Excerpt from Nobody’s Hero: Niku the Nuke

I saw a tweet today asking writers “If your novel were made into a movie, which scene would you hope readers should demand to see on the big screen?” I’m a third done with Nobody’s Hero, and so far this is my answer:

Niku the Nuke blasted through the rooftop door off its hinges, armed with his usual set of knives and grenades. But Nightfire had deterrents that didn’t need to be thrown to work. One tap of her wrists together, and a blinding shock of light made him stagger backward and almost tumble down the stairs he had just ascended.

Nightfire grabbed him by the front of his white button-down shirt — Niku was known for donning a bullet- and fireproof suit lined with his weapons — and dragged him through the gap in the copper chloride line she had drawn. At the center of the roof was an air conditioning unit that she leaned his groaning body against. Aiming her knuckles at his throat, she squeezed her fist, and a collar sprung from her gauntlet and snapped around his neck, fusing to the metal unit.

“Are you going to kill me?” he coughed, yanking at the collar. 

“Nah,” she said. “Not my style.” She started to walk away, stepping over the thick stripe of copper chloride grains. 

“Not from what I heard,” he yelled after her. 

Pru shrugged — these high-stakes villains were always trying to get in a good last line. If it wasn’t Quartz telling her she’d regret this, it was Flashbang telling her they needed to talk. He hadn’t contacted her again, but she kept using that as the thread along which to string Foster’s curiosity. 

Anyway, she didn’t need to speak to have the last word tonight. One scrape of her heel along the roof’s rough concrete, and sparks landed among the copper chloride. She watched gleefully as blue flames sprung up, coiling themselves around one of the most wanted criminals in Centropolis now strapped helplessly to an A/C unit. 

Kurt Warren had been flying helicopters for the Centropolis Broadcast Network’s news team for almost twenty years, starting when he got back on his feet after a decade in the Air Force. He didn’t know how else to use his best skill, and according to his doctor, he needed to find an outlet. Truthfully, his pension and his wife’s family’s money were enough for them to live on comfortably, but he needed something to do with his time. Volunteering at the American Legion was no longer an option after he had belted that protestor who came in trying to get people to come help him fight “a real battle” against the murderous Planned Parenthood facility across the street. So he signed on to fly the pretty redheaded traffic reporter from Channel 5 above the major highways.  

He saw plenty of car crashes, jack-knifed semis and tire fires in the morning, but nothing like what he saw flying over mountainous deserts in the middle of Operation Desert Storm. Which made the job a perfect fit — skill-oriented, but relatively peaceful. 

Until tonight, that was.  

The night-shift chopper pilot, Sameer, was in an operating room with his wife at that moment while their fourth child was being born. So Kurt was behind the controls, bobbing above Centropolis City College’s campus while a reporter he had never met angled her own smartphone camera out the window. He tried to remind her that they had a real camera loaded onto the chopper and that it was probably getting better footage for the broadcast station’s internet and TV feeds. 

“Yeah, but this is for my ’gram,” she said. “Four thousand people are watching my personal feed right now. That’s more than all of my last month’s work combined.” 

Kurt shook his head, flying around to give her a better angle. All these young reporters were the same, trying to prove that they personally were there when something like this happened. Though to be fair, this was truly an eight-in-six-billion chance to see what was below with your own eyes instead of on some screen.  

The whole world would have to rely on Kurt’s helicopter or one of the other three circling the top of the Chemistry Building to see the beautiful blue flames burning like neon in a 500-square-foot outline of Nightfire’s symbol. 


#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 13: RIP Stan Lee, or A pause for Excelsior

We all knew it was coming. Unlike his characters, Stan Lee was going to fade away eventually.

Yesterday we said goodbye to the man who created the entities that inspired a lot of us to build our own worlds and imagine our own heroes. And he did so in a way that was motivating, inspiring and — perhaps most of all — inclusive.

I’ll admit that I’m one of those late-comer geeks who got heavily into the comic book scene once the zeitgeist said it was OK. (Harry Potter was far more my thing.) But once I discovered this magical world that was Stan Lee’s Marvel comics creations — starting with Iron Man and stretching both forwards as the MCU unfolded and backward as I discovered his original work — I put him in the pantheon of great creators, not just of the 20th century but of all of literature.

I’m not afraid to say that Stan Lee is the Shakespeare of this epoch. Think about it: His numerous characters are canonical to our society, and their stories often convey greater meaning than what’s simply written on the page. They seek truth and justice, but are inherantly flawed, and those flaws are what make them relateable and likeable to us. They might have superhuman powers, but they’re still human under all of it. 

Obviously Stan Lee and Shakespeare aren’t the only ones who figured out this magical formula for timeless, applicable characters. But they are in a limited class as far as how many they were able to create, how many iterations those characters have been able to endure, and how they’ve entered our common language. “To be, or not to be” is right up there with “Don’t hulk out on me.” 

(OK, maybe not. But wouldn’t it be great if it was?)

Last year he released this message to fans, and it has stuck with me since I first saw it:

“(Our) stories have room for everyone, regardless of their race, gender, religion, or color of their skin,” he says. “The only things we don’t have room for are hatred, intolerance and bigotry.” 

The message of inclusion is right up there with my own credo to make my work for everyone and representative of anyone. I wrote a whole book with a character who could be cast with any actor, regardless of ethnicity, gender identity, sexual orientation or age — the point being to make it so anyone could see themselves in the narrator’s place. While Stan Lee’s characters were more concrete, being drawn on a page, he preached the message to the end that anyone should be allowed to connect with them, enjoy them, and share that passion with others. 

To me, Stan Lee’s breadth of creativity is enough to immortalize him in our minds’ hall of  Great Literary Figures. But his insistance that everyone be allowed to adore and adopt that work is what makes him one of the greatest figures, period. 

Excelsior!