Glory Fiction

Creating Into The Void Of My Own Indifference to Fit In

Writer, Author, Creator of worlds and characters that I’m constantly getting lost in…so why not bring others with me?

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  • Sometimes I Can Only Type A – A Writer’s Self Editing Rant

    editing

     

    As a writer there is nothing better then typing the words The End onto whatever story you have been etching onto the page from the very inner depths of your brink, sinew and soul.

    Sure there can be a bittersweet edge laced into the Fin of what the words represent, for no longer will this world be new to you. The characters have told their story through your words and now you must part ways and move on to the next…well at least that’s what those words could lead one to believe, but The truth of the matter is that you are just getting started in your intimacy with this world.

    Hello Second draft!

    With the second draft comes a second wind of creative escape. No longer are you creating from nothing but rather defining and finessing the infrastructure of your foundation. You’re decorating the house which you have built. You are making your creation a cozy and welcoming home for your characters and their story.

    When romanticized in the descriptive of a creative writer it really sounds thrilling. I’m almost looking forward to editing…but then the reality of the actual second draft hits.

    Hello real second draft (second draft part two, or third draft – if you like to pretend you actually got something done in your first go around!)

    Yes, don’t let the description above fool you, because the truth of the matter is that when you go back over your first draft you aren’t really in editing mode, I mean you see some flaws, but what writer isn’t at least a little caught up – despite their best efforts – in the thrill of completion? But you know as well as I that what one really needs to do is go all editor on their works ass meaning that all creativity must be put to the side to make room for all of the little, technical things that might have been missed in the excitement of reading through your vision on page and complete for the first time.

    I don’t know about other writer’s but this is my biggest struggle because…Hello my name is Glory Anna and I am a imagination power house of a perfectionist…

    but only when it comes to my work.

    On the whole I’d like to think of myself as a pretty subjective person. I know how to separate church and state, but when it comes to my work I have a lot a quirks and preferences when it comes to the standards I hold myself to when creating. If its something I bitch about in other writing then it has no room in my own. Even the most minute of continuity has to be crossed checked and referenced. This story is as old as time but I will continue to reference it to illustrate my point – I once redid an entire fight/stunt scene, choreography and everything, (TBM style, mind you because you know how I do! ;))  because I felt like one character got unduly lost in the chaos of a more then twenty character packed melee!

    One Character!

    And believe you me I had a blast every re-step of production!

    It’s just who I am. So when it comes to editing my own writing I can be a little intimidated for what it will entail. Don’t get me wrong, I know how to get the job done and meet any deadline that comes my way but on the whole I think it is hard for most writer’s to edit their own work from a completely technical angle, after all we are the creators of these worlds. It’s like asking a parent to be completely subjective when judging a baby cuteness competition – not gonna happen! From nothing we brought it to life so of course we will constantly be adding and subtracting and thinking of new ways and different means to get the job done. “But what about this? Or This? Oh my god that would be so cool! That would be better? Does that even make sense? etc, etc.”

    Its our imaginations prerogative!

    And as for the volunteering of friends, family, writer’s club groupies I love it when they read my work but it can be really hard to find the reader you need when you need it. For there are a plethora of “fresh eyes” that a writer wants, we want the reader who will witness it from the viewpoint of a fan, we want the viewpoint of an editor, of a publisher, of a completely unbiased bystander, of a sycophant, creative insight, constructive criticism, the list could go on and on, but when it comes to a professional “the end” when you can safely hit publish or submit and share it without the worry of looking like a complete hack a writer needs someone who can asses without getting lost in the minutia.

    Even when I tell myself that this is just a spelling/grammar read through I see things that can be improved and tightened and fleshed out and, and, and…

    It’s not that I want a robot, but I want someone who can be subjective to my objective, I want to know if it makes sense, if it’s consistent, if the characters are strong enough, basically if it follows through on what I/it set out to do – and yes whether or not I go off on any weird tangents that make the likes of Thackeray and Dickens jealous.

    I want to know my POV is clear and concise, because when you get right down to it if you are the writer you are almost unqualified if not wholly incapable of doing this! Because you know what you meant when you wrote it. You know what you were trying to say, where its all going, and what it’s all supposed to mean.

    This is why editing is such a grand and exulted (in my opinion!) profession But that’s just not an option for a lot of us (at least not yet! ;)) So what does one do to break through the intimidation, the overthinking, and the doubt that they’re not seeing what they need to be seeing?

    Well here are a few good tips that have help get me through the process without going into full precision overload:

    Automated Spell/Grammar Check

    If you don’t use a program that already has this feature you can find some free tools online via search engine. It’s amazing to me that this is something that not all writer’s do automatically, for I think I’d be lost without it!

    As it is I’ve recently found out that you can fill it to capacity!…Uh not that I’m that naturally ungifted when it comes to the art of language, but I do this first run thing where I don’t pay any attention to the colored squigglys – meaning I don’t correct its trying to correct the names of my chosen and sometimes made up nouns  (plurals and non), so be warned that in a 400+ page document it can poop out on a gal!

    And well spelling/grammar check can be uber frustrating  (Side note: Tony’s is a really red line wonder, go fig!)  It’s still a great place to start.

    Speak It Don’t Think It!

    Seriously when rereading your writing read out loud. Play the narrator of your own stories, act like your reading it to someone, this will unconsciously help see how easily it flows – or doesn’t – and will allow you to apply the necessary fix to correct without going overboard.  Some programs and software even provide the option to hear your words read back to you. So play with it. Make it real.

    WordHippo Is Literally My Favorite App

    Thesaurus, thesaurus, thesaurus! Nothing makes a  sentence more sloppy then one that overuses the same nouns, verbs and adjectives. So go through and replace any clunky language by downloading your choice ( for android users I highly suggest WordHippo! – no affiliate link required. ;p) and watch your vocabulary and document expand for the better.

    Time Yourself! Know Yourself! Have A Clear Goal!

    Never, ever let yourself get carried away with your OCD, don’t undo all the hard work that you just bled into your document because you could keep adding. Hone the reins of your creative and build within the perimeters you set yourself before delving into the monotony of editing. Know what you want from your editing game. Is it just good spelling? Is it good flow? Is it a complete continuity check, character depth, etc?

    Be sure to know what it is your getting into so you get out what you set out to do! Set a time limit, take it in sections, split up your prerogatives.

    Honestly, sometimes I think that editing is where the real outline comes in.

    Have A Creative Escape

    When editing gets to be too much its always nice – I’ve found – to have creative work that I can take a break and escape into. It helps the juices to flow, the mind have fun, and your eyes refresh.

    It’s always good to step away when overwhelmed, stressed, or feeling insecure and what better way then by reminding yourself why it is you’re editing in the first place! We do what we do because we love it. Every last tortuously joyous dark night of the soul and bright side of the moon of it!

    I “The End” never edit to the point of blindness. Know your weaknesses, know your strengths, and trust when you have to call it a day and finally just submit.

    After all the most a writer can ever do is write and hope that the heart of the page speaks for itself and not the overthinking that keeps pecking at the back of your brain.

     

     

     

     

  • STOP!

    stop!

    Running, running, running…

    The night is pitch, a blanket of darkness that engulfs the landscape and blinds those who dare to tread. Don’t go out after dark they say for even that which is known becomes strange. They want to scare us, to keep us away, but away from what? The darkness cannot hurt you anymore then the day.

    People still die in the sunlight, are lost in the morning, and tortured throughout the afternoon. Anyway I know where I am going, for it calls to me. Where others would adhere to feelings I succumb to the cry of need that it awoke that day not too long ago…

    “Stop!”

    The tiny woman shouts, with hands flapping beside her head like two overzealous hummingbirds as she rushes to where the wedding party has been smashed into the perfectly posed memory by Suzie Smalls, wedding planner, who now rushes to correct a pinky moved just out of place. I hate weddings, I always have, so don’t ask me why I’ve even shown up.

    With a flash we are released from our unnatural positions.

    “Having fun?”

    This is asked with sardonic tone. Nick knows well enough that I am hating every minute of this parade, but I promised my mother even though she would never live to see my special day…it was the least that I could do.

    I turn to Nick, a full body eyeroll, but with a smile. We have known each other since we were children catching fireflies. He knows me inside out…

    Will he understand?

    “Are we there yet?”

    I ask as though this were some road trip that I was eager to get to the destination of.

    “Soon.”

    He answered as he rubbed my crossed arms reassuringly. I looked at him thinking how he was far too good looking to be so kind. He was tall with broad shoulders, sandy hair, and Grecian profile. He could have been sculpted, could have been a Gladiator whereas I was never anything special. I was not plain, but I was never anything outstanding. I had long straight black hair that I kept down but tucked behind ears, I was fairly pale with large eyes but a rather blank stare and a mouth that couldn’t help its naturally melancholy downturn. I guess it was the luck of geography that won Nick to me. That and perhaps our storyteller hearts, yet still there is difference, where his lent itself to fairytale and whimsy mine sank its claws into the psychology of myth and the credibility of its lore.

    Too curious and too much a thinker, I was always taking things that one step further, and perhaps too far. I question everything, every angle, and fact. I want to know that there is a reason behind every motive and a logical answer to every question. I do not like this notion that we can just say that something is because we say it is so. I suppose it could be a lot to take, but here Nick was taking me…till death…

    It was the least that I could do.

    “At least the venue is intriguing.”

    Nick said, attempting to make me feel more at home in such an unnatural thing as my own wedding party. We were in a large, yet somewhat secluded park set before a densely wooded forest where only one long road disturbed its scenery, running straight into the forest with only one lone stop sign placed just before its entry into woodlands. I wondered at its awkward placement and Nick must have seen my doubt, for he seemed to answer my thoughts before they could form themselves into question,

    “It’s more of a warning then a road sign.”

    I turned to him with skepticism on brow, but he only looked amused.

    “I told you the venue was intriguing, Amelia. It’s steeped in local folklore.”

    “In local ghost stories, you mean?”

    I scoffed.

    “Science fiction is just a prelude to science fact.”

    This was always how Nick liked to approach things, with an open mind soaking up every version of truth that he could get his hands on. I much preferred my mind to be opened by fact and liked to come into things somewhat skeptical and with a more cynical edge.

    “And what is it a car should fear from driving through?”

    I asked with a sigh, turning to really examine this part of the wood. It seemed as any other to me, thick with trees tall and thin, compressed in their proximity to each other, so intertwined that alive or dead they were keeping each other up. In their close-knit bondage it was hard to make out what lie beyond, and, in fact, what lie within. It was about two in the afternoon, the sun still out, yet inside their perimeter all seemed obscured by the darkness their concretion created.

    It sparked mystery into the heart of the observer, and yes, in me. What was it that lay within the walls of its bounty? What was it that seemed to be kept so secret and shrouded?

    “The want of it, I suppose.”

    Nick said in response to my taunting.

    “If you don’t know where you’re going, it makes you pause and have to rethink where you are.”

    He was doing what he usually did and unifying the perspective of the whole. His way was to hear the stories for the thread of truth; mine was to see it for the cracks. Different means but the same end goal, together we seemed to find balance.

    “How existential of it.”

    I said with sardonic lace, yet I did not turn away, instead my focused honed in on the red octagon of warning sign and road -which seemed unnatural splitting one side of forest from the other with no real effect to its density, as though it had drawn itself like a curtain to allow the road to be paved through – but how this sign transfixed me now as my eyes followed the curve of broken infinity that began its commanding statement.

    STOP! It seemed to shout in demanding tone as it stood as sentry to this grand woodland. I felt somewhat affronted by its authority — how had it been granted custodianship of such a kingdom? What made it the abettor of who’s allowed in or out, of whose reasoning is sound enough to grant it entry? It was like a bouncer, capable of deeming who is cool enough and popular enough and pretty enough.

    I don’t know that I ever was. Nick was. My mother was. I wonder, was she disappointed to have such a vapid daughter? It’s not that I was a disappointment, I was just never extraordinary. Nothing about me seemed to stand out. Even though I was persistent in my questioning I was never so to the point of rudeness or impertinence. I would simply seek the answers to my questions, collect my data, and reflect. It’s not that I was quite, or shy, or introverted even, I was simply there. I wonder what that must have been like for a woman — my mother — who was the center of whatever orbit she fell in to. She was a star on earth; she was vivacious and achieving making people feel as though she were just as special as she. Not me though, but not for lack of trying, just for lack of me. You see I never wanted to be anything more then what I was. What I am.

    “Amelia?”

    The sudden sound of my name and touch of Nick’s hand on my shoulder shocked me from this reprieve, only to shock me more when I came to the realization that I had been moved — no, moving — towards the very stop sign on which my focus had been transfixed. I turned to Nick now, the cord of connection severed, only to find him somewhat out of breath as though he had come running after me, but how could that be?

    “Nick?”

    “What are you doing?”

    I blinked up at him unsure of how to answer with anything but the truth,

    “I was thinking about my mother.”

    I can’t decide if Nick’s expression read of relief or heartbreak, but he scooped me up so thoroughly into his arms that everything else that was pulling at my mind seemed to calm. You see Nick is the only one that saw my mother’s complete deterioration, who was there when I was called back from college to be with her. In the end it was more as nurse then as daughter, more as a thing then as myself, but I never questioned the sacrifice. He understood the toll it had taken, though I don’t know that I ever could. I did what needed to be done until it was; until she was gone and I could give her no more. Yet here we stand now in the field of our wedding venue, three days until the big day and I’m still giving, yet I’ve never questioned the promise.

    “One day…”

    She had whispered to me as she lay in the soiled and matted sheets of what would be her death bed, I had changed them just that morning but it was never enough. I bent down beside her — pausing in the chores that kept me busy between her lapses of consciousness — and took her hand in my own holding my breath, anticipating each time to be the last.

    “I just wanted to one day see you take center stage,”

    She said as she weakly reached up to pull the hair out from behind my ear.

    “Wanted to see you on your wedding day, when every woman gets to be a star.”

    “But I’m not a star, mama, I’m just me. Only as dust will I be my closest to a star, not before.”

    I said hoping to amuse and change her train of thought, but she persisted,

    “Promise me that chance,”

    “But mama,”

    I tried to brush my hair back but she took hold of my wrist with such extreme determination and strength that I was frozen in my tracks.

    “Promise me that even if I’m not here with you I’ll get at least that one chance.”

    I wasn’t sure what to do and was concerned for her blood pressure.

    “Okay.”

    I uttered hoping to appease.

    “On your wedding day.”

    She said in serious tone half pulling herself up — she hadn’t lifted her own head in weeks! She was agitated and I feared the fevered reasoning, so with quick step I fell into line,

    “I promise that on my wedding day you will see me be the closet I can be to a star.”

    I said quickly and concisely, thankful when her grip relaxed and she fell back into slumber with a smile on her lips.

    I had to get out of there, had to get some fresh air to vent my frustration. Why could she not just accept me for who and what I was? Accept me for my neutrality as I accepted her for her shine? It wasn’t until I went back in to find her with the same smile unmoved and no more breath in her body that I realized what a binding last request it had been.

    So here we are, Nick and I — he understanding all too well the responsibility of what a parent leaves behind, he with a philosophers heart and genius left to run his father’s auto shop due to an untimely heart attack — planning my mother’s dream wedding because I promised…

    Was it really so bad a thing? So awful a wish? She really only ever wanted me to shine, to see me shine, to see me.

    “Stop!”

    I am jerked from Nick’s quieting embrace by Suzie who has the photographer stealing our moment, however it is the sign I turn to; the warning…and the trees.

    It is said that those who go into the forest seeking are never seen again. That the forest only allows those with clear purpose to cross its threshold and see through their destination. That is the jist of the lore at least, though it sounded more like a tale of morality to me when I was really hoping for more of a Bell Witch haunting, at least that could have kept my interest longer.

    It was all I could do to get through rehearsal to follow the lines of the interwoven trees, and etch the collective shapes like intricate lacework with my eyes. What must it look like from the inside when the light of the moon hits it?

    I imagine a disco ball effect and am filled with the happy memories of Nick and me in his basement apartment lying among his scattered record collection and makeshift crate furniture. He had this lamp, its shape like an orb with a bunch of small flashlight bulbs scattered about its surface, some red, some gold, some white, it would roll upon its mechanic platform and switch between the colors while we sat in the darkness listening to music as it played its light show upon the walls and ceiling, Nick’s arm wrapped around me as he narrated stories or just talked to me. One night he stood me up and we just swayed to the sound of the crickets as the lights sparkled like diamonds in the sky upon us. This was my only escape, night my only escape from my mother’s care and feel like myself again.

    We neither of us wanted a big wedding, just to be together, but we’ve made the most of it…

    “Stop!”

    Suzie is frustrated but when I look to see why I see the entire wedding party staring up at me as Nick and I stand at the altar, but it is not him I see across from me but the forest, but the sign…

    “Amelia?”

    Nick utters with compassion. I have lost myself in the distraction from rehearsal. I turn to him as they all wait for me to say something I am at a loss to say. All I can think of to ask is,

    “Haven’t we?”

    “We don’t have to do this.”

    Nick tells me once we are alone. Soon we will have to separate so we can be reunited, on display, in front of our friends and loved ones.

    “You know I promised.”

    He comes closer to me in hopes of bridging the gap, of pulling me away,

    “But some promises are meant to be broken.”

    I turn from him to look out the motel window in the direction of our venue. It is only a few miles north; I believe I can see the top of the forest’s trees. I wish that I could turn and take Nick’s hands with abandon and just run out of this place and down our own path, but I cannot, something is compelling me to see this through. It’s just what good children do.

    “Not this one.”

    I say, turning to him with great difficulty, for I know somehow that I’ve made my choice  so what is the point of looking to him with half a heart and confirming the denial of what I really want to be doing?

    Did he know?

    Regretfully he kisses me goodnight and I am left alone with my thoughts and feelings, but they are still, like when taking care of my mother. Mechanics of a human meant just to serve. I do not have time for myself so I’m left alone with nothing. I need to get out, get some fresh air.

    Running, running, I soon find myself running as the night air flashes against my flesh, cool and reliving. I find I don’t need to think. I know where I’m going, the road ahead is clear, after all…I promised.

    STOP!

    Stone cold I break from my zombie state. I stand before the sign, before forest made darker by the night, limbs silhouetted by star spattered sky looking like stretched out extremities of some gargantuan spiders extended crawl. I blink at the now empty field to my right stripped of our party’s decoration. They will reset up tomorrow — funny how collapsible the special day is.

    I turn back to the sign, to the red carpet of road that leads into the void of path. I stare into its abyss for I know not how long. What would be the harm to walk in? To walk the road, a clear path after all, it’s not like I have to wonder among the trees, and besides I know where I am going. I’m getting married…

    “No Amelia,”

    Something in my brain responds,

    “You’re going to be a star.”

    Before I know at all what I am doing I have entered with clear destination on mind, because in the end the closest I could ever be to a star is dust.

    Amelia lived as some would consider a nothing, but in order to shine and be seen nothing is exactly what she had to become.

    Some things we should never try to comprise for we can only ever be ourselves… even if in their way.

    No one ever saw Amelia again.

  • When Is A Picture Worth More Than A Word Count?

    wordcount

    No, this isn’t going to be the great paradox of my blog, nor is it some sinister throw down to wage a war of debate between writer’s and artist. In fact the answer is rather easy and one that I was reminded of during a recent writing prompt.

    So, when is a picture worth more than a word count?

    Simple, when it becomes a story.

    I have always been a thinker – heck I have also always been rather strange and unusual ta boot! My imagination seems to pick up the most minute of details and interpret them in the unique ways.

    My take on things and what inspired them can really cock the eyebrow, but I usually wait for the spark to truly catch fire before I dedicate any of my creative effort towards its happening. Like J.J. Abrams says:

    I try to push ideas away, and the one’s that will not leave me alone are the one’s that ultimately end up happening.

    However! When I came across the Reedsy A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words writing prompt I was reminded just how fun it can be to look at images and run wild with what they provoke within the mind’s eye.

    I used to have a weekly feature dedicated to just that (Throwback Thursday to Tumblin’ Tuesday anyone?) but, like the first iteration of my blog, it was lost and I fell out of the habit due to the dedication of self to first novel and sundry.

    Seriously any free time I have to create had been dedicated to ultra specific deadline projects or my novel and the in’s and out’s of it being my first (Since I’m such an unconventional when it comes to my craft it has really been quite the journey – I didn’t even know I was writing a book until I was some 80+ pages in! But I’ve also wanted to take my time – you only get one “first” after all! ;))

    Yet there I was, the week directly after a Tuesday New Years, with the energy of wanting to jump right back in, but the semi out of practice, at a loss feeling that the holiday hubbub will induce and this perfect opportunity to stretch my skills but in a totally fun and no pressure kind of way.

    It was so much fun to look through their option of stock photo inspiration and allow my imagination the candy to totally go glutton over – though only with its choice of flavor.

    I was still quite discerning, looking at the images and then walking away, keeping them indirectly in my minds eye to allow the right one to resonate. When I opened the blank document I didn’t even paste the image I just went off on what it inspired. After all I am an unconventional creative, I do not follow rules in the direct fashion, I follow the outline of what it is they pertain to. Creativity has not the same boundaries that your typical black and white rule box houses, so don’t jail yourself in the idea that just because your story is based on this image doesn’t mean that you have to paint this exact image to the reader. Art is meant to inspire new perspectives, to promote different ways of seeing into things.

    That being said this is the image that I chose:

    stop!

    It really was such fun to have a word count and time limit (deadlines are some of my favorite things!) it meant that commitment was short but my creative cells were burning and bringing me back into my most natural and easy state of Go,Go,Go!

    I encourage anyone and everyone – no matter what type of creative you are, and even if you aren’t do this to help open you perspective to become a problem solving powerhouse – to practice inspired creating.

    You could randomly choose a book cover of something you’ve never read ( A Barnes & Noble challenge, if you will – and great excuse to wonder a bookstore!) that you then have to write the story that lies beneath, or just a picture – pinterest and the gram are chalk full! – or a song. You could read a book and choose a side character, watch a movie or a show and create a story around an Extra in the background, whatever you choose just make sure to set yourself the loose limits of time and count and withing that go nuts!

    The more you do this the more you will start being inspired on a daily (hourly in some cases) by any given thing. Your mind will be opened to seeing things with a more studied eye, looking further then surface and deeper then face. You will be expanding your perspective and taking in a world that really is just full of stories waiting to be told and interpreted through the eye of the beholder that is you!

    And as for my story STOP!? Well just stay tuned and be ready for a treat!

  • Prologue: Lost Girl Found

    lee woodman 2012
    Lee Woodman 2012

    The seeming eyes of a gargoyle look out on the dark city streets as a figure skulks in the shadows perched in pocket of a building’s windowsill overlooking the moonlit City skyline. It may seem as shimmering and clear as crystal in the dead of this night as one looks to the sky for future promises…but below shows the cracks in its foundation and those who slip between. It is here that Brie’s sharp, crisp and cool eyes are fixed. A blue hazel glowing against the city’s darkness seeming to slice like a knife through the facade of its beauty to pierce into its very soul; in the all consuming darkness in which she sits it is the only desirable feature to be made out.

    “So here I am…when all the bad shit seems to go down.” She thinks reflecting on where time and circumstance has found her.

    Among the trashed and dirty pavement decorated with dirty alleyways with wired backing torn and thrashed, hijacked cars left to be compounded should the government ever find the time or resources to remember people still live here. Amid the broken, boarded up windows and wire clothes lines with rags strewn about in indifference and haste, sun bleached and weather worn. Sirens can be heard admits the symphony of babies crying and animals howling in displeasure and forsaken ache, but tonight it is a distant melody for the streets of this particular district prove to be quiet…too quiet for anything good to be happening.

    “For some reason they think in the darkness they can hide because it has kept their secrets before. That they can get away with murder because in the past they have…but not anymore. History will not be doomed to repeat…not for me. So I’ll just sit and wait. For what? I don’t know, for when you start predicting evil you’ve become it. And I will not be haunted. So I just wait for it is enough to know it when it comes.” She relaxes into her dogmas reminder for she will not lose herself to obsessions lure. It is a promise that brings her out this and every night and part of that promise is not to live for them but in spite of them. Her eyes close their probing stare as she leans back meditatively disappearing into the tomb of her alcove. When a young woman appears, she could be any young woman enjoying a night out on the town, living for the night. Too bad it’s only one kind, we never think to consider the other things that go bump in nocturnal obscurity. Not until it is too late.

    She struggles quietly as she is being drug behind a large, rough looking man who holds her by the wrist. Why the seeming passivity? She starts with trying to be jovial, keep calm, resist like he is still a man to be reasoned with, after all wouldn’t want to risk crushing the male ego, so she tries to make it his choice.

    “Stop.” She says firmly but with a tinge of sweetness. Too bad he has already made his choice:

    “Shut up!” He snaps over his shoulder with warning tone, fully committed to his role. She pulls against his force now, but it is useless she is frantic and small where he is calm and large. Again there is a hesitancy on her part one that doesn’t want to make too much noise, doesn’t want to draw too much unwanted attention. It’s hard to believe that the turn of a corner in a city can see you go from the hustle and bustle of good times to the dead-end seclusion of darker waters.

    “Please, stop, I don’t want to do this.” She halts in her position, standing her ground against his movement. He whips around on her, jerking her a little more forward with his sudden stop. He is rough around the edges, with the kind of scruff on face that only makes him look dirtier then he already does. The muscular arms that extend from his ripped tank and leather vest say he’s a man that lifts weights but the hard roundness of gut proves he doesn’t really care he simply like the intimidation factor that the buff arms lend his tall, thick form. Still the girl stands her ground in not wanting to move as he looms over her with glaring eyes and let’s go of her wrist. For a moment she knows a bit of relief, but only a moment as he brings the back of his hand to her cheek. She lets out a short, surprised scream as she hits the pavement and he retakes control of her wrist, crueler this time as he bends over her his greasy scowl close to her face overwhelming her with the intense smell of liquor and cigarette smoke upon him.

    “Oh you’ll want what I tell you to. Now, get up!”

    The saddest sight is that the girl seems resigned to having no choice in the matter as he yanks her up to feet by the wrist, nearly wrenching it from socket as her skin scraps harshly against the pavement. She doesn’t dare bring more pain, or worse, by resisting. He doesn’t care though he is thoroughly unaffected by her plight, for he is a man on a mission with only one thing on his mind and just happy not to be bothered as he continues to drag her behind him towards their destination.

    However this scene bears silent witness and as they move past the building in which she skulks, the white-hot blue eyes open, almost illuminating the darkness with their intensity as her lips curl into a grin as she whispers in affirmation of her patience:

    “That’ll do.”

    …

    As the pair ventures deeper into the darkened pits of neighborhood she trails their every move, a living shadow.

    “Please!” The girl pleads sensing the looming presence of their destination. He is amused feeling more confident with each step deeper into his territory. “Don’t worry baby, we’re almost there.” He laughs to himself. “A real super eight.”

    They pass a dark alley little knowing that from the shroud of its shadows she watches and as they begin to cross the street so too does she. In lithe speed she charges across and into opposite crack between buildings, not slowing her momentum for a moment she jumps upon the wall of the enclosing building to propel herself to the opposites fire escape. She climbs coming to the top of building where once more she runs the roofs length coming to its edge without stopping she leaps like a fawn in this unique forest of infrastructure landing upon a lower building’s roof on palms and toes, low with its siding she spider crawls along on her belly, across to peer, yet undetected, over its edge seeing the pair having just appeared in the alley below and impending capstone of his evening.

    “I don’t want to do this.” More and more the girl is getting anxious and losing faith as tears begin to pour down her reddened cheek. He whirls around with a threatening hand raised and expression that says don’t make me hit you again.

    Brie’s jaw hardens as she shakes head.

    “That’ll do.” She says through gritted teeth for she has him where she wants him. She rises to her feet looking down to see a flagpole jutting out from the side of the building; she nods with a shrug of convincing knowing it will be her best bet…at not dying at least, at best…well…

    She charges forward and leaps off of the buildings edge falling hard she catches the flagpole with a jerk to her body, but she makes no sound.

    “Oh yeah,” The man says pulling the girl into him as he backs further into ally. “You’re gonna have lots of fun…”

    Just above she swings to and fro on the pole building her momentum. As he pulls the girl into a forced, wet and messy kiss. Brie’s eyes sharpen their glare.

    “That’ll do.”

    She releases her grip of pole on upward swing flying forward as he pushes the girl against wall unable to wait any longer to get her where he was taking her but before he can turn against her Brie’s landing comes on his back, her feet together kicking him forward and down into the pavement as she lands over him crouched with a hand against the back of his neck, her right foot and left knee to his wrists so he can’t move. Her first priority is the girl, so as he tries to remain conscious, she whips head over shoulder her light brown hair a mess from the night’s activities falls over the right side of her face blurring her features from the struck and paralyzed girl she confronts.

    But Brie is not some cold or unfeeling hero of the night or righteous rebel fighting for a cause. She is a woman, kind, calm and reassuring in her manner and ease, strong and unapologetic, she wears no need for explanation for she simply is who she is and does what she does.

    “It’s okay,” She says any vengeful or lackadaisical tone lost in her narration as she digs through the man’s pocket with skilled hand. She pulls out a wad of money and holds it out to the girl who looks at her in such shaken disbelief. Brie smiles to confirm the truth she knows the girl is too afraid to speak:

    “You’re okay.”

    The tension releases from the girl’s shoulder as some relief washes over her, but Brie knows the reality of what almost transpired can still be a fall out. The girl needs to be safe, warm…home. Brie shakes the money. The girl nods with understanding but she is still in shock, still so disoriented from what has transpired so instead she focuses in on Brie her fear melting into a hesitant curiosity as she contemplates this figure. Brie nods her safe consent, like trying to get an injured animal to come out of its dark hiding place, she eases the money into the girl’s hand.

    “Go home.” Brie states firmly indicating with head a straight path for the girl to take and all at once the girl wraps hand around the money, turns and runs out from the alley to safety leaving them alone: the Shadow and the Man.

    She turns her attention back to the would-be rapist.

    “Now, I may have asked you to come up and see me sometime, but I figured why not just come down and see you?”

    She lifts his head up by the neck only to drop it back into the concrete as she stands kicking him around and on to back as she pressing the sole of her boot into the side of his face shaking the hair loose from her face exposing in the light of the dim street lamp the entire right side of her face completely marred and marked with dozens of overlapping, interweaving, engraved scars, from her forehead to her chin, a road-map of hate, of the past, her past; defined and forever…

    “What is it Fitzgerald called them…Careless people?” She wonders, semi amused by his surprise that this night should leave him here…at her mercy. She doesn’t care that her vulnerability is on display, she pays no mind or concern, for in many ways her scars seem disconnected from her person as she wears them with the same confidence of her demeanor…without apology.

    From under her boot his eyes grow wide as he takes her in for what she is. For what others would make and deem the monstrous.

    “In his eyes is reflected the carelessness of so many, but I don’t mind it, I’ve never minded for it proves as a reminder to them all who set eyes upon me: we will not be silenced or forgotten so easily.”

  • Bound In Eternity’s Struggle

    claralieugesturedrwaing

     

    I’m fighting to understand this thing that surrounds me. It is my responsibility, my soul obligation. No one can take care of it the way that I can. No one can love or nurture it for me. It is my birthright…yet I have no gift for its care.

    I take this honor for a burden. I just want a break from its need, from its want of me and my want for it. How rebellious its nature. It seems only to want to defy me. We have different ideas for what it should be, how it should act and respond and how it should look.

    I can’t do it. Not today. Every chance I have to offer it a kindness it warps into an evil. I feel if given the chance, I would see it tortured; see it squirm and succumb to my brutal force.

    Give in! Give in! I pray. I scream. I yell.

    Yet its will is like iron. No matter, for it can escape me as much as I can it. But I will have my way. I will see it bend to my will. I will see it held accountable for my actions. For all I am doing is loving it in my way. At the very least I am attempting to train it so that I may love and accept it as my own.

    My dear, sweet, difficult handicap, how I hate you.

    I could maybe love you if you didn’t make me work so hard yet feel so incapable. You are a contradiction with too many rules. A high maintenance impediment with too many variables, too many intricate nuances’ that only work to make me hate you more for what in them could endear you to my sensibilities?

    Meet me half way, please! I beg.

    I am pathetic. You make me feel like the bad guy in a situation you’ve created. You tremble and quake when I try, yet rage and react when I give in to your seeming needs. What will make you happy? Will we forever be in this dance of push and shove, of love and hate?

    They tell me to just work harder, to do more, give or give up more, yet I have given all of myself to you, what left is there? What will finally be enough?

    For I no longer think it will be me…will be us.

    Yet we must continue onward for we are forever bound together. I walk you walk, I live you live, I die and you…

    Will there ever be harmony?

    A break?

    A chance?

    Will we ever be in love, my dear body…

    Will I ever be in control?

  • Mirror Mirror: Chapter Six

    MirrorMirror3

    Inside the Gotham City Bank:

    The Bank is dark, empty and eerie but a single voice echoes giddy and disembodied throughout the marble halls:

    “Question: what’s Bat and right and red all over? The answer may just surprise you!”

    Seemingly from nowhere Batman lands in the center of the grand structure, silhouetted by the skylight at its center, his cape falling shroud like around him as he stands straight into its descent around shoulders.

    “Spare me Riddler,

    Batman says as he eyes the place, studying all possibilities.

    “Your answers are getting as predictable as your crimes.”

    Batman eyes the place, studying all possibilities.

    “Tut-tut, wrong-o Batty-boy!”

    Batman’s attention is immediately drawn to his right where the Riddler’s echo seemed to reverberate on his spectra-meter.

    “But I shall grant you another shot!”

    A slight *click* of the heel nailed the Riddler’s coffin. Batman ducks into cape as he steps back into the darkness becoming one with the shadows.

    Riddler’s POV:

    He stands watching Batman from above in the rafters, looking down upon the scene as Batman disappears. He then slides into place, dropping something down below as he himself drops down just opposite balancing the ropes weight, crooning as he does so with more enigmatic boastings.

    “You see, neither are my work or doing.”

    When suddenly a Batarang cuts through the rope and both he and the item fall simultaneously crashing to floor. As the Riddler shakes off his landing Batman’s eyes open in the shadows before him; illusive slits in their blackened surroundings.

    “I’m just here for the laugh…”

    The Riddler finished leaning back on palms with a tight shrug of shoulders.

    “And the loot.”

    Seemingly from nowhere the Riddler holds up a bank money bag, illustrating his point. In the blink of an eye Batman loomed closer, leaning now directly before his gaze, gaining substance from the shadows.

    “Ever the bridesmaid, ever the puppet.”

    He said with a rolling grumble of voice, though the Riddler didn’t seem intimidated.

    “Tsk, tsk, Bat’s,”

    Just like with the bag of money the Riddler produces a gun from his other hand.

    “But don’t shoot the messenger.”

    *Bang!*

    Dodging bullet Batman flips to the side and as more begin to fly he pulls cape around him upon landing, switching on its harden shell-like casing to protect against the onslaught. Once the clip had run out Batman lands dives forward into the Riddler position with fists forward.

    However it is not the Riddler his fists meet…

    *Crash!*

    It is broken glass Batman finds himself standing among; glass from the item the Riddler had been balancing on the other side of rope. The glass of a mirror. Batman had been speaking to the Riddler’s reflection the whole time, but, of course, now, he had vanished.

    Annoyed that he should fall for such a basic trick, Batman quickly scans the room for any clues to his folly.

    “Enhanced echo.” flashes across his alert scanning revealing the reason of what had allowed the Riddler to get away with Batman believing he was before him…but how? That’s when Batman realized that he was now standing inside one of the banks vaults, the door being opened allowing the Ridler’s position to be concealed as his voice bounced, reverberating outward form the vault which the mirror’s position had been carefully concealing. A visual riddle solved.

    Batman studied the vaults opening.

    “Not forced.”

    Ready to move on, he turns to inspect the vault itself only to come face to face with:

    HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

    And the laughter echos…

  • Mirror Mirror: Chapter Five

    MirrorMirror3

     

    *Ring* – a shrill alarm rings throughout the empty Batcave.

    *Ring* – Gotham City Bank: A tellers hand hits the silent alarm.

    *Ring* – The doorbell at Wayne Manner; The visitor Mirrianna Savauge.

     

    Outside Gotham City Bank:

    The area is tapped off with police cars barricading the perimeter. Gordon’s car pulls up and before it stops or parks he jumps out and in front of their top negotiator.

    “Who’s in there, who’s out? What do you have on casualties, hostages, demands?”

     

    Wayne Manner:

    Alfred has answered the door and now escorts Mirrianna inside.

    “I’m afraid he’s running a bit late.”

    Mirrianna looks skeptically at his excuse.

    “To his own house?”

    She counters forcing Alfred to realize the absurdity of the excuse; with an answer he figures isn’t quite a lie.

    “He’s…”

     

    Arkham Asylum:

    “Complicated.”

    The Joker says as he leans back on his cot, putting feet up. Mirrianna’s gear is all set up, but today she sits beside the cot in a regulated smooth-edged chair, with a clipboard/notepad in hand.

    “Aren’t we all?”

    “No.”

    He says it so plainly causing Mirrianna’s eyebrow to rise a bit at the blunt and simple statement. Then the edge of his lip starts going up in a sly snarl-like grin, putting his sharp teeth and sinister nature on display.

    “Me, I’ve always loved the lure of the enigma, the hint of mystery,”

    Mirrianna looks dryly over her glasses at him:

    “You mean the façade of being in control of the chaos?”

     

    Wayne Manner:

    Alfred shows Mirrianna into the study.

    “Alfred Pennyworth, correct?”

    Mirrianna asks turning to Alfred once inside room. He nods answering simply:

    “You are.”

    Mirrianna’s eyes seem to light up, a sudden glint sparked as she looks to him in studied reverence.

    “You were there.”

    She states breathlessly. As Alfred is a little surprised.

    “I beg your pardon?”

    Mirrianna looks practically ecstatic to answer.

    “The night that Bruce Wayne survived the Jokers plague.”

     

    Arkham Asylum:

    Another day a different session. Mirrianna stands putting the now full vials of blood back into her case. The Joker sits directly behind her, crossed legged on cot.

    “Enjoying my blood are you?”

    He asks lulling head back and forth against wall.

    “It is serving its purpose.”

    His eyes sharply come to her in pointed expression.

    “Which is?”

    She closes case and turns to face him.

    “You tell me.”

    The Joker smiles sinking chin into chest.

    “You will never figure it out you know, for one must become something to truly understand its purpose.”

     

    Wayne Manner:

    Mirrianna quickly remembers herself, shaking away any undo excitement as she catches sight of her eager reflection in Alfred’s eyes.

    “I’m sorry; you see I’m here to understand.”

    Alfred indicates for her to take a seat.

    “Please join me. If I am to wait for Mr. Wayne I would love to speak with you in the interim.”

    Though still somewhat skeptical Alfred takes a seat across from Mirrianna.

    “You see the reason I bring up that night is due to the fact that that was the beginning of the Joker’s reign of terror on Gotham.”

    “An unfortunate thing.”

    Mirrianna leans forward towards Alfred, as if conveying a precious secret.

    “I am in the process of breaking down the chemical matrix of his ‘joker serum’.”

    As she talks her passion begins to show, her eyes shine afire with the personal dedication she has to her craft.

    “The poison compound that can turn, twist and mutate its victim, killing them in a manner both brutal and instantaneous. If I can isolate the process I can find a way to reverse it.”

    “A noble undertaking.”

    “Mr. Wayne is the only known survivor, you, his witness. So if I could hear your perspective on…”

     

    Arkham Asylem:

    “That night.”

    Mirrianna began in yet another one on one session with The Joker. This time going back to the night that started it all.

    “You were stopped.”

    She sits once more beside the Joker’s cot; he himself is lying with his head hanging off of it, bored and unamused.

    “Oh so long ago, I thought it unhealthy to dwell on the past, besides…”

    He smiles nostalgically.

    “I’ve done much better things since.”

    Then suddenly his face twists as his eyes go over the details of his thoughts, his eyes creep to the side, looking at Mirrianna:

    “Unless you want to talk about that camera trick…”

    His legs flutter through the air as he shivers at the delight of his own creativity.

    “That one’s a gem!”

     

    Bank Negotiations:

    The top negotiator has no compunctions answering to Gordon, turning right away with full update:

    “so far nothing from the inside, sir.”

    “And the security hack? Anything on the surveillance?”

    Gordon makes no formal addresses, getting down to business on every front coming right up behind the GCPD’s security analyst who sits in swat gear before his computer with a puzzled expression.

    “That’s a good question…”

    He shifts revealing to the men the image on the screen – and what should be the Banks security camera but is instead blocked by a piece of paper tapped to its lens with all too familiar green Question Mark.

    “Son of a…”

     

    Arkham Asylum:

    Back to the third session and conversation between Mirriana and the Joker, she continues, unfazed her round of pointed questioning.

    “Your victims then, did they understand in the end?”

    He lays disinterested on his cot, eyes wandering around the room as though there were anything worth looking at.

    “They were obviously unworthy…you know something just occurred to me!”

    The Joker’s head rises up alight with the sudden flicker of enlightenment.

    “Why am I being punished for their crimes? I believe this is wrongful imprisonment! I demand Justice! A re-count!”

    But Mirrianna is unamused, completely unfazed by any of it; completely unperturbed, unprovoked and non-reactive.

    “So death was their failing? Not surviving you was their fault?”

    “We all choose how to act and react.”

    He sits up on the straight jacket version of his forearms now, his feet twitching to the tune in his head as he answers her perpetual questioning.

    “And you choose to hurt people?”

    “God hurts those who hurt themselves, or so I’m told.”

    He laughs but Mirrianna just looks at him – glasses falling to the end of her nose. Her gaze is sharp and piercing as she studies his every infliction.

    “Is this all just a game to you? Life and death. Do you do for fun or for revenge?”

     

    Bank Negotiations:

    Gordon, the Analyst and Swat Captain stand staring at the computer screen and image of the Green Question Mark and calling card of a certain individual. The Swat Captain pulls com.

    “Ready the troops, on my mark start leading ‘em in.”

    But Gordon is quick to pull rank (and walkie) from him.

    “Belay that order boy’s…just…”

    Gordon says as he leans in towards the screen, eyes examining when he sees an imprint formed from the back of the paper, a very familiar shape – a batarang.

     

    Arkham Asylum:

    The Joker rises to meet Mirrianna’s steady, no-nonsense gaze, his own expression an ear-to-ear grin as he answers her question of fun and revenge.

    “Why my good doctor…can’t it be both?”

     

    Bank Negotiations:

    Gordon looks intensely at the image and the message it conveys, completing order:

    “Keep up the show.”

     

    Arkham Asylum:

    Mirrianna’s expression remains unchanged as she writes on her clipboard and pushes up glasses.

    “Indeed.”

     

  • Mirror Mirror: Chapter Four

    BatmanMirrormirror

    Gotham: It’s a bad part of town. A poor part of town. The sky sits thick and gray in the sky. The streets and gutters are full of trash, grit and grime. Broken windows hang in dilapidated buildings that unfortunately it seems apparent people still inhabit. Yet in all this the most eerie unnatural thing is the emptiness. No bums, no boozers, thugs, vagrants or dealers. No feral animals or people just trying to survive. All is quiet, empty…but necessary.

    Only the quiet rustle of movement can be heard in the form of a loose manhole cover that sits over the old transit tunnel down below.

    “It’s an old system.”

    He thinks to himself.

    “Too old. Yet they keep it running. The city never seems able to budget in for repairs so it gets pushed back, forgotten, but no matter…that’s what I’m counting on.”

    Batman’s all too familiar shadow looms in what little light there is in the tunnel when a squeaky, high-pitched sound pierces the air and he turns, disappearing into the shadows.

    “The GCPD will be waiting, will be ready. His demands are petty enough; money in so many terms. He’s just another petty thug; another product of Gotham’s miscreant legacy.”

    The scratchy railway makes for a turbulent ride, one made even more uncomfortable by the shaking man who stands with two guns and a bomb strapped to his chest aimed at the passengers in a closed off section of the subway. These are innocent people; working class, parents, and children.

    “Maybe even just a kid himself. Maybe a father who can’t buy bread, a son who needs medicine, but it doesn’t matter, we all have a story and he made his choice…”

    His jaw sets firm against his conscience objections.

    “…and I can’t risk the hostages.”

    Suddenly the train lurches screaming as if in pain.

    “The conductor pulls the emergency brake.”

    He repeats calmly to himself, more of a rundown then a reminder as the train’s lights illuminate the tunnel as momentum continues its pull forward, highlighting the midnight dwellers sleeping overhead, with one familiar form among them.

    “Got to time this right…”

    As the first compartment passes under he descends and soon the back of the train is separated from the first three cars and is left behind falling into darkness as the separate compartment continues its now accelerated stop with the assailant and what’s left of the hostages leaving the rest behind.

    “Momentum and magnetic force should do the rest…”

    Batman dives forward from the stalled section of train to the now 20ft distant of the yet speeding section.

    “I’m not a praying man.”

    The train screeches to a full stop causing the shaky thug to stumble and trip backwards over the lip of section separator and onto his back.

    *Bang!* A frantic finger, clutches for control, for desperate superiority, pulling the trigger of the gun as he lands. A bullet hits the ceiling. Quickly he rolls dodging the ping-back, embarrassed and quickly losing what he sees as his power and leverage he comes up firing blinding two more rounds into what would have been the hostages but is now just the sections compartment door.

    He opens eyes quickly assessing his situation,

    “They are just on the other side.”

    His mind tries to sooth him with the idea that it was just a triggered response to his fall.

    “Okay…”

    He says out loud trying to bluff the falling pit of despondence growing within his stomach.

    “Okay.”

    He wipes a sweaty upper lip. Looking around at this empty cart, feeling overwhelmed by the stillness of his surroundings he kicks open the door separator only to find that the other cart is gone. He is faced with nothing but the dark tunnel.

    “No…”

    It escapes his breathless voice, his eyes widen in horrified realization. It is over, but he doesn’t want to face the reality of his failure. He shoots into the darkness as he stumbles, disoriented, out of train.

    *Bang! Bang! Bang!* He stops as he hears something behind him, he quickly jerks around *Bang!* a bat shrieks out of the darkness past his head. Just a bat. He laughs at his own panicky paranoia. Just a stupid bat. He laughs out loud.  Then turning around he slams straight into Batman’s chest falling to ground dazed by the brick wall effect leaving Batman’s imposing figure looming over him the bomb he once strapped to his chest in hand.

    “It’s over.”

     

    From a bird’s eye view he watches like a gargoyle on the rooftops edge.  The streets below are full of hustle and bustle of panic control: the would-be hostages being checked out, warmed and soothed by ambulances and medical staff. The crazy thug now dazed and resigned to being led off in handcuffs by the GCPD followed by the gaggle of news reporters and camera crews begging for a statement.

    Gordon comes walking up casually from behind.

    “As always; one step and appreciated.”

    Batman does not turn, makes no start or indicated acknowledgment, he just stares over the edge of building and into the hollow meaning of Gotham’s now daily grind.

    “Just another mindless crime and pointless criminal.”

    Gordon comes beside Batman, hands in pockets looking out at the fading day’s rays of light and silver lining.

    “It’s another rat out of the hole.”

    “Yet there are still so many, out there and left.”

    His eyes, like slits of light amongst the dark night, move to eye Gordon without any other movement.

    “I heard you let someone in.”

    He is referring to Mirrianna Savauge.

    “And you clearly disapprove?”

    Gordon has to laugh at his friend’s ever extensive knowledge of the coming and goings of Gotham.

    “Do you really think it wise?”

    His tone is straight forward enough, no laced edge or ulterior undercurrent. In his own way showing that he trusts and values Gordon’s opinion.

    “No. I think it’s necessary.”

    Gordon leans a foot on the edge of roof, leaning forward on leg, impassioned by his own convictions.

    “You know I would like nothing more than to shove his ass away in some dark hole and forget about him until we can no longer ignore the smell of rotting decay, but it’s not gonna happen. It can’t. We’ve both been given the option to end it or let it end, to play it his way, and we’ve both made the same choice. We know it’s not our option. So, better to gain the advantage and arm ourselves with more knowledge; get more players on our side.”

    “Better, I think, not to provide him the chance to move at all.”

    Gordon is a bit exasperated by Batman’s critical skepticism.

    “He is in separate premises, high security, solo-solitary confinement. I personally watch every single personal interaction.”

    His tone is a little short, however Batman’s remains cool and confident.

    “It’s still Arkham.”

    “And we’re never quite prepared. I’m trying to change that, and I don’t need your approval. What I want is for you to understand that I take none of this lightly.”

    Gordon is afire with his own righteous perspective, but deep down he is also desperately trying to convince himself out of his own apprehensions.

    “The single point of the matter is the rats exist because of the holes they have to hide in. You plug ‘em up, you shine the light and they scatter.”

    Gordon stands ready to take his leave.

    “Take away the masks they can’t own it. Remove the punch line and the joke falls flat.”

    “The riddles no good.”

    Batman says quietly to himself, his mind on another matter all together as something beyond this resonates striking and unsettling a cord.

    “What was that?”

    At last Batman stands to his full height.

    “I’ll be watching.”

    And with that and one turn of the cape he swoops from rooftop and into the night disappearing into the darkness with the rest of the night dwellers leaving Gordon to chew on the scene of unsettled doubts.

    “And I’ll be trying not to have that cigarette.”

     

    Batman swoops through the Gotham city jungle as he has done a hundred times before. It is second nature to him as his thoughts take the forefront going back to a time he thought buried with his childhood best friend.

    He and Nightwing were in the Batcave; Nightwing hanging from the ceiling in his acrobatic nature of showmanship as Batman was working to solve his current nightmares mystery when their conversation had turned to the Joker:

    “He’s escaped what seventeen times?”

    Nightwing’s words seem to echo through his thoughts as Batman now arrives at the Batcave. He drops cowl on the monitor of his master computer as he himself leans over the industrial monitor on clenched fists.

    “And yet…”

    He responds to the ghost of time past. He looks up to clear his vision only to find himself reflected in the memorial case which holds Jason Todds uniform. His jaw sets, biting down on the convictions of his skepticism.

    “Who will be next?”

     

    Time has passed: Batman now sits hunched, face in hands, in the chair that sits before his vast networking system, exhausted and frustrated as all that shows on the large monitor’s screen is the word “Searching”.

    “Master Bruce?”

    Alfred appears behind him.

    “Not now Alfred.”

    Unconcerned with his “master’s” mood or requests, Alfred does not balk.

    “Yes I am aware that you are ‘busy’, but I had thought you might be interested to know that someone has requested an audience with yourself on the Commissioners referral.”

    Bruce rubs eyes disinterested in this underwhelming development.

    “Is that so?”

    “Yes,”

    Alfred indulges his mood, with the upper hand pride in the knowledge of what he is about to say.

    “In fact it just so happens to be one Dr. Mirrianna…”

    Just then the screen reveals its search results on one Dr. Mirrianna…

    “Savauge.”

  • Mirror Mirror: Chapter Two

    BatmanMirrormirror

     

    *clink*

    Mirrianna unfolds the extendable legs from the industrial case she carries turning it into its own table. She has yet to really acknowledge the other person in the room. She has yet to react or act effected by any of her current situation, as though this were as normal as super at six.

    The Joker on the other hand watches her with intent eyes, in fact they are the only thing that moves from his lounged position on cot, leaning low against the wall sunken into cot and straitjacket, a picture of ambivalence…save those eyes. Then, slowly, a smile begins to creep onto his cheeks.

    “Well hello,”

    He says emphatically.

    “I must say it’s been some time since last I had a visitor!”

    He is wide-eyed and sardonic in expression.

    In the Security cell stationed just outside this stands Gordon, brow furrowed with a serious and suspicious expression as he goes over every detail, sternly watching this scene play out over the monitors. Ready to respond at the drop of the pain.

    “Hello,”

    Mirrianna replies plainly opening case and exposing its clinical contents: syringes that scope in needle size and width along with vials assumingly for the samples they will collect.

    “I am Doctor Mirrianna Savauge.”

    Somehow his smile seems to grow as the shine in his eyes twinkles with amusement and he chimes:

    “Mirror, Mirror in my cell, why you’re here, please do tell?”

    He kicks with an exaggerated motion like a twitch that sees him crossing his legs round.

    “Oh how I do just love a good nickname! You don’t mind do ya, meer?”

    He says the “nickname” slow and through exaggerated teeth and tongue.

    “It would not be my first.”

    She responds dispassionately turning to him as she takes glasses off.

    “Do you know why I am here?”

    Twisting grin to the side he meets her eyes with unsettling steady contact:

    “Why yes, they told me you want my blood…”

    His brow cocks a little, his tongue moving over his lips.

    “You wouldn’t be the first.”

    Mirrianna still has yet to be shaken by his fierce persona, her demeanor still serious and undaunted. She is neither uncomfortable or fazed by this habitat or character dweller. She states plainly:

    “And do you know why it is I want your blood?”

    “Let me guess;”

    He cocks head upward as though looking for the light-bulb.

    “Your favorite color is red?”

    She gives him a long look, a studied glance but says nothing as she to prepare needle.

    “They say you’re a genius,”

    She begins, but he stops her short:

    “I am a genius.”

    “Then perhaps I am just trying to understand you.”

    She counters.

    “By taking my blood?”

    “It’s a start.”

    “But where, pray, does it stop?”

    He has this way with speaking, with how his tone projects constantly a sense of double meaning to all things, usually inferring something deeper and quite more sinister. She turns with a needle.

    “You tell me.”

    His feet kick with giddy excitement.

    “A guessing game?”

    “You could just tell me.”

    She now comes to his side.

    “And would that save me from the poke? I do just abhor the sight of blood,”

    He bats lashes, but then sly eyes come to their corners with disturbed nuance.

    “Well…at least my own.”

    She makes no castigating expression of reproach for his poor taste joke, which only works to intrigue him more.

    “Should I start with my childhood? How my mummy and didums never loved me! How they beat and broke me! Me, a good for nothing, know no better, victim of circumstance!”

    He pouts.

    “That is what your type like to hear isn’t it? What you’re usually interested in; picking the brain not the vessel.”

    Mirrianna puts glasses back on and places her impressive needle and piercing it through the straitjacket and into his – properly calculated – arm.

    “Well…did they?”

    The Joker relaxes into the needle.

    “Knock-knock.”

    He counters. Filling vials she indulges his childish game.

    “Who’s there?”

    “Mirror.”

    Her trained hands fill three vials full, but her eyes never falter from the Joker himself in what could be seen as an intense standoff between two people trying to out-psyche psyche-out the other.

    “Mirror who?”

    For the first time the Joker’s grin falls, his eyes unblinking in hers, she’s not quite sure what she sees is humanity in him, but it touches upon a sensitive truth as he whispers breathlessly:

    “Exactly.”

  • Flesh and Blood

    Giorgia Napoletano
    Photo manipulation by Giorgia Napoletano

    “I am flesh and blood”

    The words come softly. Her face pressed against the laminate wood flooring. Sprawled on the floor like the squashed remains of a fly; wings broken, body twisted. It seems to convulse with the remainders of life.

    As she chokes through the sharpened lumps in her throat. The tide of sordid emotion, tainted waste, and stifled passions. Each coming out as rumbles of guttural lamentations of why.

    Why am I alive?

    Why this existence?

    Why did you put me here?

    Never will an answer come. She knows this truth yet still attempts the plea. A mixture of hate and have pity.

    The tips of her fingers tap upon the wood up by her face, just within eyesight. Everything else on and of her remaining motionless. Phalange begins a swirling motion through the matted residue of tears and snot which exudes from her orifices.

    The soft skin of her face lay mangled in the cracks and seams where the floor comes together. Features distorted and pinned without thought and without feeling from whence she fell.

    “I am flesh and blood.”

    She says out loud once more to the empty space, as though she needed convincing, that this obvious truth were some novel concept.

    “I am flesh and blood.”

    Curious now she speaks it. Is this perhaps some answer that it should come into her head now, here, or would it be rebellion?

    Against existence?

    Against an atmosphere that would force benign a dangerous passion both cruel and kind?

    Against those who would perpetuate its suppression?

    Against those who do not truly know the meaning of powerless, of being alone?

    Against the Gods themselves who have made this so, who’ve allowed it to continue without seeming hope?

    What can we expect from a human’s nature not allowed its full birth, when denied its true features?

    Is the soul a renewable resource? Do we just keep rising like the phoenix from the ashes both subdued and uncompromising?

    When not granted a win, when one has no goals, when all has been ripped from marrow and bone?

    When this ever repressive atmosphere claws its way around her throat, choking anything that could be considered life from her lungs.

    Perhaps it is a reminder that there is still life to give, to waste, to lose.

    “I am flesh and blood.”

    There is more conviction in her voice. For what does it matter where she is for she still is. When walking through life we will always be battered.

    “I am flesh and blood.”

    This fact is not what limits her but gives her power. She might be collapsed now, but will stand tomorrow for she is flesh and blood.

    This is rebirth.

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