Every day, my captors wake me up, strip me naked, and check for microchips in my brain.
Roosevelt Pythagoras: entrepreneur, inventor, supergenius, villain. The man credited with shrinking the entire state of Delaware and breaking up the League of Liberty has sat in a prison cell for five years, waiting and scheming.
Continue reading “Meddling Heroes: Roosevelt Pythagoras”
While most trace the origin of the modern superhero to the Manhattan Project disaster which transformed an ordinary man into the American Paradigm, some scholars believe that superheroes walked the world long before one man put on a mask and cape. Those individuals scour mythology and ancient legends, looking for grains of truth in stories about the supernatural. One particular myth has persisted through the centuries, beginning in the Middle Ages and continuing all the way to the modern day: the Destiny Entity.
Continue reading “Meddling Heroes: The Destiny Entity”
“Einstein told the President to make a bomb. Instead, they made a man.”
Meddling Heroes is a superhero murder mystery where the laws of our reality don’t always apply. Starting in World War II, superheroes became a fact of life. That touched every part of the world’s history, culminating in the mystery that former villain Roosevelt Pythagoras aims to solve.
Continue reading “Meddling Heroes: Another World, Another Time”
Every day, my captors wake me up, strip me naked, and check for microchips in my brain.
This morning, three armed guards stand on the far end of the corridor facing my cell. Dressed in riot gear, they keep assault rifles trained on me as I remove my clothes. Two more guards stand in
front of the locked door, pistols ready.
I count four regulars and one rookie on mad scientist detail today. The new kid hangs in back, keeping his finger on the trigger and ignoring proper gun safety. New blood makes my mornings more exciting, but also increases my odds of catching a bullet if I unbutton my fly too quickly. Fear makes people do stupid things.
I didn’t earn nine PhDs and shrink the state of Delaware to pocket size just so I could die in prison because somebody thinks the naked super-genius wants to take over the world from his cell. I just want some toast and oatmeal.
Continue reading “Meddling Heroes: The Most Dangerous Man on Earth”
When you go grave robbing, timing is everything. If you pick a freshly dug site, the soft and relatively unpacked earth means you can reach the casket in under two hours. If you wait too long, the ground dries out and the pressure of time means you’ve got a long, backbreaking night ahead of you.
Continue reading “Fiction: Flinch”
Originally published in The Lyndon Review.
The purpose to her moving my computer into the bedroom was twofold. First of all, that meant that she didn’t have to go into the living room, which by then had become the victim of a hostile takeover led by spilled ashtrays, moldy bread, dusty furniture, and several roaches, each of whom I had jokingly named Fred. Secondly, it meant that she could keep an eye on me and make sure that I didn’t spend too much time at the keyboard. She made the move while I was working the night shift at the gas station down the street. By the time that I got home I had been up for seventy-two hours straight and I didn’t care enough to make a complaint. Thus I became shackled to the bedroom, leaving only to work and to make my occasional and vain attempts at putting the house back into a state that remotely resembled clean.
Continue reading “Fiction: The Yellow Dart”
Originally published in The Lyndon Review
Lil and I had been fighting for about two months. Even if one of us did win an individual battle, it proved to be only a cosmetic victory, patching our relationship for a few hours or maybe even a day at a time before the well-stocked armies of our tempers clashed again. In the realm of the purely physical she outmatched me every time, beating her fists against my torso and sinking her nails into my arms while I stood motionless, unwilling to retaliate. My best bet was to make her cry early on, to hurt her with words so quickly that her temper would overload like an exploding boiler and send her running out of the room wailing. When I managed this feat I could always wait to the count of sixty before following her and apologizing, making for a teary-eyed and blissfully quiet session of makeup sex and a nap before the next battle. When I didn’t manage to avoid the attack I had to wait for her to exhaust herself, which could take some time because throwing a punch required remarkably little energy from her. When she left the house in a rage I would take my defeat out on whatever inanimate object presented itself. Through this post-loss ritual I managed to throw a portable phone through the thinly plastered wall and blind myself by crumbling the metal frames of my glasses into a ball and tossing them into the pile of uncollected debris next to the brooms.
Continue reading “Fiction: The Winner”
Originally published in The Lyndon Review
There’s a monster in my room. He didn’t used to be a monster; none of us are to begin with.
Continue reading “Fiction: When I Grow Up”
Originally published in Toasted Cheese.
I find myself trapped in a Looney Tunes cartoon. Try to get away from the wascally wabbit and he always pops up right behind you.
I run up the stairs to my apartment, slam the door, and slide the deadbolt into place. On cue, I hear her voice behind me, calm and sweet while I’m red-faced and out of breath.
“Hello, Joe.”
It’s Eddie, actually, but I won’t let that ruin the joke for her. I turn around and put my back to the door. She shakes her head slightly, apparently bored with our game but amused to see the effort I’ve put into it. She has a round face that’s just a breath away from being considered chubby and long brown hair. Her black business suit is contrasted by her pair of white jogging sneakers—apparently she opts for comfort rather than professionalism when it comes to footwear.
Oh yeah… she’s also completely transparent. Ghosts tend to be that way.
Continue reading “Fiction: Posthumous”
Originally published in character i.
The police officer is worried less about my green dress and more about the blood smeared across my face.
Continue reading “Fiction: My Fair Lady”
Babbling Brooks 