One of the many names by which Marvel has gone by in years past is “the House of Ideas.” It’s incredibly apt. Since embarking upon their cinematic universe, Marvel has shown that they are overflowing with premise after premise that strikes unique chords and resonate with audiences across ages, genders, and just about every demographic you can think of. Guardians of the Galaxy, by most reckonings on a conceptual level, should not have worked as well as it did. And yet, people bounce around the streets, dancing to music, and chanting “OOGA CHAKA” at the drop of a space-hat. Marvel’s ideas work.
So why does Ant-Man feel like an even more audacious prospect than Guardians did?
Before the trailer dropped earlier this week, I was looking at Ant-Man with a bit of skepticism. Granted, I don’t know a great deal about the character, save that Henry Pym has had a plethora of personal problems and many, many identities. The redemption arc for Scott Lang is a road well-traveled, but the new trailer addresses that by keying into an Iron Man-like mentality of both humor and addressing a character changing without necessarily altering their nature.
Scott: My days of breaking into places and stealing stuff are over. So what do you need me to do?
Hank: I need you to break into a place and steal some stuff.
Scott: … Makes sense.
Marvel’s films, at their most successful, strike a very particular balance between humor, action, world-building, and character development. Looking at Ant-Man, it was difficult to see all of those elements in play at first. Now that the trailer covers all of those touchpoints, the project feels a lot more solid, but no less audacious.
Going back to the Guardians of the Galaxy comparison, Ant-Man is a relatively unknown character from Marvel’s pantheon. We also have Doctor Strange and Captain Marvel coming. But a sorcerer and an Air Force pilot given super-powers that are on par with DC’s Superman is a bit easier for new audience members to internalize than a guy whose power is shrinking to insect-size and talking to other insects. Putting that character into a major motion picture with all of the monetary and marketing support of Marvel Studios requires supreme confidence and a very well-organized plan, in which Ant-Man plays a part.
Marvel is not the sort of studio that is willing to rest on its laurels with derivative sequels and other means of generating cash. New characters, new directions of story, and long-range plans aimed to both build an expansive universe and please their fans. I don’t know what part Ant-Man has to play within this plan, but Marvel is sticking to it, and despite the scale to which this new hero tends to shrink, my guess is that his part will be anything but small. It’s an audacious plan, an ambitious plan, and if anybody can pull it off, it’s the House of Ideas.
Until the day Coulson becomes a Black Lantern, Make Mine Marvel!
Last week, I posted some Flash Fiction that put some old gods in new situations. This has been an interest of mine for some time. I thought I’d pull in some old stories of mine and see what else can be done. Like this one – The Drifer’s Hand.
It would be silly to try and translate every story from the Eddas in this way, but I still feel like there’s more story, here. I don’t know if I’ll do anything with it, but maybe… Just maybe… We’ll see, I suppose.
The Eddas are full of manliness, with epic tales of heroes facing down monsters and often paying a dear price for being who and what they are. And many Old West tales bring us images of stalwart, stoic men standing in dusty roads, eyes narrowed at an opponent, unwilling to back down even if it means a bullet for their trouble.
It felt, to me, like a match made in Asgard, and the result is The Drifter’s Hand.
You can read the text below, or download the PDF here. Either way, read, comment & enjoy.
Spoiler
For a good portion of the late 1800s, the Arizona boom-town Midgard was every bit as prosperous and populous as her sisters. She never quite grew to the proportions of Tombstone, though, and as the new century approached she began to shrink. There was talk of the railroad going through or near the town, but local lawlessness kept the Santa Fe people from really committing to any sort of construction.
The stranger approached Midgard on a strong but tired horse, his hat half-tipped over his eyes, his beard disheveled and lips cracked from the road. His boots were caked with mud and his duster had more than a couple holes in it, some natural wear and tear while others clearly indicated the paths of past bullets. He seemed heedless of the looks he was getting from Midgard’s locals as he rode into town, his horse unerringly heading for the nearest trough of fresh water.
As soon as his steed was positioned to wash away some of the dust from the road, the stranger swung down from the saddle, tying the horse to the nearby hitch. Removing one of his gloves, the man bent to the trough and drank some of the water himself. Flicking some droplets away from his beard, he turned and headed in the direction of the saloon.
His spurs tapped against the wooden floor. The mid-afternoon crowd in the saloon barely numbered a dozen, roughly half of them at or near the Faro table in the corner. The man behind the cards, a well-groomed gent with a dark waistcoat and thin mustache, glanced up at the stranger before declaring the player to his right the winner. The stranger removed his hat and approached the barkeep.
“I’d like a room, if one’s available.”
“Ain’t seen you ’round here before,” the barman observed as he placed a shot glass on the bar and produced a bottle whiskey. Seeing it, the stranger nodded. “You just passin’ through?”
“I’ve been on the road quite a while. Not sure if my last stop’ll be Tombstone or further west.”
The barman nodded, pouring the drink. “Well, there’s a room available for the night, if you want it. Dollar and a half a week to occupy it, and that entitles you to breakfast in the mornin’.”
“Sounds like a good deal.” The stranger was rummaging under his duster for his money when the saloon doors swung open again, permitting a stocky man in a widebrimmed hat to enter. The sash around his waist, the band at his arm and the kerchief tied around his neck were all the same color, the red of blood pumping from a gaping wound.
“Oh, horseshit.” The color drained from the barman’s face.
“It’s Tuesday, Dwight,” the newcomer bellowed. “Fenris wants their money.”
“I don’t have it all.” The man behind the bar, his hand shaking, produced a modest iron box with a handle. He opened it and pulled out a small wad of bills. “The rooms ain’t been full all week and not many people been stoppin’ by…”
“Stuff it.” The newcomer snatched the money from the shaking hand offered to him, and quickly counted it. “This is all? What about that city slicker in the corner?”
At mention of the corner, the crowd around the Faro table scattered. The man who’d been dealing raised his eyebrows at them.
“Looks like he just lost most of his profit,” he observed, not looking at the newcomer. “I already paid Dwight for this week.”
The newcomer slammed a fist into the table in frustration and grabbed Dwight by the lapels. “I oughta break your face. You holdin’ out on Fenris? You know that ain’t smart.”
“I’m sorry! I’ll have it tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow is when Fenris comes through here and burns this stinkin’ waterin’ hole to the ground!”
The sound of a gun being cocked echoed through the saloon. The newcomer’s eyes slid to his right, towards the barrel pressed to his temple. The stranger set down the shot glass with his right hand, the left occupied with gripping the Colt Peacemaker.
“I think now’s a good time to leave,” he told the newcomer.
“You lost your marbles, stranger? This ain’t your concern.”
“I plan on sleeping here. If you and whomever this Fenris guy is plan on burning the place down while I’m sleeping in it, I’d say that damn well makes it my concern.”
“Fenris ain’t one guy. Fenris is a force of nature! It’ll sweep through this town like a plague outta the Bible!”
“Well, you can tell Lucifer all about it when I send you to meet him. Which’ll be in 5 seconds if you don’t haul ass.”
The newcomer’s face slackened, his eyes flicking between the hard countenance of the stranger and Dwight’s disbelieving expression. At the fourth second, he swallowed. “This ain’t over.” He backed away from the gun, and then shook a fist at Dwight. “This ain’t over!”
“It is for now,” the stranger said. “Disappear.”
He did. Dwight poured the stranger another whiskey.
“Nobody’s stood up to a Fenris man for months. You must really not be from around here.”
The stranger knocked back the shot. “Mind telling me who or what Fenris is?”
“Wolves of Arizona.” The voice came from the man behind the Faro table, who stood and walked over to join the stranger at the bar. “Thieves, bank robbers, kidnappers and murders. Just the worst sort of cowboy. Most of ’em just wear the red sashes. Fenris folk go the extra mile with those red kerchiefs and armbands of theirs.”
“Heard most of the cowboys were down near Tombstone.”
“So they are, stranger, so they are. One for me too, Dwight.”
“Right away, Mr. Frey.” Dwight produced a second glass, cleaning it quickly to pour the dealer his whiskey.
“Needless to say,” Frey went on, “you’ve made yourself an enemy, and one that won’t easily be placated, Mister…”
“Tyr. Jim Tyr.”
“Pleased, Mr. Tyr. Arthur Frey, at your service.”
“You can just call me Jim. Mr. Tyr’s my father.”
“In that case, Jim, why don’t you call me Art?”
“So why are we playing poker now, instead of Faro?”
Art shrugged. “I like changing the game. I call.”
Jim rubbed his trimmed beard and considered his hand. Three threes wasn’t a strong one but it wasn’t bad, either. He didn’t fold. The locals at the table did. Art turned his cards over, showing a straight. Jim leaned back and gestured to the pot.
“All yours.”
Art smiled a bit and raked in the winnings as Jim turned back to his supper. Dwight had waived the fee for his room earlier, and after coming back from a bath and shave, Jim had found a plate of warm food waiting for him, also courtesy of the barkeep.
“I hear you ran off one of the Fenris boys.”
Jim stopped in the middle of slicing a bit of chicken with a dull knife.
“He was hassling Dwight and threatening to burn the place down. I’m sleeping here tonight. Didn’t want to wake up on fire.”
“An understandable concern, stranger, but most folk around here don’t want to piss off the Wolf.”
Jim looked up. The man standing over him wore a dark patch over his left eye and the star of a United States Marshall.
“They aren’t afraid of you, I take it?”
“They know I can’t be everywhere at once. And when I’m gone they think it’s fun to shoot my deputies. Always have plenty of witnesses to say it was self-defense or some such, though. Everybody’s afraid of ’em. They, on the other hand, don’t seem to be afraid of anything.”
“They should be. Every man’s got the same blood, same skin, same tendency to die when shot or stabbed.”
“Now there’s a pitch-black observation.” The Marshall leaned on the bar. “Where are you from anyhow, Mr. Tyr?”
Jim bristled. “Back East. Grew up around Arlington.”
“You fight in the war?”
He looked at the Marshall. “Yeah. Did you?”
Before the Marshall could answer, the doors of the saloon burst open. Three men walked in, all wearing the red of Fenris. Dwight ducked behind the bar and the music stopped.
“Odin! Where is he?”
The Marshall turned. “Right here next to me, Luke Hundr. And you ain’t taking him tonight.”
Luke stalked towards the table, his two cronies in tow. Art made a move to stand, but Jim shook his head. He stepped away from the others and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt.
“You looking for me?”
Luke scowled. “Hear you pulled a gun on my man Butch.”
“Butch was shaking down Dwight for money he didn’t have. He threatened to burn the place down. Since I’m sleeping here, I asked him not to.”
“You’ve got it wrong, stranger. Butch wasn’t going to do a thing on his own. WE will burn this place down. We put up the money for Dwight to open this little establishment, and if we want to burn it down since he can’t pay us, we’ll do just that.”
“Not in city limits,” Odin said. “You got a permit for this land, Luke? if so, you’ll want to evict Dwight and foreclose.”
Luke waved a hand dismissively. “That takes too long. I want my money or my land. If I can’t have one I’ll take the other.” He smirked at Odin. “And I know you got a hangin’ to be at tomorrow, Marshall. Got that nasty murderer Surtur locked up an’ ready to swing. Wouldn’t want to miss that, would you? Been chasing him, what, ten years?”
Odin’s eye narrowed and his mustache curled around his face in a frown. Luke looked past the Marshall at Jim.
“Tomorrow, you meet me out in the street or I burn this place down with you in it. Got it?”
Jim crossed his arms. “So you and all of your boys can shoot me at once? I didn’t fall off the stage yesterday.”
“It’ll just be you an’ me. We’ll settle this.” Luke smiled unpleasantly and tipped his hat to Odin. “Have a nice trip, Marshall.”
The Fenris men left in short order. Jim rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Regretting pulling that gun on Butch?”
“I don’t do regret, Marshall. I take it he’s met men in the street before?”
“Many a time. Like I said, always plenty of witnesses saying the deputy or other poor sod drew down first. They say Luke’s got a sense for traps. Any time more than a couple of my men have been waiting for him to show, he doesn’t.”
“And I gather Luke won’t be showing up alone.”
“Probably not.” Odin patted him on the arm. “Nobody’ll think the less of you if you’re gone before dawn.”
“And leave them to burn Dwight’s place down? No way, Marshall. I’m not letting a mongrel like that run me out of town, and Dwight’s place is better standing and unscorched.”
“I have to agree.” Art Frey had resumed shuffling the cards, but wasn’t paying much attention to them. His eyes were on the men discussing the showdown. Music was playing again and people were going about their business. “This is our town, Marshall. It doesn’t belong to Fenris.”
“Art Frey, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Odin looked the gambler over with his good eye. “Siting here behind your cards for months not doing a damn thing about these hooligans. Why now?”
“They never threatened Dwight like this before. It’s be a very lean time. He hasn’t had lodgers, nor I many punters. Dwight and I got a good partnership going. I don’t want to see it end in flames.”
“Do you even own a gun?”
“Matter of fact, I do. Damn peculiar Henry rifle. Most people find it’s too heavy in the barrel or the stock, but if you know her balance and how to use it, the damn thing very nearly aims itself.”
Odin looked back to Tyr, who shrugged. The marshall then ordered three whiskeys, drank with the men and replaced his hat.
“I need to see to Surtur’s transportation. We’ll be gone before dawn. I wish I could delay but the judge is eager to put this on in the books. Good luck, gentlemen. You’re gonna need it.”
Odin left the saloon. Art turned to Jim.
“I hear you served in the war?”
“51st Virginia. You?”
“I’m a Massachusetts man, myself.”
They drank their next shot of whiskey in silence.
The horse at the hitching post turned to Jim, as if to ask a question. The drifter saw the look, knowing what it meant.
“I don’t know what I’m doin’ out here, either.”
The dawn broke over Midgard, painting the town and the surrounding parched lands in pinkish reds. The stagecoach with Marshall Odin, his prisoner and deputies had already rattled out of town. The sound of hooves brought Jim’s attention back to the street ahead of him. Around him, the signs of the shops swung in the morning breeze. The large sign for the livery stayed in place, dominating the second floor of the barn on the north end of town and sheltered from the wind.
Jim stepped away from his horse, hands held at shoulder height. He didn’t want to get shot before Luke Hundr had a chance to get off his ride. Eight men on horses came around the corner and down the street. Jim frowned.
“I’m here like we agreed, Luke Hundr.” He waved his right hand. “My gun hand’s empty. I thought you said it’d be just you and me.”
Luke smirked as he swung down from his horse. The other Fenris men stayed mounted, and Jim saw one of them was Butch, the beefy face under the wide-brimmed hat leering at him. Nobody else was out in the street or even near windows Jim could see. That was probably a safe bet on their part.
Without a word, Luke drew his pistol and shot Jim. The impact of the bullet half-spun the drifter to his right and sent him to the dirt. Jim had been shot before, which didn’t make it sting any less, but helped him fight down the sense of panic that always came with it. He saw his right hand, ruined, pumping blood into the dust.
“I told my first lie when I was six years old,” Luke told Jim as the hooting from his men died down. “I ain’t quit since then.”
“Yeah, well. I may not have the experience you do, but I ain’t always a hundred percent truthful either.”
Luke cocked his head to one side, leveling his pistol. “Really? Do tell.”
“For one, I ain’t alone either.”
From behind the livery sign came a loud crack. Butch was taken right off the back of his horse, a hole opened up in his chest. The others’ mouths opened in shock and Luke turned to see what’d happened. That was his mistake. In a flash, Tyr grabbed the pearl handle of his Colt with his left hand, drew the gun and fired. His shot caught Luke in the shoulder, spinning him fully towards his men. Jim rose behind him, the wide eyes of the mounted Fenris men on every move he made.
“For another, I’m a southpaw.”
The second bullet shoved Luke to the ground, his skull shattered from the impact. Tyr, his right hand at his side and streaming blood down his leg, aimed his gun at the next Fenris man. When another tried to draw down on him, the Henry rifle made itself heard again, dropping the offender. The remaining Fenris wheeled their horses, and two more were shot down as they rode for their lives.
Jim sank to his knees. He holstered his gun and raised his right arm with his left hand, trying to slow the bleeding by elevating the wound. Art Frey appeared beside him minutes later, the Henry rifle slung over his shoulder. His clothing was still somehow immaculate, despite having to climb into the trestle of a stable in the dark.
“Here, Jim.” Art handed him a flask, which Art discovered was full of single malt scotch. He nearly coughed when it hit the back of his throat. The gambler helped him to his feet. “Let’s get that hand looked at.”
“Whatever hand I’m holding next, Frey, it’s going to beat yours. I’m feeling pretty damn lucky today.”
Art chuckled. “I’ll take that bet, Tyr. Now, let’s make sure you don’t bleed to death before I take the rest of your money, too.”
If I am asked, I will say that I work for my current dayjob part-time. And yet, I am often one of the few people remaining in the office at the end of the day. That, or I arrive at the office before anybody else shows up. I’m dedicated to the new office, to making a difference in the business, and thus have not devoted more energy and time to other work, billable writing, or even my own novel work.
At least, not during the day. You’d think that after I get done with work and walk home (with a train ride in the middle) that I’d look forward to kicking up my heels and getting some writing done. And I do. The problem is, by the time I get all of the important things in my life sorted, I have very little energy left with which to write anything of significance.
Even this blog post had to wait until the morning to get finished. I simply ran out of steam last night. I’m hoping that with medication and a shift in my focus at the dayjob, I will have more time and energy in the latter part of the day to return to a routine of writing, blogging, and generally being able to breathe deeply. It would be ideal if this “too tired to write” thing would stop being a thing in the near future.
As I struggle to return to a regular writing and blogging schedule, a big part of that routine is writing flash fiction every week, usually as part of the Terribleminds challenge. This week, the goal is to tell a story using a photo, or provide a photo for others to use. Upon seeing this photo on Terribleminds, I had to run with one of my favorite concepts – old gods and demi-gods in a new world.
For a long time, both of them stared at the sign. Neither of them said a word.
A rickety old Ford truck rattled by them, the headlamps playing off of the letters, the glass, the metal of the news box. The taller figure, a willowy man looking to be in his early twenties, could not take amber eyes from the black block letters. The shorter, stockier onlooker turned to look upwards towards the angular face framed by the streetlamps.
“You can’t tell me you weren’t expecting this.”
“It’s madness.” The tall person shook his head. “Some of my kin have always treated the secrecy with which we’ve operated for centuries as inconvenient. But this?” Long fingers made an exasperated gesture at the sign. “It’s like she wants to expose the mortals to our realms.”
“I thought you two were on good terms. What happened?”
The taller figure shook his head, reaching into his pocket for a small cardboard packet. He flipped up the top, removed a thin black filtered cigar, and placed it between his lips. A snap of his fingers brought wisps of faerie fire around his thumb, which he held to the stick until the tip glowed.
“That midsummer night all of those turns ago. I still don’t think she’s forgiven me for my conduct.”
“That? Are you joking? A few drops of love potion are a petty thing. A bit of rain washes them away. It isn’t worth killing you, and this could put all of us in terrible danger.”
Oberon puffed out a ring of cherry-tinged smoke. “Even so many of us in one place?”
“We are not who we used to be, my young friend. Gone are the days of pungent, sweet sacrifice in the town square, even if the sacrifice was for some petty, selfish end, or arranged to be a form of deception.” There was a short, derisive snort. “As if piling the best bits on top of the offal would work more than once.”
“Mere mortals, deceive the mighty Zeus? Such a preposterous notion.”
“Upjumped whelp.” Zeus was smiling, though, even bitterly, as he prodded the faerie king with an elbow. “Still, my point is that nowadays we must sustain ourselves on scraps. Retold tales and Hollywood casting.”
Oberon nodded. “How often do you get told ‘I thought you’d be taller’?”
Zeus frowned. “I am not that short. 5-foot-9 by the American reckoning. And I used to be taller.”
“We all used to be taller.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Oberon finished his cigar, dropping it to the gravel and crushing it under his designer bootheel.
“Come on. Let’s go inside. We’re likely to be starting soon.”
As they walked, Oberon glanced over his shoulder at the sign again. Titania. What are you up to? While his queen was given to experience periods of great melancholy, especially of late, this sort of blatant disregard for the secrecy in which their ilk operated was lunacy. It simply did not fit with how Titania tended to operate, nor did it make sense even in the context of striking back against a perceived wrong.
But if not Titania, then who?
The pair of them entered the hotel’s conference room, rented out and set up for the occasion. There were over a hundred individuals gathered, having arrived from all over the world. Some were dressed in their traditional garb, in flagrant defiance of any modern fashion sensibilities. Others had invested in true top-flight fashions from the current age. Despite some of them wearing different mortal forms, due to one calamity or another, Oberon knew all of them on sight.
“Well, well, well. Aren’t we a brave one?”
Oberon turned slowly. The woman who spoke was of a height with him, gliding silently across the carpeted floor, the dark, textured fabric of her dress taking the shape of her hips and thighs as she moved. Her hair, piled into a stylish coif of curls, was ebony, shot through with silver and snow-white. She studied Oberon with ice-blue eyes, bringing a flute of wine to lips the color of frozen mulberries.
“Hello, Aunt.”
Even in a room full of their peers, Oberon knew better than to speak the name of Mab aloud. She smiled more broadly at him.
“Still cautious, after all of this time? No pleasantries for me? How long has it been?”
Oberon narrowed his eyes. “Not long enough for me to forget your desire to bring all of fae under your heel.”
Mab pouted, for a moment, then looked down at her shoes. “But they’re such nice heels.”
“I am not in a gaming mood. We have many matters to discuss tonight, beyond our personal entanglements.”
“But entanglements lend spice to life, my nephew.”
He shook his head. “Are you here for the price on my head?”
“What need have I for that reward, steep as it might be? You must know that if I wanted you…” Mab’s eyes met his for a long, disquieting moment that smoldered like the embers of a hearth. “…I would already have you.”
Oberon swallowed. Mab was a wily creature, and definitely preferred this sort of persuasion to anything blatant. His eyes narrowed, and he seized upon a more likely notion. “Excuse me.”
Turning, he moved with haste back out into the parking lot.
“Puck! Robin Goodfellow! Stand ye forth!”
Instead of the expected silence, Oberon’s command was met with the immediate appearance of a genteel-looking sprite, of a height with Oberon, dressed in a suit.
“My lord?”
“Were you hoping the hunters would do your dirty work?”
Puck laughed. “If you could handle them, you prove yourself worth of kingship. If not, Puck claims the reward and your throne.”
“Call off the hunters, Robin, and let us have done between us.”
The sprite’s eyes narrowed. “And let you cower indoors with your skyfather friends? Nay, my king. You have much to prove.”
Oberon gestured. A crystal rapier appeared in his hand.
You’ll see warnings about them on blog posts, Tumblr, and other portions of the Internet. In case you didn’t know, the warnings aren’t there just to be trendy.
Triggers are rooted in trauma. Be it trauma that affected a single evening or changed the course of an entire life, such things are very real, especially for the victims. Their effects can run deep and really shake the victim out of their comfort zone. And some triggers do not manifest until long after an inciting incident. In other words, the victim might not even know something is a trigger until an incident arises.
This was the case with me. I had an experience recently that I can say, without a shadow of irony or facetiousness, triggered me. There was a point at which I was curled up on the ground, as tightly as possible, facing away from every glowing screen, weeping. I won’t go into more details about it, but suffice it to say that not only was I disturbed by the incident in general, that specific reaction was absolutely terrifying. It felt beyond my control. It took a lot of time, breathing, and effort to pull myself back from that emotional brink and convince myself that the world was not, in fact, coming to an end. And even then, I’ve had trouble sleeping all week up until last night, when I finally took a Melatonin before bed. And while I did not have the sort of nightmare I’ve been having this week, I still dreamed pretty vividly.
It is undeniable that triggering incidents like this happen all of the time for some people. In fact, a few might go through something like this every day. Responsible people even peripherally aware of the devastating power of triggers mark their work with warnings to avoid causing pain and suffering. And yet, for some dudebros on the Internet, “trigger warning” is a laughable concept. Much in the same way that they mock people who are invested in changing the social order to better represent a diverse population, trolls are even more derisive of people who admit to being so sensitive to certain subjects and material. I’m not one to paint with broad brushes, as people as individuals are very different creatures who come from different backgrounds and operate under different circumstances. But in my opinion, those who act with willful ignorance and express their opinions in cutting, dismissive manners are some of the worst on the planet.
I’m not expecting any of my words to change the world, or anything. I’m just saying that my understanding of triggers is even more comprehensive. I’ve used trigger warnings on Tumblr before now. I’ll continue to do so, and I’m doing my utmost to take care of myself. What happened was extremely unfortunate, and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. But I am working to recover from it. It’ll take time. But I think it’s possible.
