True Believers?

Okay, two things happened to prompt me to start wrting this short story. The first was I started reading DC comics' "New 52" series and, have to say, not all of them were a disappointment, some are actually okay. The second that happened was, I was out walking my dog and the chemical plant next to the park where I walk him was testing their evacuation alarm, so I wondered what would actually happen if there was something like a chemical spill or an explosion while I was so close to the plant. The final contributing factor was I had this idea for a character, but didn't really have an ideal setting for them to be in, but I thought I'd try them out here for starters and see how it goes. Enjoy!

Alex Reynolds was out walking his dog Scruff. It was his usual walk, down the lane, onto the main street and along through the side paths to the park. He walked it every day. He had done for the past eight years of his life since his parents bought him Scruff for his ninth birthday. Alex had plans. He wanted to be a lawyer. He wanted to do his part to fix Illinois, more so than anybody from Armington had ever done so before, even more than that guy who built underground housing.

There was one thing, however, that the people of sleepy little Armington did not know. Several miles below their local park was a secret government nuclear testing facility, and one of their coolant tanks had sprang a leak. This caused a chain reaction that created a vent of radioactive gas to usher out and engulf Alex and Scruff. The leak was then contained and a meltdown was averted. The government closed and moved this facility before an investigation could take place.

Alex and Scruff both died almost instantly from radiation poisoning, their hair falling out and their skin hanging limply from their bones. That’s the thing with radiation; it doesn’t cause superpowers after extreme freak exposure, just death. Needless to say, this is not Alex’s story.

***

Jacque De La Diamants was part of a Parisian cartel and was what the comic books referred to as a ‘mutant’, in that his genetic makeup was different, giving him the strength of ten men. As such, he was the cartel’s top enforcer and went on all of the more dangerous jobs. True to his nickname, Jacque was on a diamond heist from Le Banque de France’s main building in Paris’s city centre. Jacque’s cartel had become notorious for its use of illegal, military grade firearms; they were more like a high end mercenary unit than a crime faction, and as such, the Parisian Police dispatched their Special Forces unit to respond to the bank’s alarm.

Jacque was the first to respond to the sirens outside. He jumped from one of the bank’s windows and landed on a riot van. The van crumpled beneath the force of the impact. Jacque broke both his legs and ruptured a number of internal organs before the Special Forces police turned and opened fire on him.

That’s another thing about super powers. They don’t make you invulnerable, unless that’s your power. Falls still hurt, you still take damage, bullets still kill. Don’t believe your own hype. Don’t get a God complex. Yeah, this story’s not about Jacque either...

***

Here’s the thing: Super powers are very real, but they aren’t from freak accidents with chemicals or radiation; they’re usually mutations, magical or mechanised, the three M’s of meta-humanity as they’ve become known – Muta, Magi and Mecha.

Comic books lie. Remember that. I like comic books, don’t get me wrong. They provide a sense of escapism for those not lucky, smart or wealthy enough to have powers of their own. But, don’t believe them one bit. Vigilantism is not and never will be cool, or legal. You go out on the streets, pretending to be a hero, one of two things is going to happen; you will either be A: arrested or B: shot. Either way, you end up forgotten by the public or, if you’re lucky enough to be arrested, you’re ridiculed in jail for the rest of your sentence as ‘that guy in a cape’. Thankfully, the only people who take up the cape, so to speak, and go out dressed as masked vigilantes, they’re usually also very seriously ill mentally. Remember that God complex I mentioned? Yeah, that’s more common than you’d think in Metas.

***

I should explain. This? This is my story. Raoul Mata, that’s my name. Born and raised in Rio ‘til I was six, then we moved to El Paso, Texas, after a few short months in England, Manchester to be precise. I hated Manchester. It was cold, it rained all the time, and everybody hated me for wearing a Brazil football shirt. Texas was fine. It was hot enough, but the locals called it ‘soccer’, and that annoyed me. Still does.  Anyway, we lived in El Paso for a good few years until my mother moved us – me and my younger brothers and sister – to Stevensville, Michigan. We moved here when I was fourteen, and that’s when things started to happen.

You’re probably wondering why I’ve told you all this stuff about metahumanity, right? Well, I have powers too, or rather, a power. In fact, some might not even call it a power at all... I’m lucky; unnaturally so, to the point where I just tend to find the odds favouring me. It’s not one of these powers I can switch off either, I’m just lucky, but it doesn’t always work. That’s what gave me a bit of a reputation as a gambler, a risk taker back in high school. That’s what got me the nickname ‘Roulette’. 

This? This is most definitely my story.

So there we have it, hope you liked it.

Feedback is always welcomed.

Adios for now,

Craiggy.

Recollection.

So I'm now back in Worcester, meaning I'm back to doing what I do best - avoiding uni work. This particular brand of procrastination comes in my usual flavour of scrawled randomness, so I never quite know where I'm going to go. What I do know is that I want to play around with the first person. So, here we go.


It was odd, I thought. I never usually paid much attention to the scenery on my walk home from work. But then, when you finish work in the early hours of the morning after tending possibly the busiest bar in the city for eight hours straight, and when there's nobody around aside from bums, the occasional drunk and maybe a cop or two, and all you can think about is how late you can possibly leave it to set your alarm before getting ready for your day job, there's not really a huge amount to be noticed. That night was different however. For starters, the bar closed early due to a fire in the restaurant below it. It was only a little oil fire, but still. Because of that, our customers found other, less flammable places to drink, so the manager sent a few staff home, myself included. I remember it being cold, which didn't strike me as out of place for the middle of November in Detroit, but it was definitely colder than the few weeks previous. I simply assumed it was finally winter leaving its mark and making sure everyone knew it was there.

No, what struck me as odd was the number of people, or rather, lack thereof out on the streets. It hadn't even gone midnight, but it felt like closing time the streets were so quiet. That's when I noticed the lights. At first I thought that the city council had put the Christmas lights on early, or that they were being tested, but then it clicked; the flashing lights were blue, and there was the faint hum of a crowd - that underlying sensation of energy clinging to the air, hesitant, anticipant, uncertain. The crowd was thick, like a forest fresh in spring. It was hard to see what was going on. I managed to push my way through the crowd a little. I stopped to avoid being swatted in the face by a cyclist's rucksack. I could've swore I heard someone shouting my name in the crowd, "Jack. Jack!" I heard. I kept pushing.

There's a reason why I remember that day so well, that walk home from work. Let me put you in my shoes. Would you remember the day you walked through a crowd to see your own bullet-ridden body being tended by paramedics, surrounded by a pool of your own blood and a pulsating crowd of gasping onlookers?

Yeah, I thought you would.


So there we go. I did start this last night, but our internet conked out in the house, so now I'm finishing and posting it.

Adios for now,
Craiggy.

The Return of the Thing.

Okay, so I'm back. Tumblr didn't quite work as I'd hoped for my writing. With regards to actual readership, it seems my old way of posting here and then plugging elsewhere actually worked better with regards to a wider readership, so here I am again. However, I will be keeping my Tumblr active for the personal stuff, because like I keep saying, that's never what I intended here for. I'm also going to make a Facebook 'like' page to see if that'll advertise a bit better. But as for now, I'm currently in Bristol with the girlface, which meant another train ride, which meant another poem. Enjoy!

I often find myself on a train,

And when I do, I write again.

Perhaps it's the rhythm along the tracks,

Or maybe the thought of not coming back.

Whatever the reason, I find it so calm

To write on a train, my pen in my palm.

I'm never quite sure of what I will write.
I sit and watch as many things pass my sight.
But nothing really catches my eye
From the many sights that pass me by.
Of all the things to think in my head,
My thoughts are drawn to her instead.

So there we have it. I'm back. I'll get working on some proper projects when I have more time to do so, but until then,

Peace out,

Craiggy.