A. Lee Martinez's Blog, page 16

Certified Organic

The thing about the most popular shared universes is they often happen by accident. Nowhere is that more true than in the shared continuity of the Marvel and DC superhero universes. It all started out simple enough, with each company putting out superhero comics with a range of characters. People got the bright idea that fans liked Batman and fans liked Superman and it wasn’t that hard to put the two of them together. Then Wonder Woman shows up. Then Aquaman. Then a Justice League, and so on. It’s a hodgepodge, messy system, and there’s a reason most superhero universes are a crazy collection of characters, themes, and ideas. In the Marvel Universe, there is everything from street level vigilantes to magical gods to alien empires to government conspiracies to alien horrors to talking duck people and on and on and on. It is a world of limitless possibilities, and mostly it was because the creators threw everything against the wall and then retroactively tried to make it into something coherent. The weird thing is that it worked. The MCU movies actually did the same sort of thing. They were more organized about it, but still, the fact that Iron Man grew from a simple movie about an obscure superhero into a worldwide phenomenon is not something anyone could’ve expected. Nick Fury’s cameo in the first Iron Man is cute, a little Easter Egg for the fans, but there was no way to tell it would evolve into this juggernaut of a media empire with films ranging from space opera to heist film to spy thriller and with more yet to come. To be sure, the films at this point are very orchestrated, very controlled, and I think we’re starting to see a little fraying at the edges. Age of Ultron, while a good movie, is not a great one because it seemed a lot of editorial mandate was in play. Also, just as in the original comics, there is a point of too much continuity, of losing your emotional story in pursuit of plot points that are meant to pay off sometime in the future. Still, the MCU has managed to hold together mostly, even as it opens vistas. Doctor Strange will be the next big leap. If it manages to introduce out and out magic to the Marvel Universe (and not the relatively safe “Superscience as Magic” version of the Thor films), then the MCU will have succeeded in creating probably the first ANYTHING GOES cinematic superhero universe. How long it will be able to maintain that is anyone’s guess, but so far, so good, right? Meanwhile, Warner Bros. attempt to rush their shared cinematic universe is mostly floundering. There are a lot of reasons for this, but probably most of all, I’d say it’s because no one at WB seems to genuinely respect the material. Man of Steel was devoted to “fixing” Superman by making him sad and ineffective, and it looks like BvS: Let’s Forget that Batman Doesn’t Believe in Killing People Because It’s Convenient for the Plot is trying to cram everything into it in a mad dash to get on that gravy train. It also doesn’t help I believe that Zack Snyder is at the helm. Whether you like him or not, his style is simply too distinct, and it’s not all that great for superheroes. Especially lousy for Superman, I think. One of the thing the MCU has in common is a certain shared style that is easy to adapt and work with. The films have their own sensibilities, but those sensibilities work well enough together that it’s not hard to imagine Ant-Man, Captain America, and Star-Lord all living in the same world. Simply put, I don’t believe Zack Snyder has the versatility to be the architect that builds the foundation of the DCCU. Or perhaps he is just too strong a director to suppress his style, which could very well end up hobbling the entire series. So far, we’ve had two films in this series. Both are dark and dreary and maudlin. How does something like Aquaman or Plastic Man fit into that? Captain Marvel? To be fair, it’s more of DC’s inferiority complex at work. They’ve been trying to prove themselves as “sophisticated” as Marvel for decades now, and all they’ve managed to do is make a bunch of gruesome and depressing comics about an invincible alien and a rich guy dressed in a bat suit. Marvel has the luxury of being light without having to be considered light. Captain America is about as corny and old-fashioned in his sensibilities as you can get, and it works because he’s allowed to be. I can’t predict where any of this will go. I imagine BvS: Scowly Scowl Scowl will be a success, and I imagine the people at WB will immediately begin fixing whatever it perceived as wrong with it regardless. Like mad scientists, they’ll keep focus grouping and rewriting and editing and planning and focus grouping some more until they stumble their way toward the success they want or they finally give up. Either way, it’s a strange process to watch from the outside. And, yet, I cannot look away.

The Day the Line Stood Still

Super JanineThe government didn’t approve of superheroes. Most superheroes, aside from the occasional sentient robot or alien visitor, were only human. Nobody with any sense would be excited about giving the Average Joe the power to shoot lasers from his eyes or teleport across the universe. Given their druthers, the government would’ve probably depowered ever superhuman they came across and lock up those they couldn’t. For the greater good, or so they’d say. The idea was still floated now and then by some senator or city council member looking to make a name for themselves. Some were probably sincerely worried. Most were out to score votes off of public fear. And they could get far on the anti-superhero ticket until some evil genius with a phantom legion or conqueror aliens appeared and made short work of the army and whatever conventional defenses were available. Then it was up to us, the superheroes, to save the day. Most people with superpowers didn’t take up heroing, and for those people, life went on as normal. Maybe Fran’s ability to generate fire from her hands made family barbecues a little easier, and I’d heard there was a guy who could control animals with his mind who was a heck of a dog catcher. But as long as they minded their own business, they were allowed to live their lives like any regular citizen. But for us superheroes, the government wanted at least the appearance of some control, and that was why we had to get licenses. Considering how many times I’d saved the city and even the world on occasion, you would think they’d speed up the process. Give us a special “Superheroes Only” express line. But they made us wait in line at the DMV like everyone else, and it wasn’t by accident. Even the most invulnerable superhuman was powerless against government bureaucracy, a little reminder of our limitations. Dementra, Warrior Queen of Galadron, sat beside me in the hard plastic chairs. She glanced at the lighted sign that showed the current number being served. “Are you up soon?” I held up my slip of paper for her to read, but she’d yet to master earth numbers. She still got her fives and sevens confused. “Soon,” I lied.  I didn’t know for certain it was a lie. The sign wasn’t predictable. Numbers would scroll by quickly, only to freeze so long one had to assume the sign had broken, and we were all stuck here until the proper paperwork for a replacement went through or the universe succumbed to heat death. Whichever came first. Dementra fidgeted. She hated stuff like this. On Galadron, government was a streamlined series of fights. Want a driver’s license? Punch a space bear. Registering to vote? Wrestle a six-armed gladiator. Have a complaint about your senator? Battle to the death. It was a harsh world, but it had its upsides. “You didn’t have to come,” I said. “As your boon compatriot, it is my duty to aid you in all warrior obligations.” She slouched in her chair. “Also, I had nothing better to do today.” The number sign clicked backwards. I thought I caught some of the clerks giving me the eye. A lot of clerks didn’t like processing hero licenses. More paperwork than normal. I got the feeling they were putting me off. Normally they couldn’t tell I was a superhero, but the bubble gum pink space Amazon beside me, even wearing a Mickey Mouse tank top and some torn jeans, wasn’t great for blending in. Eventually, my number was up. I gave the clerk my name and handed him my license. He scanned it. “Class A Superhuman Emergency Involvement,” he said, more to himself than me. “We don’t get many of these.” He typed a few things into his computer. “Powers?” “Isn’t that already in the system?” I asked. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “We need to ask. For confirmation.” “Super strength, Category One,” I said. “Limited invulnerability.” He adjusted his glasses. “Limited how?” “It’s not in the system?” He frowned, annoyed by the situation as much as I was. “Confirmation.” I leaned closer and whispered. It wasn’t as if the information was secret, but what superhero liked announcing her weakness to the world? “Solar radiation.” “You’re vulnerable to sunlight?” “Not vulnerable,” I said. “It’s not like it can kill me. I mean, I guess it could if I spent my days tanning. I’m not weak to it. I’m just not unusually resistant to it.” He nodded. “Are you, or have you ever been to the best of your knowledge, radioactive?” “No.” “Do you emanate any sort of psychic energy field that could pose a public health risk?” “No.” “Have you accidentally or intentionally caused undue damage to public or private property through use of your unique abilities?” “Yes.” “Have all these incidents been reported to the appropriate parties?” “Yes.” “Do you ever feel an overwhelming desire to destroy all those who oppose you and if so, have you sought appropriate psychological counseling for these urges?” “No.” “No, you haven’t felt these urges. Or no, you haven’t sought counseling?” Stuff like this was why people became supervillains. “No urges,” I lied, and he didn’t call me out on it. “Have you been to outer space, the center of the Earth, any unknowable dimensions, or temporally displaced in the last year? And if so, were your vaccinations up to date at the time?” “Yes and yes.” “It says here your archenemy is Strongobot, the strongest robot in the world. Is this all?” He said it with judgment. Like I’d screwed up somewhere by not being important enough to have more bad guys dedicated to my destruction. “Yes.” “Do you have any reason to believe your archvillain will pose an undue threat to the city by your residency here?” “No.” And so on it went. Question after question. I’d glance to Dementra now and then. She amused herself by playing with several children stuck here. Kids loved her. She might have been a savage alien warrior, but she had a way with kids. She caused a teddy bear and doll to telekinetically dance for the amusement of the children and grateful parents were happy for the distraction. “Eye color?” asked the clerk. “Brown,” I said, relieved. It was always the last question.  “All right then. I’ll need you to step to the right so that we can take your photo.” When getting my first license, I did my best to look heroic. Steely eyed, determined, serious. Now I’d just settle for one where I wasn’t blinking. He snapped the photo. The machine spit out a laminated piece of plastic that he handed to me. “Thank you. Have a pleasant day.” “You too.” But he was already done with me and didn’t offer so much as a parting glance. Dementra gave the children some hugs, and we were out the door.I handed her the license. I hadn’t the courage to look at it myself yet. “How’s it look?” “Good.” She squinted. “Though I think there’s a bit of broccoli in your teeth.” “Ah, damn it.” I picked the speck from my teeth and sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Didn’t notice.” “Some boon compatriot you are.” I tucked the license in my pocket and breathed deep the fresh air of freedom. Free for another year, and there was always the possibility that I’d be killed by a mutant dinosaur or a solar death ray before renewal came around again. It wasn’t likely, but optimism was all part of the superhero game.

(Un)Real (writing)

Time for another installment of my sporadic yet insightful posts on writing and storytelling.

In the past, I’ve commented on the dangers of “Realism” in fiction. Especially that brand of negative grimdark that so many people, both artists and audience, equate with realism. It seems that realism will be used to justify all kinds of unpleasantness in a story while rarely is it invoked for a positive effect. Sure, a person might get hit by a car on the way to reconcile with their one true love, but it’s also entirely possible for that same character to instead win the lottery. Realism is a handy tool for getting a character into and out of trouble and advancing a plot in any way the storyteller is too lazy to justify.

This is why I think it’s important to understand that realism is rarely the goal of a good story. This might seem contrary to how a story should be. It makes it seem like stories can make up their own rules as they like, and that we’re free to ignore the rules of reality as we know it when it suits our purposes.

Yes and no.

The first thing we have to address is that I am a fantasy and science fiction novelologist. Reality isn’t usually my primary concern when creating stories about vampires, robots, or raccoon gods. That doesn’t mean I’m allowed to just make everything up on the fly, and it doesn’t mean I can wave my hands and just solve a story problem by saying “a wizard did it.” Yet in nearly all cases, the rules that bind me aren’t that of reality but of drama, comedy, and satisfying story structure. Reality is a part of that, but not the biggest part.

The term “Reality” itself is loaded when it comes to storytelling. I break from reality all the time, and most of the time it’s obvious. If you happen to know a werewolf or a space squid from Neptune then maybe you have a different view of reality, but my stories are chock full of unreality. Those obvious bits of fantasy are acceptable to most everyone because we know from the start that they’re not meant to be realistic. But every story has its breaks, its genre conventions, its general rules.

Most realistic police procedurals don’t focus on paperwork though that’s a huge part of the job.

Most romances don’t give the hero a slight lazy eye.

Most horror stories don’t have the characters call the police and gun the monster down.

We’re so accustomed to these rules, we rarely even consider them rules in the first place. And, yet, these are all fantasies in their own way. Fiction is full of brilliant serial killers, dashing pirate kings, monsters that lurk in the shadows, and other things that we accept without blinking. Yet even in more grounded stories, there are usually rules at work that define the genre and our expectations. Even literary fiction, with its lack of focus, its random events, and its tendency to have stuff just happen, is playing by its own rules, not subverting them.

This doesn’t mean reality is always unimportant. If I’m writing a story about a normal man who gets shot seventeen times in the chest and have him get up and walk away, that’s going to destroy the logic of the story. If aliens show up and capture the drug lord mastermind out of the blue, that’ll ring untrue. A monster story where the monster has a random heart attack and collapses probably won’t work. But each of those examples are entirely plausible in terms of options for the storyteller.

It’s important to remember that fiction is made up. You’d think this would be obvious, but then try criticizing a story’s choices and you’ll often run into a strange opposition where people will talk about it as if it actually happened. Named after the aliens from Galaxy Quest, The Thermian Argument goes something like this:

“Superman shouldn’t kill people.”

“But he didn’t have a choice. Zod was going to kill that family.”

The criticism is one of a story choice for a character. The rebuttal is talking about the story choice the writer made. Yet these are two different arenas of discussion. It’s perfectly acceptable to talk about each and how they relate to each other, but they function in different ways. If I suggest that Superman, as a character, shouldn’t kill people because A) it goes against the themes he often stands for and B) it makes it way too easy for him to solve all his problems in the future because a Superman who is willing to kill when he “must” is virtually unstoppable and the rebuttal is he had no choice. It’s talking about fantasy as if it’s reality.

Nothing in Man of Steel happened. It’s all made up. We understand that when it comes to crazy stuff like flying and heat vision, but it applies equally to the events that take place. The “reality” of Zod and Superman’s struggle is just as fictional as everything else.

Even the creators of Man of Steel understand this. They didn’t have Superman kill because he had no choice. They wanted him to kill someone (for whatever reasons they might have had) and created a situation where he killed. It wasn’t as if the screenwriters put Superman in that moment and were powerless to change it. They are the literal gods of that universe. Nothing happens without their approval. This is the dirty little secret of fiction that gets overlooked all the time. Its reality is defined only by the writer (and director and actors) and the audience.

“Reality” is only a tool toward the experience of a story, and that’s the truth. The goal of nearly every story is to create an experience, not reality. And this is why, whenever I hear someone praising “Realism” in a story, I think they’re probably missing the point of the story in the first place.

Stories are about feelings.

There are no exceptions.

Even something like Lord of the Rings with all its worldbuilding and volumes of history is popular because it draws people into it. The history is part of that, sure, but if it was only history, we wouldn’t care. You can write the history of your imaginary universe or lay out how your lightsabers work in excruciating detail, and it still doesn’t mean jack if you don’t get me to invest in your story some way. And that way is feelings. Stories without emotion in some form tend to fail. That emotion can be anything from happiness to sadness to dread to anger.

Reality isn’t how you do that, and a slavish devotion to the concept isn’t justification for missing out on what makes us like stories in the first place. Don’t make your story “Realistic”. Make it good. If it happens to conform to reality as we know it that’s fine. But it isn’t the goal.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Sacrifices (short fiction)

In celebration of A. LEE MARTINEZ APPRECIATION WEEK!!, a new Life in Rockwood short:  There were secrets in Rockwood, and nobody knew them all. Mayor Ortega knew only one, but it was the worst one. It came with the job, and he would’ve never run for office if he’d known in advance. Now he had to live with it. Elena helped him with his tie. “Honestly, Julio, you should’ve learned how to do this by now.” She sounded annoyed, but she was smiling. She loved taking care of him, especially the small things. Tying ties and picking fuzz of his jacket, making sure his hair was combed to her liking and keeping an eye on his nose hairs. “We’re going to be late,” she said. “They can’t start without me,” he said. “I’m the Mayor.” She took his head in her hand and kissed him. “And a handsome one at that.” She returned to the bathroom to apply her makeup. She didn’t need it. He loved ever wrinkle, every pound she’d put on over the years. They were the trophies of a life together.  “I’ll be back, Elena,” he said. “I have to do something.” “We’ll be late,” she said, though she was the one not ready. He didn’t point that out. “It won’t take long.” He slipped out of the house while her attention was focused on mascara. He drove down the dusty road. The Founders’ Day celebration started at dusk, and he had an hour or so. He wondered if it was worth it. Rockwood, a patch of forsaken desert in the middle of nowhere, a place where the dead were restless and the living were often more restless. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. He hadn’t made up his mind as he pulled up to the Schneider’s trailer. The door opened before he could honk. Buddy Schneider and Tourmaline came out. Buddy’s ill-fitting suit was wrinkled, and his tie was askew. Tourmaline wore an old flannel robe that covered her. “Front seat or back?” asked Buddy. “Doesn’t matter,” replied the Julio. Tourmaline sat in back. She was a plain girl. Not ugly, but not one to turn heads either. Buddy leaned in the window and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “What must be done . . . ” “Must be done,” she finished. She smiled, “I love you, Dad.” “Love you, too.” He caressed her hair. He might start crying. God, Julio hoped there wouldn’t be crying. “Buddy, we’re on a schedule here,” he said. “Sure. See you at the festival, Mayor.” Julio nodded and drove away. He stared at the road ahead and did his damnedest to not look at the girl in the back. That’s how he thought of her. The girl. She had no name. Born with but one purpose. It wasn’t worth it. But damned if he wasn’t strong enough to stop himself. Rockwood might not have been much, but it and its citizens were his responsibility. It had to be done. They rode in silence, and even if he didn’t look at her, he could see Tourmaline with her chin tucked down, looking at nothing. The old mine had been boarded up ages ago. Julio pried away a few of the planks so that they could go in. He’d forgotten his flashlight, but Tourmaline had the foresight to bring one. He’d brought a map, but she knew the way. She led him deeper into the cold, cruel earth, and he wondered why he was here at all. Someone had to witness it. They reached the ancient antechamber. Statues of broken, twisted gods best forgotten decorated the walls. The whole place stank of mildew and brimstone, and a hot wind swirled around them. Julio had never been here before. The sacrifice was only demanded once every twenty-one years. It was just his luck to be Mayor when it came due. She undid the robe. He looked away, expecting her to be nude, but she was wearing a modest one-piece swimsuit. He wondered if that made a difference. She’d probably know. She’d been raised her whole life for this moment. She sat on the altar in the center of the room, and they waited.They didn’t wait long. “Who brings the sacrifice?” asked a creaky voice from nowhere and everywhere at once. “I do,” he said. “And does she come willingly?” “I do,” she said. “And in exchange for her purity, we shall refrain from destroying your town. A most fair bargain, is it not?” “It is,” they said together. Tourmaline laid down on the altar, and a thing emerged from the darkness at the far end of the chamber. It was long and thin and pale. Vaguely humanoid, but then again, vaguely not. To describe it further would require the Mayor to look directly at it, and he knew to do so would drive him irreversibly mad. The horrible god approached the altar. Chuckling, it reached out with its long claws and stroked Tourmaline’s cheek. Its hand burst into flames, and it howled. “This girl is not pure,” it hissed. “What treachery is this?” “She is, I swear,” said the Mayor. “Tell him.” Tourmaline sat up. “Well, they’re might have been some hand stuff, but I didn’t think that counted. Maybe some mouth stuff too. But, like, only once or twice. Maybe three times.” The chamber rumbled. “You dare betray the pact?” “Not me!” said the Mayor. “I didn’t know! Blame MTV! Blame the internet!” The secret god of Rockwood roared. A statue fell over and shattered into pieces. “You shall suffer eternally for this, fool. You and every mortal above shall writhe in agony as I devour their souls for this failure.” The god cackled. Tourmaline punched the thing in its sort-of-face. It sort of exploded and fell to the ground. “You dare touch me! You, impure whore of–” The kicked it, and it whimpered like a wounded puppy. “Fuck you,” she said, “And fuck your antiquated view of sexuality.” She stomped on the god’s back and ground her heel into its back. The thing, once terrifying, was nothing now. Live by the virgin sacrifice, die by it, guessed the Mayor. The thing withered and shrank away until it was nothing. Tourmaline and the Mayor left the antechamber behind. The moment they exited the cave, it collapsed. They drove back. Tourmaline sat in the front this time. “Hand stuff, huh?” asked Julio. She shrugged. “Might have been some more stuff too. Don’t tell my dad.” “Oh, I don’t think he’ll mind,” said the Julio. Chuckling, they left the forgotten gods and their impotent demands behind.

Ferryman

As part of my regularly scheduled posting, Friday is Stuff I’ve Written Day. It’ll be a chance to post something I’m working, something I’ve written a while ago, something I’m thinking about writing, something I just scribbled out on a quiet day. Writing is a strange process, so some of these pieces might be complete stories and others might just be fragments I found interesting enough to share.

This is possibly the beginning of a novella, possibly just something I wrote for my own amusement. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it.

FERRYMAN

“It’s pronounced Charr-On,” said Charon as she handed the homeowners her card.

The husband, a tall, lanky fellow with a long chin and a short forehead, glanced at the card. “It’s about time one of you showed up. Where have you been? He died six months ago, and he’s been nothing but trouble since.”

Charon shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m just filling in for the regular guy.”

The wife, short, stocky, with a flat face, said, “Harry, don’t get mad. She’s here now.”

Harry grumbled.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” said the wife, though Charon didn’t have to and elected not to. “He and my father never got along. My father’s restless spirit hasn’t forgotten that. Always howling in the middle of the night about how Harry is a good-for-nothing failure. Making the walls bleed. Ruining the TV reception.”

“You don’t have to tell her all our business, Gloria,” said Harry.

“You don’t,” agreed Charon. “I’m just here to collect him. I don’t need the details.” She stepped inside without being asked.

The words Harry is a dipshit were burned into the entryway carpet.

“I suppose you run into a lot of angry spirits in your job,” said Gloria.

Charon said, “I’m just filling in. Part time.”

“Just as long as you get rid of the old bastard,” said Harry.

“Oh, Harry,” said Gloria.

“What’s it going to take?” he asked. “Some kind of ritual? Do we need to leave the house? Is it dangerous? Will there be property damage? Will the city reimburse us?”

Charon cut him off by holding up her hand. She sniffed the air. The dead always smelled weird. This one stank of turpentine and gravy.

“Okay, Grandpa, fun’s over. Time to move on.”

A gray shade stepped out from behind the couch. If not for his lack of color and some of his skin peeling away, he might easily be mistaken for a flesh-and-blood human being.

Gloria said, “Dad, have you been hiding behind the couch the whole time?”

Charon didn’t bother explaining. The shade wasn’t anywhere until she called upon him. It was only the call of a ferryman that could materialize a soul.

“C’mon, Gramps. Let’s go.”

Grandpa frowned. “Yeah, all right. I’m going. I’m going.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the ass, Dad,” said Harry.

“Fuck you, Harry.” Grandpa flipped Harry off one last time. The screen on Harry’s prized 80 inch high definition television cracked in two.

“Something to remember me by, you worthless shit.”

“Wait for me in the car,” said Charon.

“Yeah, yeah.” Grandpa shuffled out the front door.

While Harry inspected his television, Gloria caught Charon by the arm.

“What’s going to happen to him?” asked Gloria. “What do you do to him?”

“I don’t do anything,” said Charon. “I just drive them to the other side.”

“And what happens there?”

It wasn’t the first time Charon had heard the question. It wouldn’t be the last. It was tempting to simply lie. People didn’t want the answer, even if she had it. But she had no special insight, no inside information.

“I just drive.”

Gloria’s face fell. “Oh.”

It might have been concern for her father that disappointed her. It might have been fear over her own eventual fate. Everybody died. It might have been nice to know what to expect when they did. If the mysteries of death were more open maybe there’d be no call for ferryman to drag the reluctant dead on their way.

That was assuming those mysteries weren’t utterly terrifying. Maybe the truth would only cause the dead to huddle in the shadows of the living world, pissing their pants, begging not to be sent to realms more horrific than mortal minds could comprehend.
Like most ferrymen, Charon had learned not to think about it. It’d just drive you crazy.

Gloria thanked Charon for stopping by, and Charon didn’t say that she was just doing her job. It might help Gloria if she thought of it as calling. Like a priest. Although there were probably times even the holiest of priests got sick of listening to people’s shit.

Charon got in her car and checked this house off her list. “You need to get in back, Grandpa.”

Grandpa, sitting in the passenger seat, said, “What? With them?”

The three other restless shades wiggled in their cramped quarters.

“There’s no more room back here,” said the fat shade.

“Make room,” she said. “The front is for the living.”

Grandpa and the other shades complained, but they had no choice but to do as she said. Stronger souls might resist, but in the end, they’d always follow orders.

“I don’t have a seatbelt,” he said.

The shade of a young woman said, “He can’t have mine. I died in a car accident. I’m not letting it happen again.”

“You can only die once,” said Charon.

“It’s awfully uncomfortable,” said Grandpa as he tried to squeeze between the fat guy and the thin guy, like the undead version of Laurel and Hardy. The fat guy even had the mustache.

“Deal with it. We’re almost to the river.”

She turned on the radio and Grand Funk Railroad filled the interior.

“Oh, not this hippie music,” said Grandpa. “Am I in hell?”

“Don’t ask her to change it,” said Laurel.

“The radio is for the living,” added Hardy.

Charon smiled. “Damned straight.”

A ferryman’s job wasn’t very difficult. It required almost no training. It was more of a knack than anything. Both Charon’s mother and father had been full time ferrymen, but Charon and her brother only did it part time. It was an easy way to earn a little extra cash, like pizza delivery but with pizzas that wouldn’t stop complaining.

All that was required was that a lost soul pass over a river by a ferryman. Nobody knew why it worked, but it worked. While most people had the good sense to die and pass on without having to be escorted, some folks were too stubborn or stupid or possibly just missed by the claw machine that plucked the souls of the deceased. Ferrymen were a cosmic backup plan to keep the restless dead from piling up in the world of the living.

“How much farther?” asked the woman.

“Not much,” replied Charon.

“Will it hurt?”

“No.”

There was no point in worrying them. Her passengers could be annoying, but they were having a hard time of it. Nobody was happy to be dead. Nobody who stuck around anyway.

“I’m scared,” said the young woman.

This was why Charon went out of her way to not learn their names.

“Nothing to be scared of,” said Charon. “Whatever is waiting, we all have to face it sooner or later.”

“What do you think it is?”

Charon sighed. “I don’t think about it.”

“How can you not think about it? It’s all you do all day.”

“I’m part time,” said Charon.

“Still, you have to think about it sometime.”

“No. Never.”

It was a lie, but none of the souls in her backseat wanted to know her conclusions. It didn’t matter. The answers were already waiting for them.

The bridge came into view. Just a short, bumpy drive over a tributary. There often was barely enough water to fill the drainage. But as long as there was some, it worked well enough.

“It’ll be fine.” She sounded sincere. She’d gotten good at faking that.

Her car drove over the bridge. She didn’t always watch them go, but she made eye contact with the woman and nodded to her.

They were gone as soon as the car reached the other side. Four more souls delivered to the other side on this street in this quiet neighborhood, a gateway to the netherworld beside a 7-11 and a grocery store.

She pulled over, rolled down the windows to get the smell of the dead out, and went inside for a Slurpee. There was something about the company of the dead that allowed her to enjoy the pleasures of the living more enthusiastically. She didn’t know if they had cherry Slurpees on the other side, but on the good chance they didn’t, she’d grab one here whenever she could.

When she got back to her car, there was a shade sitting in the backseat. The pale spectral figure with white eyes and white hair and a gray button up shirt stared straight ahead.

She leaned through the backseat window. “Where the hell did you come from?”

He turned his head at her and blinked. Slowly. His lips moved as if to talk, but no sound came out.

“Speak up, buddy,” she said.

The unfamiliar shade howled with such force she was thrown back as every bit of glass in her car shattered. Her ears ringing, she sat up, putting her hand in the cold, sticky ruins of her Slurpee.

“Son of a bitch.”

The shade jumped out of her car and ran to her side. “Oh, Jesus. Are you okay? I don’t know what came over me.”

He offered her his hand. His touch was colder than the frozen beverage. She managed to salvage the half that was still in the cup.

He noticed his colorless skin. “Oh, shit. What happened to me?”

“You’re dead,” she said.

“I’m what?”

Charon sucked on her straw and appraised her car. All the mirrors had cracked as well.

“I can’t be dead,” he said.

“Everybody can be dead. Eventually. Why the hell did you do that?”

“It was an accident. Wait. So I’m dead? I don’t feel dead.”

“Trust me. I know.”

She started the car. The engine sputtered a bit, and there was an unfamiliar knocking.

“I’ll pay for the damage,” he said.

“How? Even ferrymen don’t take checks from the underworld. And where the hell did you even come from? I certainly didn’t pick you up.”

He looked around as if expecting to find the answer behind him or written in the clouds.

“I don’t know.”

“Forget it,” she said. “Just get in. I’ll drive you over.”

“Over where?”

“Just get in. I don’t normally do this for free, but in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

He complied, like a good little shade.

“Backseat,” she said.

They drove over the bridge.

He didn’t disappear.

She turned around and did it again.

He remained.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

She contemplated the mysterious stranger who broke the rules of everything she thought she understood. Faced with mysteries she couldn’t unwrap, she did the only thing she could.

“Get out.”

“Are you sure I’m dead?” he asked from the curb.

“I’m sure,” she said. “Good luck.”

She drove away, watching the shade disappear in the broken cracks of her rearview mirror.

Tail Feathers: A Review

As part of my Not-Quite-Resolution to be a consistent internet guy, I’ve decided to devote Wednesdays to reviews and digressions about my chief hobby: Tabletop Gaming.

And, yes, I was into tabletop before it was cool. Although it’s still not really that cool, so I guess that still applies even if I started last week.

Last year was full of interesting, unique games, giving me plenty to talk about. Today, a review.

TAIL FEATHERS by Plaid Hat Games is a game of aerial combat between warring factions of rodents. Mice and rats, piloting birds through the trees, battle it out to be the first to destroy the enemy’s nest. The premise is fairly standard fantasy in many ways, with birds replacing the dragons or gryphons that might show in other games. Tail Feathers is based in the same setting as Plait Hat’s Mice & Mystics game. I’m not a fan of that game. It’s just not a very interesting dungeon crawler style game, and replacing the standard hero and villain archetypes with mice and bugs doesn’t make it stand out.

Since then, Plaid Hat has gone on to make some truly fantastic games. Sufficiently intrigued and after taking some time to watch some videos online, I decided to give Tail Feathers a shot. While Mice & Mystics is a relatively straightforward game with a tacked-on theme, Tail Feathers takes its premise and runs with it.

There are already dogfight games out there. Probably most popular at the moment is the one based on Star Wars. I’ve played it, and while it’s not a bad game, it still is just a dogfight game. The system is so generic that it’s been applied to both a Dungeons & Dragons theme and Star Trek. It works, but it never really stood out to me.

Tail Feathers is different, and a big part of that difference is that the birds are only part of the game. Each player also has ground forces composed of rat and mouse warriors who take part in the battle. The most interesting and unique aspect is that, each round, players send their ground units on missions. Those missions can range from simple decoy operations to rescuing downed birds and even outright siege attacks on the enemy tree. It’s risky though. Those birds flying around in the sky are always capable of swooping down and ending a mission before it starts or the enemy forces might engage you in the fields of grass before you even get where you’re going. The mission system is simple but undoubtedly what initially sold me on this game. It has an aspect of bluffing and strategy that most dogfight style games can’t.

But the mission system alone isn’t enough if the aerial battles were boring, and here, Tail Feathers shines again. Each bird unit is composed of a bird card and a pilot card, each with different possible levels, creating many variations. You might have a nameless bird piloted by a rookie hero or you might have a legendary named bird and skilled hero on your side. Every pilot has strengths and weaknesses, as does every bird. And the tilt system is a great idea as it allows one to predict flight patterns to some degree while still allowing some unpredictability.

One of my favorite advanced rules is the death spiral. Two birds who collide end up locked in a screeching battle, tumbling from the sky. Get caught in this spiral too long and both birds come crashing to Earth. It’s highly thematic and great source of tension.

Meanwhile, ground forces scurry through the brush and among the branches, fighting among themselves. I’m a sucker for games with a great theme that manage to be great games at the same time, and Tail Feathers is a perfect melding of theme and gameplay. Even without the theme, the game itself is solid through and through. It’s thrilling to engage in dogfights (or is that birdfights?) while below you, your ground units scurry about on missions and battle among the branches. Incorporating the advanced rules (which are all fairly simple) adds elements such as sending raiding parties across the battlefield on drifting leaves or watching falling feathers get in the way.

Tail Feathers is a blast, pure and simple.

There are a few caveats however. (Aren’t there usually?)

First off, Tail Feathers is an expensive game. It’s not necessarily one you want to just jump into if you don’t love tabletop games. The components are top notch and the game itself is well worth it in my estimation, but it’s a large investment for the casual fan. Still, unlike a lot of these games, Plaid Hat isn’t stingy. This is a complete game right out of the box, and while I’m sure expansions are on the way, they aren’t necessary, though to play with more than two players would probably require one to buy two sets. I’m not sure I find the idea of more than two players appealing myself as it might just clutter and confuse the battlefield and increase the game length, but it’s a factor for those who do care.

Secondly, the tilt system for the birds is creative, with the actual figures being capable of tilting to show which direction they’re flying, but it does have its problems. When tilting the birds, it’s not unusual to occasionally pop them out of their base, and while my figures are all in great shape, I do worry about wear and tear a little. As much as I like the look of it, I think I would’ve preferred something simpler like tokens to indicate tilt. It might not be as pretty to look at or as easy to tell where birds are flying at a glance, but it would work well enough. I’m torn because it’s fun to see the birds twist and turn, but it can be a hassle every so often.

In the end, Tail Feathers is exactly what I was hoping it would be. Its melding of gameplay and theme make it just about perfect. More than a dogfight game (though for those who are only interested in a dogfight game that’s probably a strike), more than a simple wargame, Tail Feathers is a battle royale in the air and land and if the idea of swooping down an enemy’s nest while dodging arrows and opposing birds sounds interesting to you, then this is probably worth your time.

FINAL VERDICT: HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

Luke Skywalker is a Rotten Jerk (writing)

2016 is here, and my Not-Quite-Resolution is to be a more consistent web presence. So Mondays I’ll devote to posts about storytelling, writing, and general thoughts about the job I do.

If you’re not aware of it because, say, you’ve spent the last two years buried in a pit and only now dragged yourself into the light of day, there’s a new Star Wars movie out. I’m not a great fan of Star Wars. I enjoy the original trilogy, find the prequels to be deeply flawed, and have no interest in The Force Awakens. I don’t find the Star Wars universe that interesting, but I realize I’m unusual in that regard.

But I’m not here to discuss The Force Awakens specifically, but one idea that popped up when the project was announced.

WHAT IF LUKE SKYWALKER TURNED EVIL?

The idea has tremendous appeal to a lot of fans, both hardcore and casual, and I think it says a lot about how we view characters and stories.

The obvious reason someone might assume the fall of Luke Skywalker would be important to The Force Awakens is that it does have a certain symmetry to it. If I were cynical, which I often am, I would also assume it’s because people instinctively gravitate toward stories they already know, and so if The Force Awakens is to undo the sins of the prequels then the easiest way to do that would be to go back to the well and remake the original trilogy. This is sort of what happened, but let’s not open that can of worms.

It fits within the structure of the original trilogy. (For simplicity’s sake, I’m ignore the prequels because they’re just a mess in terms of narrative and what they bring to the Star Wars universe.) Anakin Skywalker was a promising young Jedi Knight who fell to the dark side. In the original trilogy, the dark side is tremendously seductive. It’s power, raw and unfiltered. Sure, it’s bad for your skin and makes you sound like you smoke five packs a day, but it lets you shoot lightning bolts out of your fingers. And possibly other things.

(Again, I ignore the prequels here, which only served to shrink my interest in the Jedi and Sith Lords, who were mysterious orders of roaming knights with magical powers. The prequels make them basically into an organization of space monks / freelance cops who aren’t mysterious and who have generic superpowers of telekinesis and plot-relegated mind control.)

There’s also this classic notion that power corrupts by its very nature. Like a professional athlete who juices once they hit their limit or a politician willing to bend rules in order to keep winning elections, we all can think of dozens of examples of people who do things they might never imagine doing once they get a taste of power and success. I often imagine the dark side is sort of the doping of Jedi Knights. It’s this little whisper that says, “Just this once . . . ” until eventually, you’re in the deep end, doing things you never would imagine.

It’s easy to see any Jedi facing that dilemma sooner or later and, joining Luke decades later, it’s not unimaginable that he would wrestle with that temptation and come up short. Perhaps not full-on Darth Vader mode but straying closer to the edge. Having our new heroes meet and redeem Luke Skywalker is such an obvious storyline, even a seven year old could probably plot it out, and that’s not a criticism. The great strength of the original trilogy is how it has hidden depths while also remaining accessible to young kids.

The other problem The Force Awakens faces is how to incorporate the older characters into a story with the newer ones. This would be easy if the story could just focus on the new characters, but it won’t do to just have Luke and Leia show up, wave, and pass the torch. Characters exist in fiction to help further the story some way, so the old cast has to have some purpose. And giving Luke a redemption story arc could easily integrate the old characters and the new by giving everyone something to do.

Note this is why SPOILER happens. Once SPOILER can no longer serve any useful purpose to the plot, SPOILER. Because SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER.

(There. Happy, Internet? You’ve succeeded in tying my hands to actually talk about the story in specifics. Congratulations.)

All these are solid reasons, from a storytelling perspective, of why it’d be sensible and easy to make Luke Skywalker evil, and yet, I don’t think your average person thinks about stuff like that. I think, excusing all the above, people want Luke Skywalker to be evil for another even simpler reason.

We’ve been trained to view evil characters as inherently more worthwhile than good ones.

I think it’s such an obvious truth that I don’t think it needs further explanation. It’s why so many people find Superman “boring”, but Batman “complex.” It’s why something like Netflix’s Daredevil can waste entire episodes showing us that the Kingpin is a grade-A criminal scumbag with good publicity, and yet, you can’t swing a dead cat without someone mentioning how “complicated” his psychology is and how he elevates the show.

It’s nothing new but the idea has hit a renewed vitality. Perhaps The Sopranos started the trend. Perhaps not. But almost all our praised, sophisticated media features damaged, broken characters, often outright murderous criminals, and elevates them as cultural icons. From “heroic” serial killer Dexter to reluctant (at first) drug kingpin Walter White, we’ve come to view bad guys as more worthy of our attention than good guys.

That’s sort of my problem with it. I have no qualms with stories about damaged, broken people. I enjoy dark fiction now and then. Nightcrawler is one of my favorite movies, and it is a portrait of a reprehensible human being succeeding not despite his terrible flaws, but because of them. I’m not a fan of Breaking Bad or The Shield, but I think they add something interesting to our shared cultural discussion.

Yet my problem is that we are told, over and over again, that these are not simply characters expanding our stories, but that these are stories that are taking things to the next level. If I had a dime for every time I heard someone casually equate “unpleasant” with “intelligent” and “grimdark” with “sophisticated” I’d have a lot of dimes.

We love this idea so much that we even apply it where it doesn’t always work. For all his grim demeanor, Batman is a story about a man who trains his body and mind to become the ultimate athlete scientist detective to fight crime in the form of evil clowns and bird-obsessed gentlemen. Bruce Wayne might have a tragic backstory, but he isn’t all that grim or particularly sophisticated as a character. He punches crime. People try to say he’s damaged because he does this, but he lives in a superhero universe. People do that all the time. Seriously. There’s a guy in the Justice Society who is such a good boxer he decided to dress up in a purple suit and punch out bad guys for justice.

This BAD is more interesting than GOOD idea means that if Luke Skywalker is to remain an interesting character, he must eventually turn EVIL. A running theme through the original trilogy is that all Jedi struggle against the dark side, and so Luke has a built in reason to become more “interesting” to the audience. If Luke Skywalker showed up and was perfectly fine, it would probably still be greeted with enthusiasm by fans, but for many, it would seem like a missed opportunity. Luke Skywalker, accomplished Jedi Knight, would be boring. And we know Luke is our hero. And we know our hero is interesting. Therefore, he must have some demons to wrestle with.

What’s interesting here is that there is a thread of that running through the trilogy, but it’s fairly minor. Luke isn’t a perfect character, but his flaws aren’t his own dark side. It’s because he cares. Aside from a strange vision sequence in the swamps of Dagobah, there’s little indication that Luke was ever in danger of falling to the dark side. In fact, I think a more realistic reading of his arc is that he isn’t particularly vulnerable to corruption. When his friends are in danger, he rushes to their side. When he realizes Darth Vader is SPOILER (Just kidding) he becomes dedicated to saving him as well. I’m not suggesting that this makes him invulnerable to corruption or misplaced passions, but it does highlight that his biggest flaw is that he wants to help people. Even evil people he thinks can be saved.

Luke is undeniably good. And not just good, but GOOD. He isn’t flawless, nor is he naive. But he isn’t conflicted. When the Emperor entices him to slay Vader, once the adrenaline wears off, it’s not even a question. Luke isn’t willing to do it. He’s not even willing to pretend he’ll do it. He’s that straightforward that even facing the Emperor, where he’s obviously overmatched, he doesn’t try anything tricky or subtle.

The eventual death of the Emperor and “redemption” of Darth Vader (something, I’ve already commented upon in previous blogs which I’ve always found to be the weakest part of the trilogy) springs about because Luke is willing to die rather than be corrupted. Some might argue that getting his ass kicked by the Emperor was all part of a master plan, but that’s not obvious from the scene. Luke isn’t great with guile, and his plan to redeem Darth Vader probably never extended past, “Hey, I’ll show up and be a good guy and maybe dad will realize he doesn’t have to be a bad guy anymore.”

That was then. This is now.

Now, the idea of a character willing to die to help another, who isn’t particularly clever but who gets by on sheer courage, determination, and a desire to do good is seen as old-fashioned. There are some exceptions. One of the reason I enjoyed Winter Soldier so much was how traditional Captain America is in his definition of heroism. Cap fights for the greater good, believes in giving people a chance, and is perfectly willing (like Luke) to die in the pursuit of redemption for a friend. But that’s an unusual thing.

Most “interesting” heroes are defined by how willing they are to break the rules, how damaged they are, how far from “good” they can be without becoming outright villains. So Luke, to remain worthy of his cultural icon status, must become “evil” at some point. Otherwise, he’s just a good guy.

And everyone knows good guys are boring.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Spoiler Alert (commentary)

The truth is that spoilers aren’t really that difficult to figure out IF the story makes sense. There are basic, recurring tropes that happen in stories that make sense, and you really only need the most basic elements of the story to predict most of them.

It was like The Sixth Sense. The Spoiler is the most obvious “surprise” one can think of in a story about a boy who sees ghosts. (Spoiler alert: Bruce Willis was dead.)

Darth Vader is Luke’s father. Well, of course, he is. If he isn’t, there’s really not much of a story there.

Even now, I’m willing to bet, with almost no knowledge of the new Star Wars films and no interest in them, I can make some predictions (I won’t), and that many of those predictions will be correct. Part of this is because I’m a writer and I think about this stuff a lot. But part of it is also just that, like nearly all humans, I’ve absorbed a lot of tropes and cliches, just like everyone else.

So I’m neutral on spoilers. (Don’t worry. I don’t plan on speculating about Star Wars, even in a non-informed way so there’s no chance I might stumble upon some obvious “surprise”.) But I’m also past the point where I think stories being “surprising” is even really a thing. Maybe it never was.

But even it wsa, with the internet age, maybe it never will be again.

Bad Dog (short fiction)

ChampionThe bus came flying across the street. In that split second, Todd thought it might be all over. He’d been Champion’s sidekick for nearly a year now, and in that time, palling around with his supercat, there had been plenty of close calls. One of these times, Champion wouldn’t save him. He’d read enough comic books to know that plenty of sidekicks were killed or maimed to give the hero a little drama to deal with. This was real life. Or what passed for real life in a world where some animals had gained mysterious powers. It didn’t necessarily play by the same rules, but even if plot points had nothing to do with it, this was a dangerous job. It was inevitable something bad would happen. Champion deflected the bus with a telekinetic shove. It bounced over their heads to come crashing down behind them. Todd bent down and petted Champion. “Thanks.” She rubbed her head against his hand. “Sure.” The thirty foot tall mech constructed of a mishmash of salvaged car parts, several refrigerators, and a dented washing machine stomped its way toward them. It picked up a Volkswagon in its metallic claws and shoved the vehicle in its mechanical jaws. With a sharp crunch, the car was crushed and spat out. The red and black dog sitting in the glass dome atop the machine glared down at them. “So we meet again, Champion.” For reasons Todd could never figure out, the dog had a slight German accent. “Give it up, Fido!” said Todd. “We’ve stopped you before. We’ll stop you again.” “It’s Professor Fido, you fool!” The mech fired a bright red ray that would’ve roasted Todd where he stood if Champion hadn’t grabbed Todd by the shirt and pulled them both out of the way with a mighty leap. The pavement bubbled. “Stay here,” said Champion. Her blue and green fur glowing brighter.  She pounced onto Fido’s mech and shattered the dome with one slash of her claws. Before she could wrench Fido from his machine, he smacked her with one of his colossal arms. Yowling, she flew into a storefront. Fido cackled. The mech stomped before Todd. It ripped fire hydrant from the ground and shoved it into its jaws. “Fido, why are you doing this?” asked Todd, hoping to buy some time while Champion recovered. He was the sidekick. Distractions were what he was good at. “It’s Professor Fido!” growled the mad dog. “And why? Why? You dare ask me why? Very well, I’ll tell you why before I crush you underfoot, like this world tried to crush me. Before gaining my impressive intellect, I was merely a mongrel wandering this cruel streets, loved by none. My life was nothing but pain and fear and starvation, and now, that I have the power to enact my revenge, I shall take it. And not you, nor your accursed cat, shall stop me.” Fido raised a fist. “Damn,” said Todd. “That does suck.” The mech paused. “Don’t try to empathize with me. You shall pay for the sins of your kind.” “I’m not empathizing,” said Todd. “But I get it. Underneath all that evil genius, you’re just a good dog who got a raw deal. I’m sorry, Fido. I really am.” Snarling, Fido drew back his fist. “It’s Professor Fido, you insolent fool!” Champion flew out of the storefront and with one slash, cut away one of the mech’s legs. It hopped, taking a few clumsy swings at her. She removed the arms with two more slashes, and landed beside Todd, watching Fido’s scrap machine struggle to stay vertical. “Are you okay?” she asked. “I’m good. Thanks. Now stop playing with your prey and finish the poor guy off.” She telekinetically hurled a car at the mech, knocking it off its feet. The police waited for the all clear sign before moving in. Todd didn’t give it. Fido limped out from his broken mech. “If you think this will stop me, you are sorely mistaken. I shall fight you to my last breath. I shall have my vengeance.” “Should I kill him?” asked Champion. “No, I don’t think so.”  Todd approached Fido, who snarled. “I think you’re not such a bad dog, after all. I think you’re a good dog who wants a home. Would you like to come and live with me?” “What?” asked Champion “What?” asked Fido. “The world was lousy to you,” said Todd. “I get it. But you have to ask yourself. Do you want to be a good dog or a bad dog? And I think you’re a good dog. I think you’re a very good dog.” Fido’s snarl dropped. His tail wagged once. “You insipid moron, do you think all it takes is a few condescending words to soothe my fury? I am the premiere intellect of this planet. I’m this close to cracking the mysteries of time travel.” He held his paws together. “And yet the approval of a primate simpleton is supposed to matter to me?” “If it didn’t matter, then why attack the city in the first place?” asked Todd. “Now, who wants a head scratch?” “I’ll take one,” said Champion. “Certainly not me,” said Fido. But he didn’t step away as Todd gently Fido’s head. Todd scratched behind Fido’s ears. “I’ll admit that does feel . . . rather nice.” His tail wagged, and he sat. “Don’t think this will prevent you from destroying your accursed world. You’re just delaying the inevitable.” “Sure, sure,” said Todd. “Who wants a belly rub?” “Well, I suppose one wouldn’t hurt.” Fido rolled over. “Is he really going to live with us?” asked Champion. “I guess so,” said Todd. “No prison can hold him.” “Quite correct,” said Fido. “A little more to the left, please. Yes, that’s the spot.” Champion swished her tail and walked away. She’d get used to the idea. Fido said, “I should warn you. I do plan on getting on the furniture. Any attempts to stop me will result in your summary destruction.” “Sure, sure. Come on, Professor. Let’s go home.”

The Care and Feeding of Invisible Monsters (short fiction)

Life in Rockwood

The monster had come with the house. It lived in a small room in the back barely big enough to hold a few linens. That was one of the things that bugged Mom. The house was always short of storage space, and the monster didn’t help. It ate any towels or sheets left in its space.

For the most part, the monster was harmless. It sometimes made noise at night. Growls. The scrape of claws against the door. A gurgle now and then. But it was easy enough to ignore, so Alice and her family did just that.

But sometimes, it got out.

Alice and her father studied the open door.

“Did you open it?” he asked.

“No, dad,” she replied. “Did you?”

He shook his head. He shut the door, and they both listened for any indication the monster might still be in there. It took more than just opening the door for it to escape. It wouldn’t leave until at least five minutes had passed.

“How long was it open?” said Dad.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just noticed it.”

Dad grumbled. “Guess we should get the kit. Just in case.”

The kit consisted of an old sheet, an aluminum baseball bat, and a pendulum. They kept it in an out of the way corner because there was no other convenient place to store it. It would’ve fit easily enough into the monster’s space, ironically.

Alice tapped on the door. “It still might be in there.”

He handed her the pendulum. It only worked for women. She held it beside the door. It didn’t move.

“Shit,” she said.

Dad snorted.

“Sorry,” she said. “So it’s out. So what? I don’t get why we have to catch it anyway,” said Alice. “Why can’t we just let it go?”

“You know we can’t do that. The monster came with the house.”

“Yeah, but–”

He walked away without saying another word. That was how he ended discussions, and once they were ended, there wasn’t any way to continue them.

She failed to see why this was her problem. She hadn’t opened the door. She hadn’t bought the house. She only lived there. She’d liked the house across the street a lot more, but Mom had insisted on this one because it came with a washer and dryer and had a pool that they never used.

In two years, Alice would be off to college, and the invisible monster wouldn’t be her concern anymore. But with Mom off at her Bunco club, she was the only woman around.

“Should we call Mom?”

Dad said, “No need to trouble her. Now use that pendulum.”

“All right.” Alice held it up, and it swirled clockwise for a few moments before slowing and pulling toward the east. It was no surprise. The Peterson farm was that way, and the monster almost always ate a cow the first chance it got.

They climbed into the truck and drove after it. All the while, Alice held the pendulum, watching it tug toward the monster. The closer they got, the stronger the pull, the tighter she had to hold the chain. Her hand tingled as Dad pulled off the road to stop at a section of broken fence.
The Peterson’s cows were still there. Their bells clanged as they moseyed about eating grass.

“It’s here.” She held the pendulum up for Dad to see. The small silver medallion was nearly ready to fly from her hand. If that wasn’t enough of a clue, there were also the claw-like footprints in the dry grass.

“It’s bigger,” she said.

“Uh huh.” Dad handed her the baseball bat and unfurled the sheet. It billowed in the warm evening breeze.

The monster loved eating cows. The only reason it hadn’t eaten one yet must have been because it wasn’t big enough. But it would be. Eventually.

Dad said, “Okay, now I know you don’t want to go back, but you’re going back anyway. So why don’t you make it easy on everyone and come along peaceably?”

The invisible monster growled. Several of the cows wandered away from the sound.

“We’ll buy you some spare ribs from that Olsen’s Barbecue Hut,” said Dad. “You like those.”

The monster didn’t reply. It never could be talked into going back into its cage, but Dad, believing in reason, always tried.

A cow howled as it was hoisted in the air. The brown and white bovine flailed, and must’ve struck something with its hooves. The monster dropped its prey, and the cattle went scattering.

Dad charged toward the sound of labored breathing. He plowed into the monster, and they tumbled end over end. He managed to wrap the sheet around some part of the monster. Screeching, it ran, dragging her father behind.

Cursing, Alice chased after them as Dad dug his heels into the ground. The monster stopped and attempted to shake loose of the sheet. Alice took a swing at her best estimate of where it might be, but her bat hit nothing but air. She swung twice more with the same results. On the fourth, she managed to make contact. A charge ran through the bat and down her arm. Dust billowed and the grass flattened as the monster fell.

The bat only worked for women too.

She wailed on the monster. It howled and roared, but every cry was weaker than the last. Finally, when it was small enough, Dad wrapped it up in the sheet. It hissed and grumbled in his arms.

“Don’t complain to me,” he said. “You could’ve had spare ribs. You chose the beating.”

He threw the invisible monster over his shoulder, tossed her the keys to the truck. “You’re driving.”

About the only perk about the monster was that she got to drive the truck back after they captured it. Dad never let her drive.

“Two more years,” Alice reminded herself as she followed Dad. “Just two more years.”