So You Have A Problem With The Ending of Superman *

*Obviously contains spoiler number one for anyone not yet able to say "I hate the ending of Superman! I want that writer to effing DIE!!!" so if you haven't seen it, read someone else's spoiler laden critique rather than burden me with your nonsense.

So Superman kills Zod.  Snaps his neck like he was opening up a commemorative Man of Steel Mountain Dew bottle.  This angers you because Superman doesn't kill.  He's better than that.

Here's why I like the fact that he killed Zod. 

In the cannon, Supes just always has the high moral ground, but he never earns it. He never made a mistake. 
He was born into the world, raised by surrogate saints Johnathan and Martha Kent to be a wholesome, all-around-good kid and he has always made the right decision ever since holding that car up in the air while Pa Kent changed a tire.  I always had a problem with that portrayal.  It seemed hollow.  Here, by committing this one act just after all that spooky "This is who you are, Kal." drama necessary to explain his alien origins...we get to see him do the deed on his one regret.  

We are privy real-time to his "If I had it to do over again..." moment and NO ONE, I mean NO ONE saw it coming. 

This is as raw as it gets in my opinion.  Here, we have the path laid out for the Hero to become the savior (forget all the Christ referencing...that's another blog and another writer) and we see him bandying about on that path.  He destroys the earth killing machine and saves the day.  Only he's not done.  There's that one bit of unfinished business. Zod is still rambling about smashing and zapping anything that moves.  This bit of business has one solution and one solution only, 

Sadly, Kal/Clark for all his world travels fishing and bussing tables has not dealt with that choice before.  The closest he came was allowing his father to die by innaction to save his secret identity (another point I loved) but that one stung.  He hasn't forgotten that one and you feel it burned into his soul from the moment we see Kevin Costner gesture "No, boy.  Leave me."
(Damn that one hit me hard)
But there we are, BIG problem that refuses to go away and is costing dearly every second it is allowed to remain. 

SNAP.  Problem solved.

I was pissed when I left the movie.  Superman doesn't kill.  I said that a dozen tomes to myself as I limped back down an eerilly deserted Jefferson Blvd at midnight (smashed toe the night prior) His moral compass points maybe not due North but damn sure to "Right" and as far opposite of "Wrong" as can be.

Then I played the chain back for the weekend. 

• First encounter with death is through innaction.  Innocent Dies
• Faced with another choice, chooses Action. Innocents saved, Guilty perish.
• Sees both decisions end in death.  Realizes the illusion of choice.

NOW We're talking. 

The most powerful being on the planet now knows that death is a single breath away from him and nothing he does or doesn't do will ever change that.  He has his moral delimma countered.  He knows that innaction would have doomed innocents, as his innaction doomed his father, but he shoulders the burden "This one time." to change that course.  This time...action = bad guy done and innocents saved.

He'll not make a habit of killing, I can tell from the anguish so brilliantly conveyed by Henry onscreen, but he knows the cost it involves and you better damn well bet that if you put him in that position, he's going to make certain the innocent puppy stays out of harm if it means toasting your ass.

I have come around on this one though I doubt that was the writer's grand design.  As so often happens to me in my own writing sometimes I just fling shot out there and then spend the rest of the time painting myself out of a corner only to realize that I just wrote something so accidentally profound it moves me.  I would like to think the writer here intended to show us "His One Regret" in such a manner as we would NEVER forget it.  I would like to think that but the odds are against it. 
Still, that doesn't diminsh the freaking TINGLE I get thinking about how I would paint myself out of that particular corner.

--rog--

The Talk - Halloween 2012 Short Story

The Talk
(C) 2012 by Roger A Wilbanks

“We don’t have a lot of time….so I’ll make this quick.” Henry Reed said to his sleeping son. He did not turn the light on. It was after 3am and he didn’t want to wake Terry. He would give him the fright of his life if he did.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you, kiddo. You understand what happened so I won’t go into it now just understand this…” he stopped as a light began to shine through the curtain in the bedroom window.

“Not yet, I’m not finished.” Henry said. Panic took root deep in his heart as he thought of all he wanted to say to his sleeping son. There was so much to cover and his time was so short.

“First rule, kid. Never trust a fart. I know that sounds funny, but it’s serious. It applies to so much more in life than just farts. Nothing that seems easy ends easy. It’s a simple thing, really. If you have the power to control something that can end badly for you, exercise that power.”

The light shifted outside as if scanning the outside of the house. Henry moved closer to his son’s bed and spoke to him in the quietest voice he could muster.

“Second rule. Fall in love. With a girl, with a hobby, with anything. The world outside wants you to suffer. Happiness is its poison. When you are depressed, the world feeds off of that and makes everyone else happy by pointing out your misery. Trust me. I know this firsthand. If you love something, that will always be there for you no matter how bad things seem. You were the thing In life I loved. You kept me going when the world ground me down.” Henry wiped the tears from his face as they appeared.

The light outside rose into the air as if it were on a crane. It seemed to have found what it was looking for and began approaching the window. Henry felt panic begin to shroud his heart. He had so much to tell this beautiful child but so little time. As soon as that light found him, poof, he was done.

“Third. Love your mother for me. Unconditionally. I know she can be a pain. I know she is difficult, but she will need that from you. No exceptions. “ Terry stirred in his slumber. Henry stepped back afraid he would wake his son and scare him to death.

The light was almost outside the window now and getting closer every second.  It was coming for him.

“I know things will be tough without me, hell…they were tough even while I was here, but you have to be strong. I know there is a great strength in you. I saw it as you fought for your life when you were born. You never gave up. I noticed that and it made me happy. Use that. Life will want to grind you down. It is natural, like erosion. Use that strength and make life sharpen you instead. Make life turn you into a sword. I know you have that in you.” The curtain began to undulate as the light stood on the other side of it, now fully aware of the man leaning over the sleeping child.

“I have to go now, Terry. I love you more than life itself. I will try to help you however I can, but you are on your own now. Take care of yourself. Take care of your, OUR family. Never lie to anyone and always keep your word. That is the most important thing I can tell you.” The curtain flew open revealing a cloud of light that looked like a small sun.

“It is time.” The light said.

“I know.” Henry answered and stepped into the light, vanishing from his son’s bedroom. The light went dark and the room returned to its previous condition.

Terry awoke like a shot had just gone off.

“Moooom!” he screamed. His mother crashed into his room like a lioness.

“what is it? Did you hear something?” she asked?

“I just dreamed of Dad. He was talking to me. He told me…” he stopped. Something told him to keep what was said to himself. “He told me about life.”

“Terry, your father has been dead for a year now. “

“I know that!” He shot. “But he was here. I heard him. There was a light though, and he...” he stopped again. Even though he was only 10, he knew what he was describing. “He left. He talked to me and left.”

“I know you miss him, baby. I miss him too. We have to move on tho and think of the future. He’s not here to take care of us anymore. He’s gone someplace better.”

Terry remembered the fear in his father’s voice as he spoke to him. He remembered all of the evil things his father had done before being gunned down by a rival. He had the feeling that someplace his father found himself now was decidedly not a better place. He felt a tear work its way down his face. He wiped it away as if it were a pest. He felt the resolve his father mentioned well up in his chest.

“We’ll be ok mom. That’s what dad told me. He said we would be ok.”

Terry went back to sleep with that thought as a blanket and slept like a 10 year old ought for the first time in as long as he could remember.

Desperation

c 2012 Roger A Wilbanks

Desperation clouds his judgement with each peal of thunder. That frantic message written in the fog of the bathroom mirror pulled the pin. His mind exploded into shrapnel, and shredded his mind into jagged bloody strips. She was out there, waiting for him. All this time he has fought against his nature. All this time he has supressed this incindiary need to have her. To be with her. Gone. In the blink of an eye with the long faded message written in the fog on the bathroom mirror.

Come to me.

That was what it said. Three simple words that undermined every defense he had built over the years. Deep inside him, he understood tall this was pretense. He knew that he would run to her the instant she gave him permission. But this was different. Something about these three words seemed wrong. Out of place. Indecent. He could not say why. He just felt the sting of her loss. He knew his combattiveness was all an act. Those three words “Come to me.” were wrong and he knew it. She would never just say it. She was sly. She would hint at it, “How have you been?” she would ask. She would never just tell him what she wanted.

He saw her in danger somewhere. His immagination put her in every scenario in which he could rescue her. He always saved the day here in his mind. He was James fucking Dean and John fucking Wayne here amidst the shattered remains of the walls he had built against her return. She just never needed that kind of man, he remembered. She was always strong enough to simply walk away and never look back. Sometimes the beauties are insecure. Sometimes they need to be told how special they are. She didn't. Ever.

“Come to me.”

He rolled these three words over in his mind as he turned the key. The engine roared to life. It was more ready than he was to run to her. He flew past the people of the world on his way to her. The wisps and wraiths never registered to him as anything more than obstacles to avoid if applicable. He knew the way. He had driven it hundreds of time both in the real world and his own creation.

He was sweating. That was strange considering it was the beginning of fall. The air was comfortable and relaxed. The breezes that wiped their hands across the city shook the hands of the people rather than strangled them like Summer would. He wiped the sweat from his brow. It was really pouring down his face now. He looked at his hand as he took it from his forehead. It was shiny with sweat.

He saw her house. It punctuated the street. It grew larger and more detailed as he drew closer. He could see the door open. He thought that was odd. She was remarkably paranoid. This was not a sign he was expecting even were she leaving the door open for him. He leapt from the car as it skidded to a stop and landed on the sidewalk. He looked at her house and it glared back. It told him he was not welcome even though she had given permission. He defied this obstacle and began the walk to the door. He could see into the hallway, the grand staircase on the right, leading to the bedrooms upstairs. Her jacket draped over the bannister as always, a sign she was home. The light from the back door 's window bounced off the shined hardwood foor of the hallway, striking his face. He stepped onto that first step, the one that creaks. This was an old carpenter's trick. The house was built in a time when craft was king. Carpenters would build that first stair to squeak as a signal that company had arrived. It's announcement hard-wired into the house, it would reverberate through every room on the firast floor. She knew he was there as his weight pressed down on the stair.

He pushed open the door. The hallway dark save the light coming in from the back door window. The entire house was dark. The hair on the back of his neck tried to tell him. The raised bumps on his skin tingled their warning. He ignored all of them. He walked into the dark house and closed the door behind him, further darkening the hallway now lit by a single light from the back door. She would be upstairs. He knew this. His mind painted a picture of a candle lit room with a pink duvet covering her four poster bed. He put his hand on her jacket as he mounted the stairs. It was cold and wet from the rain. He ignored this also and bounded up the staircase without a sound.

He turned to the right to face the hallway that opened up to the Master bedroom. She was there, he knew it. All this time of pushing him aside was done. All the energy he spent insuring this woman never stepped into his life again was wasted. He stopped in his tracks and remembered. His mind played out scened from the movie of his life. He saw the time she cut his spark plug wires. He saw the time she set his dog on fire. He saw the time she paid someone to beat him up. He watched all these as if they were coming attractions. None were relevant to the main feature but all were somehow tied by genre. He squinted his eyes as he stood still, feet from her open bedroom doow. The amber glow of candle light danced on the floor in front of him through the crack. He remembered why he ran away the first time. He remembered the time she cut him. He felt the blood running down his arm as he stood there in disbelief. It warmed his arm and chilled his body. It dripped onto the floor and made sticky puddles. He couldn't move. He was frozen in place. He looked doen at his feet expecting to see a shadow of crimson.

The hair on the back of his neck, were it given voice, would have screamed. The goosebumps on his arm, were they able would have solidified into armor to protect him. But it was the little voice he heard from directly behind him that froze him and rendered these defenses worthless. “You came. I am glad.”

He almost didn't even feel the straight razor as she dragged it across his throat.

Bunker

by Roger A Wilbanks

Kyle pounded his fist into the same spot on the metal wall of the bunker. He did this often enough that, with time, he actually dented the metal, forming a fist shaped depression in the steel. He hit it just hard enough to feel it but not to break a bone. It was his way of dealing with the stress of being locked in this bio-sealed coffin for three years.

The other families in the bunker had their own ways of handling the stress. Some drank the gutter vodka distilled from extra potatoes. They would play pool, but the stress broke every cue stick. OK, not the stress, Carl broke them. Carl lived in the last room in the bunker. He hated being shut in as much as Kyle, he just didn't handle it as well. He got drunk. He broke things. Broken things here didn't get fixed. There was no “I'll go down the street and get a new one.” They were locked in this 27 room underground complex. There was no street to go down. They were buried alive.

The plague that drove them here was one nasty hombre. It killed 2 out of three people it touched in the first month. It's often said they were the lucky ones. The rest scrambled and clawed their way towards survival. They locked their doors. They taped their windows shut. They stayed away from everyone and closed the world out. The only thing they succeeded at was dying alone and shut in. The others burned the bodies. They dug deep pits and dropped steel tubes attached to airtight containers in the ground. They installed elaborate greenhouses that used actual sunlight to grow food 50 feet below the ground. They did all this and they hid. Those unhealthy enough to pass the test were left topside to die in the dead world. Only the healthy were allowed down.

It wasn't so bad at first. It was like camping out. They had electricity powered by solar, they cooked with a geothermic pipe sunk deep into the earth. Their air and water were filtered and scrubbed. They had a jukebox. They had all the stored food they would need to ride out the expected life cycle of the virus. 4 years. The only thing they didn't plan on taking down with them was patience.

Within the first year, 30 people committed suicide. They hid in a corner where there are no corners, out of sight just long enough to drink the bottle of poison or cut themselves where it couldn't be repaired and they dies. The bodies were dumped without ceremony topside for the vultures by some brave idiot protected in a bio-suit who stayed up just long enough to throw them down and scramble back into his hatch. His suit was burned, he was locked in a quarantine box with a rabbit for three days. The virus showed signs after 1, but the rabbit was a precaution in-case he was just a carrier.

Kyle was the idiot today. He had just tossed Shelia topside. She gave him no indication she was finished. They were together last week. 3 days ago, she ate a Brillo pad. The metal and the poison killed her in three hours, but she suffered. Kyle held her through the entire trip. When she went away, no one had to ask. He began putting on a suit.

He took his time with this one. He placed Shelia down beside a tree in the shade. He couldn't bury her. There were no tools. The best he could do was cover her and say a quick prayer. He mouthed the words. God had been dead to him for a while now, but he knew she would have appreciated it. He turned at movement in the distance. It was a person walking. He fought the instinct to dart down into the hole. There were survivors, people immune to the virus. In the early days of the plague, the government touted these people as the saviors of the human race. They were wrong. Their immunity was a one off. Their offspring died. They were just lucky. He saw this shadow on the horizon disappear into the trees and then hopped into the hole. As he tossed his suit into the incinerator and scrubbed himself, he wondered what that person out there felt. He always pictured himself a prisoner, trapped in a 27 room cell but that guy was free. He wondered what that freedom meant. He pictured that fella digging the earth and planting crops in soil that was warmed by the sun. He imagined him doing this bare chested and tan. He imagined sweating at the effort and wiping his brow with a rag shoved into his back pocket. He imagined taking a sip of cold water from a canteen. He imagined all of this for three days. With a healthy rabbit as his key, he reentered his prison, went to his room and began pounding on the wall again. He hit the same exact spot, just like he did last week.

Four Ghosts

[This is the first section of this story I have written. The story itself is a horror story and looks (so far) like it will be a good one. I was literally shaking with anticipation as I wrote this during my lunch break yesterday, shooing away coworkers who only wanted to kill time and talk to me. "I have more important things to do right now." I said. Sometimes it sucks to know a writer.]

“Horseshit.”

“You may want to rephrase that, Lucas.” Ronnie cautioned.

“You sit there straight-faced and try to tell me that both you and your hippie mother talk to ghosts and they TALK BACK?”

“More or less. But everyone can talk to ghosts. They only talk back to the ones that want to hear them.”

“I want to hear them.”

“Um.” Ronnie looked at his mother who smiled and and nodded her permission. “Are you sure? This isn't a jar of peanut butter you're opening here. This door's a little harder to close .”

“Don't care. OKAY Ghost. I want to know what happened to Caroline's patient...”

“...That's too easy...” Ronnie laughed.

“...AND to increase the degree of difficulty,” Lucas continued, “I want you to tell me by fax, I want you to throw something, say it on the radio, the television and the telephone.”

Ronnie covered his eyes with his hand, shook his head and sighed.

The two stared at each other. Ronnie wore a look of knowing regret. Lucas wore a confident smile, convinced his new friend and his strange mother would soon be discredited.

Three minutes passed with no reaction from the ghost.

“You see? Nothing. Full of shit, just...” The lights flickered off and relit at a fraction of their intended brilliance. The television sparked to life with a late night used car salesman.

“I don't care what we gotta do....” the salesman screamed and the televiosion fell dark and silent just as fast as it came to life.

In the corner, a beaten up weather radio's dial lit with an eerie glow.
“This time we are GOING to MAKE them Listen!” the angry conservative radio host bellowed as the radio once more went dark and fell silent.

The fax machine sputtered and hissed as it began to disgorge a single piece of paper. As the sheet left the disconnected device, it bore only the picture of a bottle of poison, complete with the skull and crossbones.

Lucas took these events without trying to hide outward expression of the fear that now gripped him.

riiiiing. riiiiing. riiiiing.

“You going to get that, Luc?” Ronnie smiled.

Lucas picked up the phone, grasping the receiver as if it weighed fifty pounds and placed it to his ear as a voice that otherwise would have been mistaken as wind whistling through dark and wet treetops said, “M u r r r r d u u u u u r.........b u u t...n o t........b y.........h e r r r r r ….”

He dropped the phone, his face drained of all its previous signs of arrogance and composure.

“You forgot to throw something.” Ronnie said.

A rubber duck flung itself across the room, striking Lucas in the chest and falling to the floor. He looked as if he had just been hit in the chest at point blank range with buckshot.

“That one's always been a bit of a smartass.” Ronnie said. “Sorry.”

You're Special....WHY?

That's a very pointed question for me today. In the span of 24 hours I have been bombarded by mediocre people who have accesorized themselves special. Ordinary persons who through the magical addition of a thing have elevated themselves out of their own mediocrity.

It started yesterday with a picture of Chum Lee from that idiotic pawn shop show holding a bottle of Cristal. Through the addition of the contents of that tube of glass, a man who by all descriptive methods available to me is entirely beneath description becomes special. A man elevated to celebrity through nothing more than his own STUPIDITY can accessorize himself with an expensive bottle of booze and become....special.

It continues today as I walked past a Tanning shop. I looked at the counter and saw the different bottles of Tanning goo, some decorated like that bottle of Cristal and the thought hit me like a train. These idiots think they can accessorize themselves into uniqueness with THAT? Are we THAT ignorant of what actually Makes a person original these days that we think by the simple addition of something somoeone else tells us is cool makes is, by some magical osmosis, cool as well?

That was the straw that broke me. I do a LOT of things that make me special. I know others who do things that make them special. I have friends that are musicians, atheletes, business people...all creative and unique. They all DO something that makes them stand apart from you. THAT makes them special. But that isn't good enough for you. Your desire to live up to the bullshit fed you since your birth that because you are simply YOU that makes you by proxy....special forces your hand. You believe the lie that with the right thing, you become original.

It's hogwash.

It's like that line from the Incredibles "If Everyone's Special....no one's special" I see this in shows like American Idol and shit of that calibler. Mediocre people are given a spotlight to show they are special. In teh end, by the simple addition of one after the other, any originality is drown out. Every one of us thinks they are born with a God Given right to be Unique and Original. None of us realize that there is a causal relationship to the actual speciality of a person. If you DO something unique...THAT makes you unique. You can't slather yourself with gold cream and double fist expensive alcohol yourself into Originality. When all the snowflakes are different and special, who really cares about snowflakes anymore. We are greedy for attention. The media has had that effect on us. I don't blame them, everyone's gotta make a buck. But for the LOVE of GOD, let this be your takeaway from this.

DO SOMETHING.

You are just another pile of wasted flesh until you do...no matter how much money you have or what color your tanning cream is.

It's Been A Year

Last year at this time, my earth shook.. My buildings were reduced to rubble. My world was rendered ghostly and desolate. My parents died last year, days before my Birthday and Thanksgiving. Both of them. Within days of each other. My father was dying from the Cancer that was consuming him, my mother wore herself to death caring for him. She died first, of a brain aneurysm, in my living room while I was in my garage. She lie on that cold wooden floor for close to 20 minutes before I found her. The doctors told me she died instantly and simply fell where she stood. My father passed on 3 days later, and while he was not told my mother was gone (and in no condition to comprehend that either) I have the feeling he knew and just said goodbye to us to be with her.
[Part of me likes to think that she was there getting a room ready for him and he was simply waiting for the cable to get turned on so he could watch the Texas Rangers in the World Series.]

This showed me that I am not as strong as I like to think I am. I was an emotional wreck. This much is true. And if you want the honest answer to the "How are you doing?" question, I still haven't recovered. I doubt I ever will. But I don't think I am supposed to. Not fully at any rate. I relied on the kindness of my friends then. They were my rock. No. That isn't 100% right. They were my anchor as the storm rocked my puny little boat with it's Olympian Fury. I will never be able to repay that kindness.

I wanted to say something at my parents funeral. I wanted to use my words to find the right way to encapsulate my parent's legacy before the many people at the funeral service but I was unable. I still have trouble putting into print what is in my head where they are concerned. How do you eulogize the two people who meant everything to you?

They were good people.

That is it. In an nutshell, that was the core of my parents. No one met them and disliked them. They had their flaws, just like we all do, but at the bare minimalistic core of their beings, they were good people. I like to think I have that same quality, that on some genetic level I have simply been gifted from birth with decency. My friends who know me will all tell you I have, but I know better. Being decent is a daily challenge. And they won that challenge more than they lost.

I still miss them. Every day. I don't talk about them...especially with people who I have to see on a daily basis. The hardest part of dealing with this event has been my friends' concern. I see how they have taken on my suffering like a cross for themselves and THAT....that is the thing that still wrenches my heart.

I have a lot to do now. I decided on the day that I put them into the dirt on that clear, cold day, with a sky so blue it touched me, that I would make our name known. They would live on through me. That's not as creepy as it sounds. It's called a legacy and mine has been stunted. I have devoted the last 10 years of my life taking care of my parents. Now I will devote the remaining days I have left to making sure that the world knows my name. Through THAT, they will achieve something they never did in life. I will give them something to be look on with pride and say from wherever they are now "THAT is my Son. Look at him go."