I know some people would be upset or indignant about that, but I don’t care.

Not caring is a symptom of mental illness, in my case, depression. It takes feeling and a certain level of self actualization to generate outrage and moral fiber and the will to do something, even if it is to say “hey, maybe there really are mentally ill people and they don’t like being made fun of or something”. Also, I find mental illness jokes funny. A consequence of my long association with depression is a very dark and subtle sense of humor. Mental illness jokes appeal to me on a very wrong level. Well, not wrong so much as abnormal.

Anyway, today is World Mental Health Day. I started writing about my experiences with depression a long time ago as a way to help myself articulate what I was feeling to everyone who knows me and bothers to read what I write, and also as a way to destigmatize mental illness. It is a condition anyone can have, just like anyone can break a bone or get cancer. I am an otherwise normal person who is depressed.

I am not sad because of life circumstances, although I do have plenty of those to feel pretty sad about, the reality is I am sad even when everything is great. Case in point: it is currently October, and I am a baseball fan, and October is the time for the MLB postseason. Usually this is my favorite time of the year. It has magic, wonder, the best teams in baseball, and exciting high stakes games. I have to force myself to enjoy my most favorite thing in the world outside of Star Wars. And I haven’t watched Star Wars in over a year, either. And I love Star Wars most. Most people enjoy what they enjoy. They don’t have to try, they don’t ever think about it, they just enjoy it. I have conversations in my head: “Hey, Phil, look: Star Wars!” “Oh, that’s cool. I guess. I mean, it isn’t not cool.” “What?? That is a salt shaker shaped like a Darth Vader PEZ dispenser on a super fluffy blanket that is also a Jedi cloak!! That is mega-Star Wars-awesome!” “If you say so. Hey, is that the ground? It looks like the ground.” Er, something like that. My point is: depression robs me of my chance to feel and to enjoy.

I am on medication, which is why my depression no longer completely debilitates me. I used to live in a black fog where nothing ever was anything other than a painful haze. Now, sometimes, I do enjoy things. Sometimes the sun breaks through and I have a good day. Those days are still rare. What is worse, I have absolutely no control over when I have sunny days or when I have hazy days. They happen when they will.

Because of this I cannot hold a job, most days I cannot bother to look for a job. A month ago I did look for a job. I found a job. I got excited about a job. I even got called to come and interview for the job. I then emailed two days later and turned the job down. In the space of two days I went from feeling like I would be able to engage in an awesome month long job (it was working in a haunted house) to feeling like it was the biggest mistake I could make and there was no way I could handle it. Ever since I have gone back and forth over anger at myself for turning down work when I need the money, disappointment over turning down a cool haunted house job, or being so glad I did because I can’t bother to take a shower much less get out of the house and into makeup and feel any sort of enthusiasm for scaring anyone. Although the reality is most of the time I feel nothing one way or the other about the job.

And the struggle with mental health goes deeper than me. I lost all of my close, emotional support because of my mental illness. My wife left me, being completely unable to understand or cope with my mental illness. I don’t blame her, usually because, like with most things, often I don’t have the ability to be mad or sad about losing my wife. In my few moments of clarity, I acknowledge that living with someone who is completely debilitated by something entirely in their head is not easy at all. It takes a supreme amount of patience, love, and self-strength. I should know, most of the time I hate being me. I wish I could get away from me. But I can’t. I never will. And nothing I do can change that. She could leave, and the truth is: I envy that she could.

So I do my thing. I struggle to get out of bed, to do something on any given day. My dishes go unwashed, my house goes uncleaned, my hair goes uncombed. Then, every so often, I get a breakthrough, a surge of energy and of feeling and I can do some or all of those things. Right now I struggle to pay bills and afford what I need because I have no job and employers aren’t eager to hire people with mental problems, even if I could find a job I could con myself into applying for. Life is tough and you would never know it because I seem so normal, I can write well, when you ever see me I am putting on a terrific acting performance to hide from you what I really am. I smile, I converse, I do things, I seem completely normal. It is entirely an act. I rarely feel anything I emote. And the act so completely exhausts me that I spend the next few days in a fog.

I am strong, I am resilient, which is why I am still here, but being that takes everything I have on any given day. And that is why I am a twenty-six year old man living with a dog in an apartment that I rarely leave and struggle enjoying the best sport in the world at the best time of the year: I have a mental illness, and it is crippling.

Today is World Mental Health Day. Remember that not everyone is obviously ill, but many are suffering in ways you cannot imagine because you are normal. Be the best friend you can to everyone you know, because you might not always know who needs that the most. Don’t try to fix a mentally ill person. You can’t do it. Just be their friend and never stop, no matter how hard that seems. That is the only thing that works. Spread love as far as you can. Some of us need it more than you could possibly imagine. Above all, know this: mental illness is real, and it is just as damaging as cancer or any other human condition.

Search my blog for “depression” to find other posts about my struggles.