Mikel Andrews's Blog, page 2

5 Missed Opportunities in Transformers: The Last Knight

Caution: Spoilers Ahead!

I’ve just returned from my 2nd viewing of Transformers: The Last Knight and subsequent toy hunt. Took a second run to process.

Fortunately, I liked it. Especially the second time around. It’s not my favorite, but definitely up there, and a lot of fun in the theater.

However, there are some glaring missed opportunities in this flick. From a story perspective, they’re not just holes, they’re cannon (canon?) blasts. Let me go over a few, if for nothing more than my sanity.

Okay, seriously, last chance: spoilers ahead, dear reader. Go see it and come back later!

The Human Factor

Truthfully, the human cast has never been a fan favorite. They just get in the way of the robot fights, both physically and metaphorically. However, I was psyched to hear we were getting old cast members and new meeting up. (I’m a Lennox fan from way back.) But I feel as though this Lennox wasn’t the same Lennox. I think it was a writing issue, but I felt like the story wasn’t taking into account the NEST days, or the fact that these humans and bots fought side by side.

Also, I really wanted to see Joshua Joyce butt heads with Simmons. Didn’t get it.

peace out, 2016

2017. That number just sounds cooler already.

I have a real love/hate thing going on with 2016. On one hand, it’s the worst year in the history of human existence (maybe even worse than the infamous 2009). On the other, some pretty great things happened.

To me. Not to the world. Again, just awful for the world.

I got a new job and—more importantly—a desk on which I can display toys. Met some awesome people. Expanded my board game and Transformers collections exponentially, getting some ‘grails’ on both fronts (Firefly the Game and Armada Starscream in the same year?!).

It was a year book-ended with Star Wars. Started the year riding high on The Force Awakens and finished by absorbing anything and everything Rogue One. In the middle-ish, I was lucky enough to be able to attend a weekend-long Transformers convention in Chicago with my lovely lady (she even bought a Transformer for herself, you guys!)

I wrote. Really wrote. Not the self-promoting ‘everybody look at me’ writing I usually do, but the close-to-the-vest, really-believe-in-this-story writing I’ve always wanted to do. Where I’m not worried about what genre it is, who the audience will be, where the chapter breaks are. Just wrote. Really wrote. Often times at the expense of this blog, my Twitter, my Facebook, etc.

And you know what? It felt amazing.

So this is the perfect time to bridge the gap between the awesome and the shitty.

Let’s start with the gray area: my book went out of print. With the letter I received in the mail earlier this week, Coming of Mage is officially no more. I knew there was always a chance of this, I just didn’t know it would feel so good.

I mean, it sucks not having a book on the market anymore, but…it’s so freeing. I own the book again. I can rewrite it, find an agent to pedal it, self-publish it, write those pesky sequels I have outlined, or buy every remaining copy of it and set fire to them in a legally-appropriate bonfire! I won’t do the latter, but the point is I could! And that freedom is astounding. One day I’ll fully tell you the Sad Ballad of My Book—but not today.

2016 was, like, a Celebrity Red Wedding. Bowie and Prince hit me pretty hard, but the recent loss of our beloved Princess Leia was the most crushing. Star Wars came to me at a very formidable age. It rescued me in a lot of ways. Inspired me. Shaped me. And while I accept death as a part of life, something seemed eternal about the trio of Han, Luke, and Leia. Untouchable. Invincible. We lost Han onscreen and Leia off. And, almost separately, we lost Carrie Fisher, a storyteller that fought her battles in front of all of us, with words, humor, and honesty.

When our heroes die, all bets are off. Everything we think we know goes sideways.

Of course there were the real tragedies. Riots and murder, misogyny and mistrust—the fact that a monster was elected President on a campaign of hate, ignorance, and too many historical red flags to count. And, perhaps the biggest tragedy: not knowing who your neighbors are anymore.

I keep saying I have high hopes for 2017. I want to write more, create more. Get away from Netflix, and get back to board game design. I miss hosting a podcast. Blog more. Experience more. Eat less sweets (starting Tuesday—I’m not an animal). I have a Post-it in my wallet reminding me of all this, by the way.

But I must do it all with a dark cloud hanging overhead. None of us know the future, but it has become even more difficult to predict. Like most folks, I’ve been soul sick since early November. We feel it, don’t we? That nagging feeling things will not be okay, that America won’t be great again. That ‘great’ is subjective.

But, just like my book going out of print, there’s something freeing about that too. The complete unknown. A great coworker of mine once said “I’m just going to drink coffee and be positive.” I think she was just talking about nursing her hangover, but it resonated. It became our mantra to get through tough shifts. A way to connect after our paths parted. And, six years later, it has become the only real strategy for how we’re all going to move forward. Move on, as so many of our conservative friends have suggested.

Drink coffee, be positive. This is how we’ll get by.

Happy New Year.

 

toy hall of shame

 

Earlier this week, a big vote (of which I had a lot of stake in) ended with unexpected results. The Toy Hall of Fame (yeah, it’s a thing) inducted a new toy into their pantheon of the greatest toys in history and it was NOT my  beloved Transformers.

An American tragedy.

Perhaps not enough people voted for those sweet, sweet robots, or the maybe the word didn’t get spread. I planned to send the voting link to friends, but never got around to it. Definitely could’ve done more. But while I follow Transformers news, keep up on the latest, I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed with them. (Some of you might argue that. Fair.) But since I heard Transformers was in the running, I just thought how could it not win? I mean, for a toy, it’s the most innovative by far. It’s 2 toys in one-a vehicle when you need it to be, and a defender when it must. And they don’t just turn into cars. In fact, I have an awesome Transformer that turns into an entire planet! Some people think that’s too big in scope, that Transformers should stick to more domestic vehicle modes: tanks, jets, etc. Then again, some people don’t even like Transformers because they’re originally from another country. That’s a whole different stupid story I won’t waste my breath on. Point is, I love Transformers. There’s never been a more literal vessel for change, am I right?

And Transformers are no spring chickens. Believe it or not, they’ve been around consistently for the last 30+ years. People sometimes take them for granted because they’re always on the shelves, but they’re a big deal. For one thing, they inspire the imaginations of kids, which is always nice. Obviously, older people like them too. They challenge, they teach. Dare I say, they inspire me on a daily basis. Their, ahem, shelf life alone should get them into the Toy Hall of Fame.

Admittedly, they haven’t all been flashy. There’s been some design mistakes, sure-a clasp that didn’t quite fit, or a part that seemed out of place. Sometimes I’d get so frustrated with the instructions I wanted to give up on Transformers altogether. Sometimes I’d think Maybe LEGO is more my thing. Yeah, maybe I could build the toy I wanted, instead of relying on one I’d been given as a gift. But at the end of the day, I’m not a toy designer. I know a lot about them, sure, but I’d never assume I could create a better toy than career toymakers. Even when the plastic seemed a little flimsy, I trusted the team behind Transformers. After all, they are a resilient brand. Tough. They took a lot of flack when the movies were released, but you know what? I’ve sat through way worse. You don’t see a lot of other franchises that have been as reliable.

In my mind, Transformers were the best choice for the Toy Hall of Fame. The obvious choice. Maybe I’m a little biased, but from their history in the toy arena to the sheer diversity…well, they had it in the bag. I mean, their biggest contender was bubble wrap. Seriously. Bubble wrap? Did you know it was created years ago as an accident? It’s not even a toy! Sometimes it’s used with toys, sure, although I’ve never trusted it with mine. It pops loudly, that’s about it. Really it shouldn’t have been allowed in the running.

But back to the vote. I was so sure Transformers would win, I didn’t even really watch the results. I just went to bed and prepared myself to wake up to history being made. Tomorrow, everyone would be talking about my favorite toy.

On the radio, the morning crew at KDWB was talking about the results. After a suspenseful pause, they announced the winner: Little People.

What the F@&% is Little People??? Came out of nowhere!

I was bummed for sure, but not devastated. A little salty, yes. I bitched about it at work the next day. Most people didn’t seem to care. Some people told me to get over it. Seems aggressive. I mean, Transformers being added to the Toy Hall of Fame would have been a big gamechanger for something I’ve been invested in for so long. The notoriety, the press. The message it would’ve sent to toy collectors around the world. Maybe new toys we never even heard of would have been introduced to us. I guess we’ll never know.

At least bubble wrap didn’t win. Do you know how dangerous bubble wrap is for kids? In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s a suffocation warning on the side of the box. What kind of parent would knowingly give their kid a choking hazard as a toy? The next day, kids would’ve been endangering their friends and kin by mistake instead of playing nicely. Plus, the whole industry would be turned upside down! Imagine going down your trusted toy aisle and finding a bunch of basic household tools instead–how shitty would that be?

No, I can’t even imagine what would have happened if bubble wrap would’ve won. It’s unthinkable.

 

going once, going twice…

This weekend was…interesting. And it started with a bang.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been helping my dad prepare for a garage sale. Our first joint business endeavour. On his side of the garage? Practical household items, home furnishings, appliances, and kitchenware. On my side? Just the opposite. A lifetime of frivolous purchases and overly-nostalgic keepsakes. And loads of immaculately-kept action figures.

But it was time to wipe the slate clean. For the most part. Truthfully, most of the “work” I was doing over the last few weeks was deciding what to sell, what to throw, and what to incorporate back into my already-bursting shelves. It was a tedious process, going through every scrap of paper, every gumball machine toy. Mooning over it for a minute, remembering where it came from, what importance I’d assigned to it all those years ago, then not-so-ceremoniously depositing it in one of three piles.

It certainly helped that this was the most broke I’d ever been. With my old job winding down and my new job kicking in, I knew it was the perfect time for a garage sale. I’d be less precious and more cutthroat. Once the paychecks started rolling in, I’d be more inclined to continue hoarding.

But this “exit interview” sorting chewed up most of my time. Which was probably why I ran out of time to actually set up shop and price everything. Though it may have been a waste of gas, I decided to take a bonus trip to my hometown and hammer out some last minute setup, drive back in time for my night shift, only to wake up early the next morning to start the sale.

This is about when I blew a tire. (That’s the bang. Get it?)

Maybe blew is a strong word. After all it wasn’t like I was fishtailing down a major freeway or anything. In fact, it was more like a slight rumbling led me to pull over on a mostly-quiet farm road where I discovered a flat. It was probably a slow leak from a pothole I’d hit on an earlier trip. (I try to pretend like it wasn’t directly caused by the garage sale. Makes my bottom line seem worse.) My dad had to come rescue me. I learned what a false sense of security having a jack and a spare in your trunk is. Not only were the tools completely inadequate for changing my tire, the spare itself was flat. Luckily, my dad saw that coming and brought all the necessary gear to act as my pit crew. Under the noonday sun, with a record heat index, I watched the strongest man I know fix my flat.

So instead of working on the sale prep, I found myself scrambling to track down some odd-sized tires so the local auto garage could put them on my car. (Did any of you actually think I could do that myself? Grow up. I had to call my dad to change my flat tire, for crying out loud.) By the time everything was ironed out, I had about an hour to get the tables set up, my stuff organized and priced. But I grossly underestimated the small town hunger for a garage sale. Cars were pulling up left and right, people snooping through my belongings, asking howmuchhowmuchhowmuch??? I was already pretty frazzled, and the questions weren’t helping. I was having flashbacks to the Hollywood Video liquidation where you couldn’t walk two feet without someone tearing something off the wall and asking how much it cost. It was like a horror movie.

But somehow I managed to get everything out and priced. (Even made 7 whole dollars in the process). Marketing 101 kicked in. I had cool little bins of “25 cents or 5 for $1.” I had Pogs for 10 cents a pop. The Ninja Turtles were separate from the Star Wars were separate from the Ghostbusters. The Transformers were arrayed like the front row of a car dealership. My work here was done. With a satisfied sigh, I left for work, preparing myself for tomorrow where I’d say goodbye to each item as it sold. And anything that didn’t sell, well, fate would be telling me to hang onto it. And maybe, throughout the day, I could hide some stuff at the last second. Fate’s too risky anyway.

I arrived the next morning at 6 a.m. A lady with a van was waiting for me. My dad introduced us. I thought she was there for my Star Wars books, but she had a wad of cash and wanted all of it.

All. Of. It.

Groggy, yawning, barely aware of what was happening, I loaded 32 years of toy collecting into boxes and carried them to her van. I sold my childhood for 160 bucks. Boxes of items I swore I’d never part with. Gifts from my dearly departed mom the day before Mother’s Day. Things that I planned on building a special room for, gone, for a short stack of twenties.

This lady explained to me that her son worked for Boys Town in Nebraska. She would be shipping the toys to him to be given out as gifts and rewards. To children from drug-addicted parents. To children without parents entirely. Kids who quite literally had nothing.

I’ve always fancied myself a toy collector, but I was never one for keeping them in the box. Toys were meant to be played with. To be loved. Not to sit in a climate-controlled display case behind a 40-year-old sitting at his computer refreshing the latest eBay listings. My toys were going to a good home.

The lady ended up shorting me by a fair-sized amount. Maybe she miscounted, or maybe it was a scam. Maybe some of it ended up going to her grandson, and maybe I didn’t give her all of it, okay? (What am I? A saint?) But I’d like to believe that, for the most part, it all went down like she said. An ending straight out of Toy Story 3.

The rest of the sale went smooth. So good, in fact, my dad took me out to lunch. We had a beer and some greasy, delicious, horrible, perfect bar food and dodged around the fact that our little project–our business endeavour–was at an end. Our wallets were a little fatter, our memories a little less tangible. But, for those few sunsoaked hours, we closed some chapters on our lives and, hopefully, started some anew.

 

ancient wookie mourning rituals

Newsflash: I love Star Wars. A lot.

It should come as no surprise to anyone that I listen to a Star Wars podcast. Rebel Force Radio is one of the most polished, most entertaining shows I’ve ever listened to, and the only one I stick with consistently. And since the awesome awesome awesome Force Awakens has blessed the big screen, co-hosts Jimmy Mac and Jason Swank have dissected the film. In fact, they were one of the first people discussing the now infamous “Chewie/Leia Snub” from the end of the film.

Oh by the way, SPOILERS AHEAD. Probably.

If you’re still reading this, you’ve probably seen Force Awakens at least once. And you should know how it ends. You should know who lives, who dies, and who killed them. You should also know that, in one of the last scenes, two very famous characters who should be very sad pass by each other without barely a glance. Leia and Chewie, the loves of Han Solo’s life, can’t even be bothered to make eye contact. Instead, Chewbacca carts away an injured Finn and Leia shares some warm Force-fuzzies with a girl she’s never met. Why?

Jason, Jimmy, and the rest of the fans have tried and tried again over the weeks and months to retcon this “snub.” Was it speaking to the potency of Finn’s wounds? The strength of Rey’s newfound Force abilities? Or was it just an old-fashioned gaffe?

If you’re JJ Abrams, you’ve chalked it up to the latter. This week, the Snub Heard ‘Round the Galaxy, got addressed by the man himself.

Abrams says:

That was probably one of the mistakes I made in that. My thinking at the time was that Chewbacca, despite the pain he was feeling, was focused on trying to save Finn and getting him taken care of. So I tried to have Chewbacca go off with him and focus on Rey, and then have Rey find Leia and Leia find Rey. The idea being that both of them being strong with the Force and never having met, would know about each other — that Leia would have been told about her beyond what we saw onscreen and Rey of course would have learned about Leia. And that reunion would be a meeting and a reunion all in one, and a sort of commiseration of their mutual loss.

Source: Slashfilm

In the latest episode of RFR, Jimmy Mac notes that this admission of fault is more troubling than the snub itself. Whereas before we fans could postulate our own conclusions about why it went down the way it did, now we just have to deal with the creative force behind the future of our beloved franchise giving us the proverbial “oopsies.”

Well, not only am I going to retcon the scene, I’m going to retcon Abrams claim as well.

While I agree with Jimmy that TFA’s director and co-writer shouldn’t have admitted to a mistake, I also think he was forced into it. I believe what we’re witnessing is another classic JJ misdirection to preserve the plot (and the fun) of future Star Wars films. I think that gaze, that hug, between Leia and Rey is going to become one of the most important scenes in saga once we know the truth. We’re going to look back at that scene and say Holy Sh**! And JJ Abrams will just smirk and shrug because he’s too good for I-Told-You-So’s. But that’s just the way our society is now. You have to press and press and press for answers, to the point where a filmmaker has to admit that he’s human. In our world of instant gratification, cliffhangers have moved from thrilling to infuriating.

Even before all this snub business, I remember thinking at that moment This is big. I don’t know why, but this is the key to everything. In fact, Chewie walking past Leia instead of sweeping her up into a big, wet Wookie hug didn’t even blip on my radar. Maybe that’s what really bothers me about all this. We’re criticizing how someone mourns.

A few weeks ago, my uncle passed away. The funeral was truly a ‘celebration of life.’ My uncle, a very jovial man, brought together a group of people that would rather tell stories filled more with laughter than with loss. But for my father, the last family member to see him alive, that solace was lost. Having been through a similar circumstance with my mother’s battle with cancer, he’d had his share of funerals. As we told our stories, my father retreated to the parking lot for a smoke. At first I was angry at him. This was classic Dad. Here we all are, doing our part, and you can’t even get through the service without dipping out for a spell? But then I became mad at myself. Who am I to tell a man who’s devoted the better part of a decade to caring for ailing family members how to deal with their passing? I wasn’t there for all the rides to the hospital, all the medication refills, the paperwork. I was hiding at college, or up north, wrapped up in work. I shied away for years from family matters, preemptively. Certainly my dad can have 2o minutes and a cigarette to grieve in his own way.

Before this gets too deep, let’s bring it back to Star Wars. We don’t know what Chewie was feeling at the loss of his best friend. Maybe his “ancient wookie mourning ritual” (as Jimmy  Mac puts it) is to be cold. To pull away from others. Maybe he was mad at Leia. After all, it was her that pushed Han to pursue his fate, sending him on the errand of retrieving their son. Maybe he felt betrayed. Numb. Or maybe he just needed a smoke break.

wiggle your big toe

I need to keep writing. Plain and simple. So here I go.

I’m no stranger to breaks between projects. Hiatuses, even. Sometimes I even tell myself I quit forever! I know deep down it’s not true. Just feels good to shake your fist at the heavens sometimes, ya know?

But the last few months have scared me. It really felt like I’d thrown in the towel. Mostly because it wasn’t this angry hate-quit thing I usually do. It was this peaceful, weary acceptance. I feared the blank page.

Friends started noticing. They  wondered where my usual posts were, my affinity for posting on Facebook and Twitter. No new podcasts were coming down the pipe. My game design notebook is full of task lists and meeting notes. Not even a Transformers sketch on Instagram. I heard someone mention that I never talk about my book. Maybe that’s because it didn’t feel like I wrote it.

When I did I was living up north, working as a server. Hiking. Eating organic. Always had a view of the lake. It was…spiritual. Now, I live by a busy intersection. I’m scraping by. I subsist on Taco Bell and Papa Murphy’s. And I can’t wait to shut my computer off at the end of the day.

In a way, I am not the same person that wrote Coming of Mage.

This past weekend I was back in my hometown for a funeral service. My Uncle Joe passed away. Someone had asked me if we were close, and I almost told them no. But that would have been a lie. Once upon a time, Uncle Joe and I were very close. We had the same sense of humor. We saw a lot of life in the same light. We were both natural storytellers.

I was very worked up because I had to read a passage at his funeral. 5 lines. Nevermind that I was no stranger to the stage, or that I’d written and given eulogies in the past. I was utterly terrified of getting up in front of my family and reading off a piece of paper.

After I blazed through the reading like a 5th grader through a book report, I was able to relax and listen to the tales shared by my family members, celebrating Uncle Joe’s life. He was a champion for good. A day-brightener, even at his sickest.

I wish I could say I had some epiphany, or a ray of light shone down and opened my eyes and the angels sang an Ace of Base song. Nothing that epic. However, I did want to stop feeling so shitty. I wanted to start doing things that mattered again. Things that made me happy. Things that were–are–my calling.

Money is an issue. In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to sacrifice one to obtain the other, but that’s out of my hands at the moment. I need to strike a balance. A job that sparks my creativity, feeds it, but doesn’t burn it out. Sustains it so that I can work towards my personal endeavors. I don’t want to hate writing ever again.

Like I said, money is an issue. But that’s Step 2. For now, I can write. I can create. I can keep doing.

 

seekers – part two

< < seekers – part one

I regretted it the minute I said it. But you can’t unsay things, right? The words were out there, floating in the air between us.

Dead kid .

“Let’s split up,” Pricey suggested. “I’ll head east. Thomas, west. Miles, split the difference.”

Thomas scowled. “Which way’s west?”

“Follow the moon, dummy.”

We split off. I had to follow Pricey to get around the pond.

Before we separated, he asked, “Do you think Aaron’s dead?”

I chewed my lip. “No.”

He stared me in the eyes for a second, reading me. “I really wish you brought the Dagger, Miles.” He veered away. I headed south towards the treeline.

I wasn’t wrong about the Dagger. It wasn’t a knife, but it sure as hell looked like one, especially up against someone’s throat. The rest of the guys could play off their objects as costume jewelry, but not me, not with the Dagger. In hindsight, I should’ve called it something more innocuous—the Tusk, or the Horn, maybe. But a name couldn’t change something. Not really.

I was the one that found Aaron that night. Pricey and Thomas let me keep that secret. As much as Thomas hated me, he went along with our round robin decision to fudge the specifics.

This next part is going to hurt.

 

Miles stares into his untouched coffee. He’d been quiet for awhile.

“The pavilion,” he finally says.

“What about it?” Julia asks.

He rotates his cup, staining a ring into the little brown napkin beneath it. “Why were we out there?”

Julia sighs. “It was the Fourth of July.”

He nods. “That’s right. The fireworks.”

“Miles?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we stay focused?” she demands. “What was in the Box?”

“Four objects,” he says. “We each took one.”

Julia shrugs. “Okay. What were they?”

Miles shrugs. “I don’t know exactly. They were all metal and stone. I thought they might be part of a suit of armor. Like from a knight?”

“Okay,” Julia sighs, “but what were they? Coins? Tools?”

Miles shakes his head. “One was a thin little rock with a worried hole—Pricey called it the Monocle. Thomas wore his on his wrist—the Gauntlet. Mine was the Dagger—”

“Which one did Aaron take?”

“The Helmet.” His chin falls to his chest. “It was shaped like a bird.”

Julia takes a sip of coffee. “I’m just not getting it. What did they have to do with what happened?

Miles attempts a sentence three times before he speaks. “They…did stuff.”

Julia’s eyebrows knit together. “Stuff?”

“The Monocle could show you things—footprints, hidden passages—and the Gauntlet could make you invisible. The Helmet—”

“Hold on,” Julia says. “What do you mean make you invisible?”

“Invisible,” Miles says. “I—I don’t know how else to say it. Transparent?”

Blood rushes to her face. She struggles to hold her calm. “Are you saying you found a bracelet that makes people disappear?”

“Well, just the person wearing it,” Miles says. “And the Helmet made you fly–made Aaron fly.”

“Okay,” she says, and nods. And nods. “You’re right. This was a bad idea.”

He looks shocked. “What?”

Julia stands. “The thing I can’t figure out is if you actually believe this, or if you’re just trying to blow me off.”

Now Miles stands. “Look, I told you this was complicated—”

“You’re sick, you know that?” she says softly. “And not because you think some trinkets gave your friends magical powers, but because I came looking for an answer I deserve.”

“Julia,” he says, “it’s the truth. This is the truth, okay?”

Her lip trembles. “Miles, we—” She stops. “You could’ve helped me. You’re just throwing this back in my face.”

“Jules—”

“I could’ve gone to the police,” she says. “But I came to you. And you’re lying to me.”

He looks hurt. Physically ill. “I’m not lying.”

“Goodbye, Miles,” she says.

“Julia.”

She turns to leave.

“Wait.”

She does.

Rubbing his temples, Miles sighs. “Just give me a minute.” He jerks a thumb towards the restroom.

Julia puts her hands on her hips. “Why? Did you bring the Invisible Bracelet to give me the slip?”

“One minute,” he said softly. “When I come back, I’ll tell you what happened.”

“The truth?” Julia says.

“The truth.”

He gets up from the table. The barista points him to the restroom near the back exit. For a second, Julia thinks he might bolt. When the door shuts behind him, she sits back down at the little table, running her hand over all the nicks and whorls on its surface.

What are you doing, Julia?

While he’s gone, she thinks about the night at the pavilion and hates herself for it.

 

Inside the men’s room, Miles stares at his reflection in the mirror. The surface is scratched, marred. He practices his words through the scratches and nicks.

 

“Well?”

Miles takes his seat again. “Aaron didn’t fall out of the tree house.”

“No shit.”

He looks down. “We dared him to climb the water tower. He made it to the top. But on the way back down—” His lower lip quivers. He looks at Julia.

She’s trembling, watching her coffee mug. She doesn’t blink for nearly a minute.

Finally: “Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Julia.”

“Aren’t we all,” she replied, wiping beneath her eye with a shaky finger. She stood up. “I, uh—I have to go.”

Miles nodded. “Yeah.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

The bells above the door clink as she leaves. Miles is alone again. Hidden in the city. And safe maybe.

 

When I  was on the other side of town, on the old Southtown overpass, watching cars zipping under me in the fading daylight, the Dagger turning over and over in my hands, I just kept thinking. About the summer. About us. About what we found in the Box.

The Monocle could make things visible, and the Gauntlet just the opposite. The Helmet–Aaron’s Helmet–could make a person fly. It was the most coveted of the items in the Box, but it wasn’t the most powerful.

The Dagger could make someone tell the truth. And it had, several times, all summer long. First, it made Adam Dansel admit he had a crush on Ali Martin. Eventually, it made Bobby Simmons confess to stealing a rare old stamp collection from the library.

And then there was Mr. Battersby. We were just messing with him. We didn’t know he was going to tell us about the little girl. Or where he buried her.

After that we hardly used the objects. Thomas said he wanted to trade, but I think he really just wanted all of them to himself. He would try to talk Aaron out of the Helmet, and sometimes it was more than talk. Aaron started to get paranoid. He was running out of hiding places.

It was a sickness the Dagger gave us. My dagger. It poisoned us, like a serum that forced us to grow up too fast. We fought constantly, always at each other’s throats like a litter of jackals.

So when I dropped the Dagger onto the bed of a truck heading out of town, I thought that was the end. I guess it was, in a way.

Like I said, I found Aaron that night. He was crumpled on the ground, like a scarecrow after a bad rain. I thought he was already gone. Part of me wished he was .

He was still conscious. Barely. Dark liquid ran from his nose and mouth. The Helmet was still on. I knelt beside him, making a halfhearted attempt to remove it.

“Miles?” he rasped.

“Yeah.”

“I fell.”

My vision blurred, burning with saltwater. “I know.”

His body tensed, racking with wet coughs. I wiped away at my face. “I’m gonna find Pricey. We’ll get you home—”

“No!” he cried, his eyes flying open. “Don’t go. Please don’t go, Miles. Please.”

“I’ll be right back—”

“Please don’t leave me.” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to be alone. Please, Miles.”

“Okay,” I sniffled. I didn’t know what to do. He was the toughest kid I ever met. Tough as nails. I’d never even seen him cry. “Aaron?”

“Yeah?”

I choked out, “I think it was me.”

“What was?”

“After our fight,” I whimpered. “I rode my bike to the edge of town, past the county line. I don’t know if I was running away or—I don’t know what I was doing. But I took the Dagger with me.”

More wet coughs. I held his hand.

“I think these things—they have a range on them,” I said. “I think they stop working if they get too far from each other.”

A long hiss of air escaped his lungs. “I shouldn’t…have yelled. I shouldn’t—” and then he was out of breath.

I gagged into my shoulder. “I lied, Aaron. I lied when I said the Dagger worked on me. All summer I’ve been lying.”

Beneath the skulllike features of the Helmet, behind the backswept wings and the snub beak, Aaron’s face pinched into a sob. Bloody tears pooled in the crevices. “I don’t want to die, Miles.”

I screamed for Pricey. Even Thomas. I screamed for anyone.

I’m not even sure any sound came out.

 

 

the end.

seekers – part one

We pushed our bikes as hard as the gears would allow. Sometimes my sneaker slipped from the pedal, peeling skin from my leg. My lungs burned. I was convinced no air was getting in, but somehow I was still alive.

It was night, sometime after dinner. That’s how we told time in the summer, right? After breakfast? Before lunch? The only measure of time that mattered.

Wind rushed past my ears, shrieking as we rode back behind Miller’s farm. I watched for wolves in the tall reeds that lined the trail. It was my worst fear.

Most nights, anyway. That night was different.

That night I couldn’t think of anything.

Pricey pedaled up beside me. The shortest of all of us, pumping twice as hard to keep up. It’s weird—I remember seeing his orange hair flashing behind him as he rode, but how could I in the dark? Must be my brain painting it in. Color by numbers.

Tears were running down his face. I wonder if I could see that too, or if it was just in his voice.“What do we do?”

“Just get there.”

“What if he’s hurt?’

More skin peeled off my shin. I was almost grateful for it. “Just keep going, Pricey.”

The trail—only a cow path, really—wound around a sharp bend. I had taken it hundreds of times, but never at full speed. I’d walk my bike through while the others whizzed past, calling me whatever was fashionable in the back of the bus that week. In my defense, I was a husky kid. Top heavy. The others were lean and streamlined, leather-tan from endless days in the sun. I was pasty white, the color of unbaked bread dough and about the same texture.

But I learned that night that I could take that turn without slowing down. My stomach lurched. I was thirteen maybe? Fourteen? Even then I knew this was going to hurt.

The trail ended at the woods. I don’t know who owned them—Miller? The state, maybe? But, for the summer, they were our fortress. Our sanctuary.

As the forest thickened, I probably slowed down. In my head, it was all too slow.

Not enough.

Once we reached the clearing, I could see the moon. Maybe it was out all night. Hiding here. Waiting for us. I could make out the two trees—the big one with our tree fort, and the smaller one we used as a bike rack. Between them was the pond.

Moonlight rippled across the surface of the water. If not for that, I might have missed the outline of Thomas standing near the edge, dismounting his bike.

Even though there was nothing left in my jelly legs and furnace lungs, I clenched my teeth and put on a burst of speed.

I’m sure it hurt. It should’ve hurt.

When I reached Thomas, Pricey was already screaming for me to stop. I’m sure he put it together as we pedaled. Or maybe the day we dug up the Box. He was a smart kid. Probably why he picked the Monocle.

Pricey’s wails tipped off Thomas. He turned around, his eyes pale orbs, ghostly white and watery. He put up his hands.

“Miles, wait, I—”

Three words. It’s all I let him say. I left the seat of my bike. For a moment, I was weightless. Then gravity kicked in and I began my task of pummeling Thomas in the face. I landed three hits before we met the ground. My pinky shattered on his bony forehead, right in the crook of his eyebrow. Pricey was still screaming, but it was just sound. White noise.

It wouldn’t stop me.

 

Julia sweeps across the dance floor, drink in hand, cocoa curls bouncing on the shoulders of her denim jacket. She didn’t mean to dress like it was 1986, but it was all her suitcase had in the way of proper nightclub attire. Her lipstick feels too thick, like it might melt and run down her neck. The music, a trancey techno beat, thumps in her chest. She loses track of which is the song and which is her heart.

She climbs two levels—four flights of stairs—before she finds him.

He’s alone, nodding his head to the comparatively mellow jazz. He blends in pretty well for having a good decade on most of the crowd. Amazing what a clean shave can do, she thinks. His hair isn’t long, but it’s messy, like he just woke up. Or like he never slept. He wears jeans that taper at the cuff and a blue plaid button-up, one button left open at the top. Two would be fashionable, but he’s too insecure for that. His face looks boyishly out of place.

Julia doesn’t go to him right away. Instead she finishes her drink and orders another from the bartender. She can still feel the warmth of the first drink sliding down her veins, whispering to her. Earlier, she decided to keep her wits about her, but now that she’s here, this close, she wonders why it matters. Maybe she could just disconnect now and wake up tomorrow with it done.

She watches the area around him, scanning for friends, acquaintances. Girlfriends. He nods at a few people, smirks at even fewer. No, he’s definitely alone. Waiting for somebody maybe?

She won’t do this with an audience.

Nobody shows, but his beer is nearly empty. Maybe his friends decided on another club. Maybe this beer was just a polite courtesy.

More stalling.

Now or never.

Now.

Julia moves toward him, practicing a smile somewhere between friendly and predatory. He notices her a couple times, but his eyes always flick away.

Finally: “What are you drinking?”

His gaze stretches to the far side of the room. “Beer.”

“What kind?”

He glances at the bottle. “Brown?”

Julia shakes her head. “You’re not making this very easy.”

He makes eye contact. He squints. “What is this exactly?”

“Just trying to buy you a drink.”

He smirks. “I—really I was just leaving. Any other time—”

Panicked, Julia rests her hand on his. “I think that would be a mistake.”

Another snicker. “Why’s that?”

Julia leans into him, putting her lips to his ear. “Because I think we should talk about what happened to my brother.”

He jerks his head back like he was stung. He stares at her. He sees what he was squinting at before. “Julia?”

Her lip twitches, the slightest of tells.

“Shit,” he says.

His muscles bunch. He’s going to run. She remembers him in a cast, pinky propped up like he was perpetually enjoying a proper tea. She presses just below his metacarpal.

He winces.

“Don’t,” she says.

He clears his throat, embarrassed. “What are you doing in LA?”

“I’m here to be an actress, Miles,” she says flatly. “What do you think I’m doing here?”

Miles looks at his beer again. There’s hardly anything worth finishing. Briefly, his eyes dart towards the exit.

Julia pushes his pinky knuckle again. His gaze whips back to her. “No charges were filed. You know that,” he tells her. “There was no crime—”

“No crime?” she interrupts. “My brother died in the woods with his friends and nobody ever talked about it again—and you say there’s no crime?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” he shouts, putting a hand on his chest. He gets quiet. “I—I didn’t do anything.”

Julia takes a deep breath. Center. “I’m…not saying that. It’s just Mom, Dad—nobody told me anything. Nobody talked about it. You know how hard that is? It’s been years, Miles. Decades.”

Miles chews on his lip.

“I just want some answers,” she told him. “I want to know what happened that night.”

Trumpets wail. The song comes back to their ears. Miles gives a hint of a nod. “Can we go somewhere else?”

“Of course,” she says. “Do you know a place? I’m a fish out of water here.”

“There’s a coffee shop down the block that’s open all night,” he says. “I’ll meet you there.”

“No.” Julia shakes her head. “We’ll walk.”

On the way, they speak only once.

“Do you remember the pavilion?”

“Do I remember it?” Julia says. “Yeah, I remember it.”

Miles looks away. “I mean—I meant when—”

Julia rolls her eyes. “I know what you meant, Miles. When we kissed.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “That.”

They order two black coffees and Julia picks a table in the middle of the coffee shop—same distance from both exits. In the soft light, she sees that Miles is almost as pasty as an adult in California as he was as a kid in the Midwest. Leaner, yes, but still the same boy that she always saw in her driveway.

He swirls a stick around in the inky liquid. “So? Where should I begin?”

“At the beginning would be nice.”

He sighs. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Why don’t you start with what you were doing out in Miller’s Woods?”

His shoulders slump. “Maybe we should start at the beginning.”

“Jesus Christ.” Julia rubs the bridge of her nose. “Look, why don’t we start with the other boys. Tell me about William.”

“William?” Miles asks.

“Priceman?” Julia tries.

“Oh,” Miles snorts. “Pricey.”

“Yeah, the little ginger kid,” Julia agrees. “What about him?”

“Pricey was a good kid. Super smart, kind of a conniver. He could get in and out of any gas station with pockets full of candy,” Miles reminisces. “He was the one that told us about the Box.”

“The Box?”

“That’s what we called it,” Miles says. “It was more like a chest.”

Julia squints. “Like a treasure chest?”

Miles frowns, the air rushing out of his nostrils. “This was a bad idea.”

Julia waves him off. “Okay. Put a pin in that. What about the other kid? Thomas?”

The name hits the space between them like a brick. Miles’ fingers twitch around his mug. “I hated Thomas.”

 

If my little finger hadn’t broke, I think I could’ve kept hitting Thomas forever. I wasn’t a fighter, but after three long months, Thomas had it coming.

Stunned by the pain in my hand, I let up. Thomas shoved me off, the same deadly sneer he usually wore returned to his face.

“You little shit,” he said, wiping at his lip. For giving him the beating of my lifetime, his face was relatively unscathed. No blood, just a little puffier.

“Cut it out, both of you,” Pricey said, getting between us. He turned on Thomas. “What are you doing out here?”

“Collecting his trophy,” I muttered.

“Fuck you,” Thomas spat.

“Stop,” Pricey said, barely above a whimper. “Please stop.”

Cradling my hand, I stared Thomas down. “You saw him fall?”

“Yeah.” Thomas nodded. “Didn’t you?”

I shook my head.

“Where were you?”

“Across town.”

“Uh-huh,” Thomas replied. “I stopped by his house. He didn’t come home for dinner.”

“You talked to his parents?” Pricey asked nervously.

“I talked to Julia,” he answered, then waited for what I would do next.

My broken finger screamed. Our trio was quiet, listening to the buzz of insects in the dark.

“We have to find him,” Pricey said. “Before his parents find out.”

“Find out what?” Thomas spat. “We don’t know anything—”

Pricey cut him off. “We all saw him fall, Thomas.”

“Almost all of us,” Thomas said coldly. My broken finger screamed, but I was willing to break it all over again.

“Enough with the pissing contest!” Pricey mustered. “We have to find Aaron. Now!”

“Okay,” Thomas told him. “Then try the Monocle.”

My cheek twitched.

Pricey went about checking his pockets. He always wore this little vest with endless zippers and compartments. Usually it didn’t take nearly as long for him to find it. Then again, we were all a little rusty with our objects.

Finally, Pricey produced the Monocle. He put it up to his face, so that his eye was nearly visible through the darkened lens. He turned, gazing around the clearing.

After a few seconds, he lowered the stone, confused.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

Pricey tapped the Monocle in his palm. “I don’t think it’s working.”

“What?” Thomas asked.“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s not working,” Pricey repeated. “I can’t see anything.”

“What’s that mean?” Thomas asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe—maybe Aaron’s not around here.”

“No, you guys don’t understand,” Pricey said. “I don’t see anything. There’s always something. Glowing footprints, or a streak of light—it shows you everything, not just what you’re looking for.”

“Well—” I began

Pricey turned to Thomas. “Try the Gauntlet.”

“How’s that going to find Aaron?” Thomas sneered.

“Just see if it works, Thomas,” Pricey groaned.

Thomas pulled up his striped sleeve to the elbow, revealing the Gauntlet. It wasn’t much bigger than a watch.

He clenched his fist. Nothing happened. He did it again, harder.

Nothing.

“Is it working?” Thomas said. “Can you still see me?”

“Yeah.”

“Something’s wrong.”

Thomas pointed at me. “Try yours.”

“I, uh—I didn’t bring it.”

Both of them stared at me incredulously. “Why wouldn’t you bring it?”

“Because,” I whispered.

“Because why?” Pricey pushed.

“You know why,” I hissed.

“Why didn’t you bring it, Miles?” Thomas asked, eyes narrowing.

“Because,” I shouted, “it looks like a knife! That’s why!”

“So?”

“So?” My skin crawled. Tingled. I hated Thomas. I hated him for making me spell it out. “Let me ask you something, Thomas—would you want to be out here with a knife when the cops find a dead kid?”

To be continued.

the force never slept

I wondered what would bring me back here to dust off the shelves of this blog. I should’ve known.

It’s always the Wars.

Newsflash: Star Wars is back. That’s right, it’s official: we now live in a day and age where it is cooler to say you love Star Wars than it is to pretend like you’ve never seen them. In fact, if you haven’t seen any Star Wars, well…does ‘social pariah’ mean anything to you?

It’s back, sure, but for some of us, it never left. Some of us have been reading the books religiously since 6th grade. Some of us never stopped collecting the action figures. Some of us actually LOVE the Prequels!

I mean, I was there at Star Wars Celebration Anaheim. Squinting from the back row to see the first trailer. Sobbing in the dark as the Millennium Falcon’s engine swelled to John William’s familiar score.

My friends were back. They were okay. The galaxy far, far away lived on, seemingly in real time.

But this new film is still a strange phenomenon to me. It’s something I never thought we’d get. Even with tickets purchased, it doesn’t seem real. Of course, the fairweather Star Wars fans are intoxicated by the epic geekiness of it all. And I admit, it is a hoot to see a Chewbacca t-shirt in the main display of every store. Star Wars is fashionable! But for the true fans, the ones that have carried the Wars in our hearts since day one, it is a little scary. Tomorrow at midnight (or 7:30 p.m. in my case) everything changes. Whatever we believed happened to Luke, Leia, and Han is about to be confirmed. Or denied. Or obliterated like Alderaan (too soon?).

And, yet, I’ve been very Zen about this whole thing. Very Yoda, maybe. Why? I’ve wondered this for awhile. Is it because my childlike excitement has burned out? Has the little bright-eyed kid in me that believes in space magic gone? Or did he just grow up and make real friends.

Or maybe tomorrow, nothing changes. Even if The Force Awakens is a pile of garbage, it won’t change what the original movies mean to me. It won’t stop me from throwing in Return of the Jedi when I’ve had a rough day, or calling my friends scruffy-looking nerfherders. It won’t make me forget that in middle school whenever I was feeling lonely or broken, reading a Star Wars book made me believe in miracles. Made me forget about the odds (never tell me them!).

Just because something new comes along, it doesn’t have to change how you felt about what came before. Star Wars, or whatever, will always be there for you.

Before I blast into hyperspace, I’ll leave you with this little gem, written by one of my favorite bloggers. You can find her back catalog here, and she’ll soon be starting her new blogging venture. Here’s how she feels about the new movie in the inaugural installment of…

Burch Please!

Written by Elizabeth Burch

A long time ago in a galaxy (er, state I guess?) far far away I waited in line at for hours to buy the final Harry Potter book. It was a big event at the bookstore–face painting, sorting hat, swag, the whole deal. I bought a wand and several novelty t-shirts in addition to the book I’d preordered. I’d grown up with these books. The characters were family to me. I hate crowds and merriment, so there isn’t much I’d wait in a big group for, but that book was one of them. So, as luck would have it, I got the book and then had to go to work. Like, an hour later, then my other job after that, then teaching some kid’s class after that. I was booked solid for a good 48 hours after the book had been released. Can you imagine the torture?

Torture is actually an understatement. It’s not so much the waiting part. It’s just this one teeny-tiny flaw that I have as a human being. I HATE being left out. Hate it. Can’t handle it. I can only imagine how much worse that situation would be now, when spoilers and reviews and funny promo videos are bombard us everywhere we turn.

Oh Wait, I don’t need to imagine it. It’s happening again. I’m reliving my nightmare. I, Elizabeth Burch, lifelong fangirl, will not be able to see the new Star Wars right away. Like not even close. Not for like a week. And I hate premieres, I hate midnight showings, I hate all that. I always see the new franchise movies at the earliest Saturday showing by myself, with a giant tub of buttered popcorn. It’s bliss. But once again I have employment that is requiring me to show up and do my job in order to get paid, so I’m out for quite a while. I doubt very much that the collective internet will agree to just be cool and not say anything until I have a chance to see the film, but maybe it doesn’t hurt to ask? Fine. Whatever.

I’ll be the orphaned kid in a Dickens novel, lonely and cold, watching people have fun through the window, waiting for someone to let me in. I’ll watch all the trailers over and over and feel my throat tighten and the tears sting my eyes when the classic theme music plays. I’ll dream of joining in a lively conversation wherein the whole group debates what we loved/hated about the film. I’ll dream of stabbing my facebook friends in the face who post spoilers to their feeds. So have fun, assholes. I’m not bitter, and I hope you all have a great time without me.

Did I mention I hate being left out?

imagine dragons

where i’m at

I have to write another book. My writing career has been a roller coaster lately. An existential tornado of Should I-Shouldn’t I? Give it up or give it my all? That’s the question. I don’t want to give it up just yet, so I’m trying a new angle. For Coming of Mage, I crowdfunded my first wave of books *insert endless wave of thank-you’s here* It was almost like a preorder. But, as it turns out, there’s a site that streamlines this process and it’s super cool.

It’s called Inkshares and frankly it’s pretty awesome. And by awesome, I mean genius. Here’s the rundown:

Start with an idea, a 20-word pitch of your book.
Get some followers and take it sitewide.
Add excerpts, sample chapters, and a book cover.
Crowdfund that badboy!
Become a famous author.

That’s it! Easy, right? Okay, that last part might be a little tougher than expected. But The Nerdist is running a contest for any project launched between August 15th and the end of September. Books chosen by The Nerdist will get–among other perks–notoriety from their website and social media. That’s basically free marketing, people. To my target audience, no less.

Was I a little skeptical about all this? Sure. But once I signed up for the site, explored some pitches, and ordered a novel, I was hooked. The book I ordered is Abomination by Gary Whitta, a well-known screenwriter that wanted to try his hand at writing. The story is amazing and the book itself is a really high-quality binding.

So I tested the waters with a few ideas that have been floating around my head. But yesterday, I’m reading Abomination, and I think Why am I trying to come up with a new book idea when I’ve been sitting on one for years?!

As some of you know–but most probably don’t–I’ve had this “dragon thing” on the back burner for years. Before Coming of Mage, before the North Shore–before this blog even! It’s a pretty unique paranormal fantasy that I’ve been trying to shoehorn into a Young Adult novel. I even tried submitting the partial manuscript to a YA publisher via an Open Door Submission event for agentless authors (ie-me). Sadly, the publisher closed its doors permanently. I was stuck with a partially complete manuscript and a bit of a broken heart.

But one thing that submission contest did was give me purpose. Focus. I cranked out more words in a couple months than I had in years combined. It felt great. I want that purpose again, that drive.

After all, it’s hard to do homework without a due date.

the story so far

My working title is Wyrmwood Falls. The story itself is kind of a mystery, so without giving too much away, the book follows the lives of four college freshmen: Isaac, Mira, Ben, and Cait. Isaac is running from past ghosts, literally and figuratively. Mira is trying to reconnect with her mysteriously aloof brother. Ben is having troubling partying and chasing girls with the threat of military academy so close. And Cait is just trying to fit in with her new “extracurricular club,” but unfortunately she’s been tasked with a mission that borders on black-ops. Through a series of entangling events, each of them crosses paths with not only each other, but a pair of secret societies on the verge of war. Like all my best work, magic, dragons, and swords play a big role as the puzzle pieces fall into place. But this one also has the backdrop of college nostalgia and the atmosphere of a psychological thriller.

The beauty of getting this work published through Inkshares is that I wouldn’t have to focus on the shoehorning. I can write the story I want. Tell the tale that’s in my head.

what you can do

I really hope for everyone’s support as I embark on this adventure, if not monetarily than by word of mouth. Sharing and word-of-mouth is going to be a huge part of this. You guys know the drill.

For the first wave, I would really appreciate some follows on my idea. The more “likes” I get, the more Wyrmwood Falls is promoted around the website, and thus the more followers and feedback I’ll get in return. So, if you have a minute, check out my idea here, sign into Inkshares (using Facebook and Twitter makes registration super easy), and give me a follow.

My idea notwithstanding, the site is super cool. Clicking through the ideas gets addicting–and you can even get credit towards purchasing/pre-ordering just by being active. (I racked up $25 in my first day alone!)

Look, it’s a long road ahead. I get it. But I can’t give up. I hope you’ll join me on this journey. If not for me, then for the story. This tale is epic. I see it as a trilogy. In fact, forget about me entirely. Do this for Isaac. And Ben. And Mira. And Cait. Do this for the want of a good story. Do this to fill that gap in storytelling that we’ve all been missing.

In a world where every book seems to follow the Twilight equation, isn’t it about time we got some f***ing dragons?!