I decide that it’s best not to appear too healthy at Verlaine’s funeral, so I take care to walk slowly and gasp for breath every few paces. I’ve even gone so far as to put on fresh bandages around my chest. In case someone uses their x-ray vision to look under my shirt, I guess. Although if they could do that, they could see that my fucking bones aren’t actually broken anymore. But all of the people who’re capable of doing so wouldn’t care. And anyway, one of them is lying dead in a box in front of me.
I’m sitting in a cold metal folding chair, pretending to be in pain, watching them lower Verlaine into the ground. It turns out that they need a special crane and a steel-reinforced casket for all of this, because Verlaine’s body is so dense that he weighs just over three tons. The news media are fascinated. Jesus, Russell Verlaine makes good TV, even in death.
When you think “hero”, you think “Russell Verlaine.” You don’t think of me. I’m not particularly good-looking, I don’t have a fascinating origin story, and I don’t even have a constant set of powers that you can put on a trading card. “David Caulfield, The Changeling. Powers: variable” is what the League Reserves card they did for me reads. You can buy it for a penny on eBay. Shit, I don’t even wear a costume. I go around fighting criminals and monsters in jeans and an AC/DC concert tee. I am nobody’s favorite hero.
I don’t mind, really. The last thing I need is intense media scrutiny. The less they know about me the better.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Sample of day II's writing
Here's a brief snippet of yesterday's output. It's from a story called "Cleansed and set in Gold."