Author: zaneduzant

We never thought anyone would step foot on 56 Gerne Lane again. It’d been almost a lifetime since the widower James Roder was found in his toolshed strung up like a Peking duck. They said his face was grotesque and he had no family to confirm his identity; so they used a wedding ring engraved with the initials “J.R.” and a letter they found many years later signed “Yours, James” before officially announcing his death in the local paper. The adults took it very seriously and my Uncle Phillip even thought it was a conspiracy. He was a water well driller and had been to the house in the forties to dig. He used to say “that place ain’t right, even my drill refused to go under that house.”
The kids of our town didn’t take Mr. Roder’s suicide so seriously. There was even one boy whose face was badly burned in a firework mishap and they would taunt him by calling him “old man James” on the school bus. One time, years after Mr. Roder’s death, my friends and I went into the house late at night with flashlights and pocket knives, just in case, but we saw nothing of note; just some old family photos and rat shit. This was the last time we saw anyone near James’ house.
Once the examiner looked at his watch and said “9:09 a.m.” the day they found James, the town never touched the house. They didn’t even mow the lawn. For some time, you could look in the kitchen window from the street and still see plates on a drying rack and a table with a white mug on it; you could look in the living room window and see an out-of-style couch and a shabby chair in the corner with suede missing on the arms from the friction of daily use. Eventually, the grass grew tall enough that you couldn’t see inside anymore and I would imagine that Mr. Roder and his wife still lived in there, obscured by the green.
It was mid-July 1971 when we heard the mower start at the Roder house, the sound of the motor competing with the calls of the cicadas. A man, and his son, from out of town had inherited the house through some complicated process of next-of-kinship that none of us understood and decided to renovate the property to sell it. There were times where it seemed like the father was arguing with himself. We’d hear silence from the boy and then the father would yell out “Quiet! Some arsenic and some traps will do the trick” or “Quiet! We just gotta fix the holes in the walls and rip up what’s left of this carpet” or “Quiet! We’re not tearing it down!” So, we just started referring to his son as “the boy named Quiet.”
It was obvious to us that the son and the father disagreed on what to do with the home. The father would go on and on about how much money they’d make and how it would “just take a few more months” and Quiet would seemingly suggest alternatives that infuriated his father without fail. They’d been working on 56 Gerne Lane for over 6 months now and had only managed to clean up the yard and fix the garage, and we’d always hear the father scream when he found “another fucking rat!” and the sound of a hammer banging aimlessly in an attempt to rid the home of the pest.
Over a year later, Quiet and his father would still come by every weekend to work on the house. We’d hear the father maintain, “we’re almost done” for months on end. When they’d finally get around to fixing the upstairs, they’d find a piece of paper in James’ bureau drawer covered in decades of filth. We only know the things we hear; either the things we hear for ourselves or the things we hear from others. The rumor is told that Quiet picked up the note, blew off the blanket of dust and held the note up to the sunlight. After he read what James had written, Quiet and his father abandoned the house, and the grass grew past the windows just as it once had. Curiosity filled all of us, and we felt sick when we read what was written:

It’s been rough since you left,
I haven’t eaten a thing in years.
They ate everything when they moved in,
but I don’t mind because I’ve grown to love them
how I once loved you.

They started with the pantry,
they ate me out of house & home:
They chewed through the walls, they even ate our bed;
not that I would get much use out of it these days,
I haven’t closed my eyes since I found you with yours shut.

You’d be disappointed in me,
if you saw just how bad it’s gotten,
but now they’re all that I have.

This house is a shell & so am I.
I died when you did.

-Yours, James

Foreword: The writings you are about to read do not follow the traditional syntactical nature of modern English,
or even what is considered to be proper English. You will find what you believe to be obvious mistakes
regarding grammar but know they were intentional. I liked the way they read, much more than the correct
version—especially with an Irish accent. They felt poetic to me, so I left them.

Summary: Taking place on the island of Ireland in 1908, Hugh, a 28-year-old poet and single parent, struggles
with his faith as his 9-year-old son, Connor, contends with the same bone cancer that caused his mother’s death.

Chapter 1: Son of God

In the month which sets a blaze upon the earth; a blaze upon the drawing breath—I’m the
thrifted soul waiting for the great collapse, the fallout. It was a fine autumn day. The community
weren’t lesser than exceedingly contended. It would have been still the perfect day none less
hadn’t I seen what I did. The splendor that came with the stumbling, I was sure to say: “As
beautifully she lay, ‘neath seasons fiery embrace—won’t she take my hand?”
And if it were to myself rather than directed to her, It would be understood, but not
realized, as my head succumbed to my heart, and my heart in a way it had never been, and
though I cannot know, because I was only just birthed, I feel confident in saying that my heart
had been fuller no more—even as I was brought into this life—than this autumn day.

Now it is the same day of the same month; of the same time of a different year; with the
same chilled gale of the same direction; and the same sun, above different clouds, that are the
same color, but different shapes. And I feel as the clouds are colored. And I feel as they are
shaped. And I feel as the gale feels. But that day, the same day of a different year, I felt as the
sun felt.

She did give me her hand that day, never mind our not knowing each other, and it’s the
hand that lay cold today. The hand that lay cold for some time. But, I tell you, still beautifully
she lay. And not as today will the day be when she is again as elated and as colored as a spring
flower—more of like the day I set eyes upon her it will be. There was a suffering—a great deal.
In her eyes, the eyes that were once a blue to lose thought in, an incomparable blue—of which
not one occurrence did transpire where a stranger did not take notice—were extended to “her
Connor” as her final gift. “My Connor,” she would address him, as if he were anyone else’s,
knowing he was certainly not mine. He’s always like her. Not limited to aesthetics, or intellect,
or mannerism; thoughtful promenades, unexpected behaviors, inflection, or careful diction; he
was just as surely as she was, in an inexplicable sense. Of course, with his being too much alike
came the worst.

Fortunate enough to take her extensions, and unfortunate to acquire so much of her, that
he now suffers where she did. I will watch his (her) eyes evanescence as a sequel. It is an
immense tragedy the more that she will not be here to guide him to death. I would take death, a
grand luxury, so as to spare him, but it is a luxury that is only worth as much as the thought.

“Tell me again,” Connor requests with a weakened tone. “Athair, tell me again. The
name.” “Osteosarcoma,” I tell him mindlessly as if it were a typical response to a child. Glancing
across the table where many of my distasteful compositions were written and, sequentially,
tossed intolerably into the fireplace, I can see him mouthing it out. He is eager to learn more on
the subject and often asks me questions no child should ever have to ask—no parent to answer.
Perhaps to make sense of it. There is nothing to be made sense of.

He will not live to endure growing pains; experience heartache; journey the harsh winds
of age; feel the reverie of one intertwined; see his own eyes through the eyes of another. He is
well-informed and talks candidly about death. I go against my philosophy when the topic arises,
but what am I to say when he asks forbidden questions? Would I be wrong to supply false hope?
Would it be appalling if my voice lacked conviction? But with all of the questions, and the
insurmountable difficulties each one of them shares in answering, there is none more difficult
than his asking about where it is he will venture to—who it is he will find. And if his máthair will be waiting.
I do encourage his theistic explorations, and encourage him more to not rely upon my inferences.

Because of my situation, and my past, oh so dearly melancholic, I do not trust my own judgment in regard
to celestial concerns. I have been much too influenced to speak rationally about such things; therefore, when he
inquires about the topic, I tell him “An impervious man is a paragon of a virtue that is invaluable. It’s
imperative that your beliefs are your own.” And he will ponder on the words as his eyes catch
the light. Reserved. Engrossed. Refined. My son. “Can we go tomorrow? To máthair’s tree?” An
aged beech (‘neath seasons fiery embrace). “Yes, we can go. And we’ll take Bulmers. And soda
bread. And jam. Visit Lough Ree.” “I miss her jam,” Connor said with a smile. “I miss the daylong drive to Garson’s
to help her pick blackcurrants.” His sentimentality never ceases. “We can go to Garson’s when the month is right.
I’ve never made the declaration because I knew you were very much tenderhearted about that. It was your and mam’s expedition.”
I had forgotten about their trips to Garson’s in the summer. I had forgotten many things that Connor reminded me about.
Her death brought with it the taking of some parts of me. The diminishment of memories I had of ‘er. Such a taxation on
the soul, death can be.
“I would want to. It’s just as much ours.”
It’s just as much ours.
It’s just as much ours.

My stare is heavy. He does not see the profound significance of those words, nor feel the
immense emotion they bring. To him, they are just words. To me, they represent his willingness
to do something he did—with someone he loved more than himself—with another. It was a
dejected consolation. I pursue rekindling the fire to redirect my heart-rending state. “Are you
warm enough?” I ask Conner after clearing my throat of despondency, so as to not allow him to
contract my grief. “Yes. Warm enough, athair,” Connor responded (his eyes closed and with a
familiar weariness).

* * *
My boy. The replication of the God I knew as a child. When the time comes, we will
venture over hills and uphill. I will step the fault lines. See the footnotes. Lead you with the hand
of grace to the divine path. And should the sight of greenwood donate to you the thinning of
good strength—refrain from apathy, inanition; rest your eyes. My arms shall preserve thine. I
will speak with soft diction through the susurration. Stride gracefully amidst golden shimmer. At
the arrival, finger the soil with an arm bracing. Embrace you warmly through the wait. Speak to
you: “Child, the seraphic—feel the autumn benefaction. Let its repose comfort your mind and
ease suffering. Let it be the reason for your expenditure, as it is grand. Think of all the goodness.
Your and Mam’s expeditions; blackcurrant jam; Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; The Wind in
the Willows; Mam’s soda bread; Bulmer’s; Lough Ree. Think of Áine. Envision green féar
pastures of good health—running through the foxtail, lying ensconced in rye. And when your
heart can be fuller no more, look up—look at where we sit. She is here, Connor, just as I. Just as
proud of your valor. Unto you speaking: ‘Rath Dé Ort, my Connor. My beautiful Connor.
Áilleacht den sórt sin. I have been at your side all along, beautiful boy.’”
If I wasn’t a weathered man, I should be inclined to say you are indeed the creation of
God. That you walk without fault. That God created too much of himself. With the last breath, I
shall lay you upon the sepulcher. I shall lay you among the shades of Áine.

* * *
Chapter 3: Continual Recollections

“You must be strong. You must be strong for Connor,” Áine spoke softly to me, brushing
the hair from my weary eyes. She was so frail—so worn. Her clothes were ill-fitted; eyes a lesser
blue; cheekbones protruding. We lay in spring warmth atop a blanket, atop the rye. It was a time
with the primrose, and the hyacinth, and the sea aster. Singing goldfinches giving their
condolences to the cool zephyr. A day of true consolation.

“What if I cannot?” I replied without looking at her. “You can, dearest. He will need his
athair. He will need your comfort—your graceful diction,” she said, with a weakened smile.
Turning on her back to view a sky of blue, she said, “It is not that I fear the coming of death… It
is the result mine will have. The impact on those I cherish most. A child needs his máthair. More
so when death comes to him.” There was a lingering pause, a time for consideration. “It is not for
me to choose.” Her face now glittered in the light.

During our walk home, our second-to-last walk home, I walked behind Áine, as I always
did following her diagnosis. Awful to see the fade of such beauty. It took her posture. It slowly
took each feature of ‘er. I had to watch it all. Connor had to watch it all.

Why I always walked behind her is simply a case of metaphysics. Perhaps to hide my
agony. Perhaps to keep it in my mind her declination, not that I once was allowed to forget. It
was to be noticed that on each trip we made, her strength lessened—her stride shortened, her
pace slowed. The sun had mostly gone when we arrived home. Connor was still in well enough
health that he was in the yard playing.

He has always been such an attentive child—always understood the complexity of life
and our situation. (His own.) More aware and accepting of the unfairness and the harshness than
ever. He stared at her as we passed, as he always did, and I could see in him an unmatched
maturity and braveness—knowing she would die, and that he could not save ‘er. He knew that
there was no explanation, no matter how much I thought I deserved one. Áine, unspoken, went to
our bedroom while I unpacked the picnic basket. I decided to give her space and waited in the
kitchen. Then time went by, but she did not make a sound, nor did she come out of the room. I
walked carefully to the threshold, which presented a creak. There I saw the worst. There she
stood at the foot of the bed, in front of the mirror, crestfallen. As if, though she had been aware
of her condition, and knew that death would surely come, for her and her only child, it was only
then that she was forced to accept it. What caused this realization is to remain unanswered. A
passageway where she observed her son’s failure to match his body with his maturity. Where he
would follow behind her to the same bed, with the same declination, to the same ending—even
more unfinished. She was to lose a child and not be there for the loss of a child. She finally
noticed her body—I could notice it in her eyes. The loss of hair. The fade of her eyes. The
discolored skin—hollow cheeks.

“Áilleacht den sórt sin. Still, I see such beauty, Áine. My dearest Áine,” I said to her from
the entrance, walking to brush her cheek, “as beautifully she lay, ‘neath seasons fiery embrace—
won’t she take my hand?” With a cry, she said, “I am unsightly, Hugh. I wish for you not to see
me ill-favored.”

“You are no different than that day. Of no lesser grace. Understand you will never be of
lesser grace.” Her head to my shoulder, boots shining from her sadness, I could see Connor in
the mirror. That was the moment I lost my faith. “Always will you remain as that autumn day.
That perfect day.”

Later that evening, when Connor had been put to bed, Áine continued to advise me. “You
cannot shield him from himself—his fate… the harshness of his situation and the world. You
cannot fill his head with hopeful pretenses, so that he may find peace and overvalue chance. I
know how difficult it will be, Hugh, but it would be inhumane to do such things. He is much too
fragile to hear the cozened, explicit falseness that would only leave him further frayed. And you
must see to it that he remains in faith. Such is imperative.”

“Faith,” I said it aloud. It was not a question, not a statement nor a reply. It seemed a
word of the past—the product of a foreign language, a product of vulgarity. I had great difficulty
pronouncing it and knew not of its meaning.

“I know you have lost yours, but I can’t say the same. And you must not allow Connor to.
It is hard to see—you are blinded by it all, but a purpose lies behind it, and you will come to see
in time. Not everything is to be understandable—you can’t analyze and define all. Some must
remain undefined and that does not make it of any less value. You can only see the sufferings,
but there is so much that remains—of such variegated beauty past the barrier Connor and I have
created. See past it, Hugh. See the pastures of rye we lay atop in spring with fervent love and
unwavering desire. See the smile on your child’s face when the fragrance of blackcurrant jam is
his primary inhalation. Are these not the result of God’s provisions?”

“Then why should he feel the need to take away the grandiose rights he’d given? Why
grant a lesser allowance o’ goodness and a greater o’ heartache?” I received no answer—assume
she had grown tired of trying to convince me.

As much respect as I had o’er—I never found use for such conversations. I’d nod my
head to please ‘er, but I never considered the words, and I was certain never to. Still, I was bound
to something greater and therefore saw to it that I made every effort to not allow Connor to see
as I—and I attempted to instill her in him. I became a mechanical conversationalist when the
subject of theism arose, and it often did. However, I became eventually wildered as my immense
weariness progressed and granted Connor the allowance to form his own inferences and place
faith where ‘e saw fit. I could not imposition him further as I grew to be skin and bone. Because
my heart became something that was only for life’s continuation, and my brain became
something that was only for controlling skin and bone, so I could preserve what could not be
preserved. I could not have grown, in these months of toil, into less of a man.

Chapter 3: Differing Letters

Áine, before her death, wrote to me many letters that I assume were to be addressed
whenever I should myself in the darkest of days, with not a fraction of obtainable consolation.
The realist in me favors the thought of the cancer being the result of—among all other harm—
perplexed thinking, and that that is reason for her letters. But I cannot hope to make it to the final
stages of life with such thinking; I must remain more optimistic and therefore believe she wrote
them with intention.

Her letters, in the beginning, read gracefully and with restrained hope. She was sure to
pursue pragmatism and avoid all falseness, but nevertheless diluted it divinely with grammatical
memorabilia and concentrated on her motherly prose—often mentioning the like of Connor and
their blackcurrant trips. Purposeful words that could undoubtedly be arranged to represent her
fine contour and console my weary mind.

However, as with all things, goodness is certain to be met with its opposite, and the Áine
in her letters soon faded to—what I conclude with complete surety—perplexed thinking that
resulted from her cancer. A passage from such heartbreaking letters: Weightless words from
heavy lips, I can hear—not comprehend—what you direct to me. Your efforts lost meaning long
ago, I’m afraid. It is to my knowledge that I’ve developed an immunity to your carelessness—no
longer to be affected by the harshness of your primal self. Let it be known that I care not of what
you speak of my doings upon the completion of your reading this letter, as it will be the winding
roads of uncertainty and perils of travel that should occupy my mind. No longer to be confined to
Ireland and the making of your precious blackcurrant jam—I shall strive to find self-developed
contentedness, not a contentedness dependent on your opinion or satisfaction.

The true and profound melancholia that is still emitted from this tear-stained paper is that
her confusion was so considerable that she failed to acknowledge the existence of her son. And
while we—Áine and I—had our disagreements, they were to no more extremeness than those of
any other concerning marital relations. And though I am aware of the ignorance that death
causes, as it twists the mind and attempts to fabricate the past, I admit to giving into such
ignorance, but there were no weightless words produced from either mouth—only a then-present
(and still indefinite) love hidden by trivial frustration.

Chapter 4: Among the Shades of Áine

When the day was here, I felt inundated with immense guilt. For I had concluded that on
the day I met Áine—no day henceforth would be of greater beauty or serenity. No day will
compare. That was a false conclusion. No words can adequately describe this day. It was just as
the days should be, but never shall be in my lifetime.

The month fell in autumn, and I did consider her words, so I felt not the need nor desire
to define the peculiar alignment. Áine had positioned the sun so that it would set in sight upon
the hill. With her breath, a consoling and gentle breeze with familiar fragrances that I had long
forgotten. And she woke Connor as she used to and—another complacent undefined
occurrence—he spent the day without pain. He asked no questions and was worried not. My
lovely Connor did not feel in his youth, but well in serenity. I felt the same. We spent the
morning hours in his room. I sat in the old oak chair that was cornered in his view; he sat up in
his bed with blankets at his waist. There wasn’t much conversation, as there was a contentedness
found in listening to singing birds; nevertheless, we never broke eye contact. I had never felt
such comfort. He was a beautiful sight, though he seemed somewhat confused this morning. His
eyes lighted up from the blackcurrant jam on toast and in them, I had my son again. I fed it to
him as her light streamed from the window across the room—the way it shone down on his
face… it was such a gift.

When the hour was four, I dressed Connor in his favorite blanket and found footing to the
Birch. There was a mattress of leaves to be in comfort for the wait—varied as to be expected for
the month. Our backs against the tree—we sat in view of the dying sun that covered the pastures
full of rye, painting a canvas of the dull grass that was desperate for a rain, and shadowed strips
that looked the result of lead from a pencil held in a fitful hand; Connor held tight.

All was silent in the evening—not a sound that wasn’t the wind or leaves. And then the
tears. They were first his, and then mine, and ours together. “In you, I see it all, child. How it
should be. Everything”

“I love you entirely, athair,” Connor replied with tears in his voice. “My beautiful
Connor… you have been so very strong. You have been so fearless, my boy. I love you dearly,
hon… dearly.” I lost my voice to the sadness and could hold him no tighter. And there was half a
sun for half a breath—then a firm embrace that was one-sided.
The wind had gone and emerged was a silence I’d never experienced. I rested his head on
her leaves and brushed his thin, blonde hair from his eyes. “In you, I see it all, child. How it
should be. Everything.”

I lay him next to her. I lay him where he belonged. I lay him to rest; Among the shades of
Áine.

To Build a Glasshouse
by Jessica Awada

The third attempt was more fragile than the first two. The shards that collected in a heap between Elliot’s feet were indication enough. At least it was pretty, he thought, the mountain of pricking, pinching purple pieces elevating his most recent failure. It resembled the mountains within his line of sight out the window, getting coated in a fresh layer of fallen snow. Elliot had gotten too accustomed to the snowfall, because it will always snow in Alaska.

A glassblower he was, sure, but not the finest one. It was a step he had merely been handed down being the one to take over his father’s business. He was often compared to him, the man who seemingly had glass wrapped around his finger, bending and shaping at his will. It was a passion Elliot’s father had also inherited from his own father, who possessed that same magical synergy with glowing, hot orbs of melted glass. What once was a passed on family endeavor fell down into Elliot’s lap as a faltering, misplaced hobby.

Elliot was now marinating in what felt like glass up to his knees, cutting close enough to the skin for him to consider fleeing the studio as if it weren’t his own. As if the shelves weren’t adorned with some of his more successful works: a stunning blue pipe, a set of six textured Christmas ornaments made from recycled glass (the texture being a beautiful accident), and some other works with hidden cracks at the bottom due to wrong, amateur tempering.

He leaned forward again, seconds away from reapproaching the kiln with feigned motivation. He wondered if he could trick the malleable glass before he began forming it. If he were to approach it with the stillness of a tomb, would it believe him to be truly calm? Would the glass and the torch and the blowpipe all be convinced when he would pretend as though he had finally gathered himself enough? That he finally can face them with an understanding of the touch the glass has always asked from him?

The roundness of the torch teased his fingertips before being roughly taken away. He wasn’t sure if he had pulled back from the shock of the ground seemingly beginning to shake, or if the tool itself had run away from his unskilled and unconvincing hands. Yet all at once, yes, the ground definitely began to shake enough where he and the torch were now star-crossed lovers. His own shoes– a pair of hand-me-downs from his father– flat against the ground ached with an unsettling vibration.

The only thing removing him from the hypnotism induced by the shakes was the melody of glass-on-glass combat occurring on the shelves and in the cabinets surrounding him. They shook together, almost threateningly humming at him to leave. He considered it all too well.

The first thing to come hurling down was a vase with a shaky foundation. The rims at the bottom had cracked when he first made it after he had given it less than enough time to set. The glass had turned too cold, and shivered with the fright of its winter. He pretended it hadn’t cracked as he set it up for display, but his game of pretend came crashing down along with the piece as he watched another mound of broken glass being formed.

His eyes winced closed at the heartbreaking sound of glass breaking for the nth time. They stayed closed, anticipating the choir to insist on completing its hymn. An earthquake, he thought to himself.

Growing up and still living in the bustling parts of Alaska, he had experienced a couple earthquakes before. Somehow, this was not the first earthquake he had been through that ended in him being surrounded by glass.

When he was twelve, Elliot’s dad had picked him up from swim practice when the road seemed to have dipped unexpectedly. The car almost tipped onto nearby traffic with the way the ground shook beneath them. The car horns that went off afterwards were almost melodic, caroling one by one. While Elliot braced for impact, his father’s first thoughts had not been his then pregnant wife home alone, or his elderly parents at a resident nearby, nor was it his only son strapped by him with fear splattered across his features. No, as he veered harshly around the corner and past dozens of cars responsibly pulling over to the side of the road, he swiftly aimed for the studio, imagining that same choir of shattering voices of his own art.
“Dad, where are we going?” Elliot had meekly whispered, too shaken up. “Was that an earthquake?”

It had to have been. Elliot had experienced a few over the years of them living in a part of Alaska so prone to mild earthquakes every year or two. Still, the way his stomach dipped and the car skewed with the weight of the ground was enough to have his heart beating through the very spot he wore it on his sleeve. He tugged his sweater sleeves down over his hands as though worried his father would take notice.

But his dad barely nodded, his words rushed, “Yeah, Elliot. Need to go back to the studio to make sure everything’s okay.”

“Can I use your phone to call mom really quickly?”

Elliot had asked the question innocently, only to be taken aback by how confused his father had looked. As if for a second, he had forgotten all about that– how he had a wife and kids and people to worry about. How life was made of more than just glass things.

Elliot was left wondering if that were true at all, as his dad haphazardly and wordlessly handed his phone over to him. And as the phone rang, he felt as though he could see right through his own father– some glassperson of glasskind. His mother picked up immediately, having already had the phone in hand and ready to call her husband.

“Honey? Did you guys feel that, too?” Her tone was calm, but Elliot knew and loved his mom enough to pick up on the way her voice dipped and cracked at the end of her words.

The anxiety lingered in the air for a second before he answered, “Yes, we’re okay. Are you okay?” he paused. “It felt like we got a flat tire.”

“It’s normal,” his father grumbled under his breath, voice tinged with annoyance. “It’s a normal feeling.”

Elliot wasn’t sure where that comment came from, but he was positive he didn’t like it in the way it left his stomach churning. The condescension dripping from his dad’s tone could only be explained by his plethora of experiences with earthquakes, or the harsher possibility that he felt that Elliot was being dramatic in his response. Staring grimly at his father, Elliot sunk further into his seat.

“It’s gonna be okay. Seems like it’s settled now,” his mother’s soothing voice overshadowed his father’s dismissing words. “Just come home soon, please. Can I talk to dad?”

Elliot handed the phone over and watched as his father replied in a series of grunts and one-word replies before hanging up. His eyes were sharply focused on the road ahead, one as clear and empty as the road in the rearview mirror behind them. Elliot imagined people were still pulled over, on the phone with loved ones and waiting briefly in case of an aftershock, as his father beelined for the studio tucked away on the edge of town.

It was only around 4 pm, but the dead of winter pushed for the sun to rest early. And so, the sky was plastered in oranges and purples, clouds bleeding red. Elliot’s dad approached the bends of the road the same way Elliot’s eyes took in the curves of the colors in the sky above him. They did not say another word for the length of the 15 minute drive. Yet somewhere in the distance, the world around them resumed, and the cars and lights started stuttering past them. Elliot wordlessly thanked the cars whizzing past for changing the pace.

He wasn’t sure if he was meant to follow, or if he even wanted to. The way his father stepped out of the car without even remembering to turn off his headlights was enough indication of how thoughtless he was. Elliot was not sure what led him to putting his coat on and hopping out of the car, the feel of road salt hitting the sides of his shoes. His breath came out in a foggy blur, the cold tinting his nose red as he kicked dusty snow aside with his timid steps. Hugging his coat closer to his sides, Elliot headed for the entrance to find his father.

The inside of the building was always a maze to Elliot. The entrance was his homebase, an area marked by a giant front desk and distinctly-shaped stone sculptures off to the side. When he would get lost, he would loop back to that spot and go down a different route. His father had tried to remind him to look for the studio with stained glass windows, but all glass has always looked the same for Elliot.

Today, the potted snake plant by the couch in the waiting area was toppled over. Dirt specks tarnished the patterned rug beneath it. The painting of Mount Denali that usually hung over the left wall down the first hallway was only mounted by one nail, hanging oddly on a diagonal. Elliot was reminded of the trip to the Denali National Park his father had been promising he’d take him on since he was eight. He readjusted the painting, straightening it up momentarily. It fell down in a clean swoop as he walked away from it. He flinched, but kept walking.

Elliot was quick to find the room today, the wet steps of a man who was too hasty to wipe his shoes on his way in being the one marker in an otherwise desolate, quiet building. He noticed the random things that toppled over along the way here and there, but breathed a sigh of relief at no significant damages appearing before him. At least that meant his father couldn’t possibly be too upset.

He was scared to peek in regardless. The door was swung open, meaning all he had to do was lean sideways to catch a glance. His eyes studied the room. Most of the shelves had been braced to the walls, as are most pieces of furniture at most houses and stores around here. It was common practice in a town that faced heavier earthquakes so often. Besides the random tools hanging on the walls that dropped onto the floor, most of the studio was intact. The most significant areas of damage were more recent works that had been left outside of secure units, like the piece his father was hunched over in a corner.

“Dad! You’re gonna get hurt!” he bellowed out, crouching down beside his dad like he had any better idea of how to clean up glass than the way his dad had resorted to: picking at small shards with his bare hands.

The sight of blood-coated glass made Elliot’s stomach turn more than the earthquake itself. He gasped, watching the way his father didn’t even react to him walking in and kneeling beside him. Instead, he picked at the smallest pieces of blue glass, some digging their way into his skin before even being removed from the ground. Elliot wondered how much that hurt, or if his father was feeling any of it at all.

“I can still use it,” his father insisted, picking up the tiniest dustings of glass. He spoke deliriously, “I can still make it work.”

Elliot tried to nod convincingly, but he was scaring him. He had to remind himself of the technique his dad had taught him to stain glass, where crushed colored glass is fused with hot globs of glass. The harsh heat fuses the glass together, painting the glass as a result. Elliot had always thought that to be a beautiful, regenerative part of glassblowing. But now, all he could imagine was his dad getting stuck in an endless loop of using glass to create more, seemingly better glass.

Elliot could immediately tell which broken project was in his dad’s hands; it was a personal undertaking of a blue piece that resembled loops of thread coming together. His father had explained it to him before, his vision of creating something that looked nothing like glass. Something so fragile and fluid that you would doubt it to ever be glass. He had watched him attempt different techniques of bending glass tubing in an effort at getting it to behave as something it’s not.

Elliot knew that, the many times he had watched him do it. That glass will not bend unnaturally, especially when hollow. And that no amount of heat will get it to obey you enough. And that even when you think it had taken the form you wanted, you will notice the way it stubbornly ignored your commands once the hot red fades and all you are left with is glass threatening to shatter in your very hands.

He had told his dad all of that only for his dad to laugh, telling him he didn’t understand glass enough. Maybe one day, El, he had said, when this place is all yours. Two nights ago, his father had spent almost the entirety of dinner bragging about finally figuring out a way. And that his dream of coiled, misshapen and impossible glass was almost ready for him in an annealing oven waiting to entirely cool down.

Elliot was certain that the scraps of blue of uneven thickness and the harshest edges were once in the shape of this impossible project. He could tell simply from the way his father withstood the pinch of shards breaking skin, and from the way there was no other pile of glass being tended to in any parts of the room.

With that note in mind, Elliot stepped away from the mourning man. He found a broom in a supply closet and made haste to clear some mess from the ground. A pile of colorful glass in the shape of broken domes caught his eye. He could make out a few patterns on the side of curved, hollow pieces of red, green, and white: small festive trees, something resembling a garland, and snowflakes.

Speaking up again for the first time since he had walked in, Elliot asked, “Are these the ornaments mom asked you to make?”

He knew the answer already, even though his father never gave him one that night. He got it in the form of his dad getting up, hands cupped together as though he were praying. A mass of glass fell into the trash from his hovering hands before he walked out, still treading murky water on the clean tiles.

Elliot swept up the crushed remains of his mother’s requested gift, leaving them in a small bowl that he would retrieve some years later for a project of his own. He walked back out of the studio, retracing wet steps and ignoring the fallen painting. He found his dad slamming angry, bleeding palms down at the steering wheel of a car that seemed to not want to turn back on.
As his father grumbled swear words Elliot was not allowed to say and phrases cursing his horrible luck, the snow began to fall. It scattered around them like flakes crafted so delicately that they would think the edges could cut them. Instead, they melted into their skin. The cold snowflakes landing on Elliot’s cheeks soothed the heat that had built up. He wasn’t sure what had caused his face to get so red, if it were the stuffy coat inside a tense building, or the fact that his father was becoming less and less the man he thought him to be.
Eventually, the heat in his cheeks subsided, and Elliot refused to bend and crack under these changing conditions. And as his father kept up his parade of scattered insults, Elliot buckled himself into the seat, hand sticking out of the window and catching delicate snowflakes.

–

The snow still falls in Alaska, perhaps now and forever. Elliot noticed that again when he looked out the window. The piles of broken glass in his own studio suddenly did not seem to matter too much now. The broom was still in the supply closet, and the kiln can remelt any glass that decided to come apart, readying it for a new project.

So for now, Elliot made his way down the maze again, leaving behind the crying masses. On his way out, he took note of the photo he had pinned up on a corkboard of him and his mother posed in front of Mount Denali, a trip they took years after his father had died. It remained stationary despite the way the earth insisted on shaking. The shaking had settled by the time he made it to the entrance, a few plants toppling over in a way where it would be just as easy to straighten them back up.

He felt the bustling wind outside resist the way he pushed for the door to open, but eventually the pressure released, and the door opened. Elliot was met with the sight of white snow dancing around him. The snowflakes cascaded like fresh bits of confetti. Luckily for him, it will always snow in Alaska.

The servants inside Nightwell Castle had long learned to ignore the feverish whispers emitting from their prince’s bedroom. To survive in a place such as this, you needed to be adept at knowing when to turn a blind eye or deaf ear. Most instances involving Prince Narcissus went by this rule.
At first glance, Prince Narcissus was a charming man. He was a tall and lithe young man, always dressed in the finest silks and adorned with the shiniest of gold. The prince’s face was perfectly structured and the long golden hair that curled around his face added to the perfection. Whenever his starry blue eyes glanced upon a maiden, she would faint in response! No one could disagree that Prince Narcissus de Vain was an amazingly handsome man.
However, the rumors surrounding him did not match his appearance.
Gossip throughout the kingdom described the prince as a man obsessed. It was rather disturbing. Day after day. Night after night. The prince spent his time conversing with his reflection. Dorthy, who cleaned the prince’s chambers, once witnessed this scene. She, with a “don’t repeat this,” said the scene looked something like this:
The prince, tired from a long day of shadowing the king, stumbled into his private bedroom. He then slipped off his boots, untied his long hair, and walked into the room’s bathroom. Of course, Dorthy didn’t see what went on in there, but when Prince Narcissus made his way back into the bedroom he looked more put together. His demeanor was still dull like he was carrying a heavy weight. However, his eyes contained a new look. It wasn’t something Dorthy saw when the prince was learning how to be king. Whatever caused his eyes to glint that way was far more important than his status as heir. So, imagine her surprise when the focus of that look was the polished mirror resting beside Prince Narcissus’ bed! The mirror itself was strange, surrounded by the kingdom’s best pillows and placed beside a table containing sweets Dorthy could never afford. None of the servants were allowed to clean the mirror.
“Only I can touch her” the prince had commanded.
‘Her?’ Dorthy thought at the time. She found the pronoun a bit weird, but it wasn’t her place to comment on the prince’s mistakes.
However, the situation before her gave a bit of context to that command. Prince Narcissus was beginning to talk. At first, Dorthy thought it was to her. She was pleasantly surprised because servants are usually treated as furniture. Dorthy opened her mouth to respond, but then the prince answered himself! His tone was slightly higher as if he was imitating a woman. “Welcome back” he had said. Dorthy was sure it was a jest, but Prince Narcissus looked engrossed in his conversation. It seemed serious enough that he didn’t even notice her presence. Dorthy was rather worried. Who was her prince talking to? Maybe the rumors were right and the castle was
haunted! However, her question was answered as the prince stopped walking. He had seated himself in front of the mirror, whose surface reflected his image. Prince Narcissus’ entire being lit up as he continued speaking to the mirror. His pale cheeks gained a hint of color and his eyes warmed. The prince’s tone of voice, even when pitched to a woman’s, was soft. It no longer held the iciness Dorthy was used to. If she didn’t know any better, Dorthy would have thought Prince Narcissus was speaking to a secret lover. It was highly disturbing. Dorthy could no longer find the cold prince she knew. The one before her was a man in love trying to court his woman! She needed to tell someone. That mirror was cursed! Why else would the prince talk so lovingly to his reflection? She (to not interrupt the cursed conversing) quietly rushed out of his chambers and reported the incident to the head maid. Dorthy hoped that the head maid could tell the king and queen. They could bring in a doctor or an exorcist to help their poor prince!
However, to her horror, Prince Narcissus continued to fall in love with his reflection. Now that she knew what to look for, Dorthy witnessed her prince talking to the mirror every evening. Doctors, priests, and it was rumored that even dark magicians came to try to fix Prince Narcissus. Each time he would insist that he was talking to his lover. A brave maid tried to take away the mirror to help her prince but was greeted with a swift execution. The prince made it clear that only he was able to touch his lover.
It was hard to keep quiet after the prince murdered that maid. So, throughout the kingdom, it became known that Prince Narcissus had gone mad. He was mocked as ‘the man whose looks were so great he fell in love with himself.’
Bless their hearts, the king and queen tried to help their only son. How was the heir of their kingdom supposed to continue his line when the only thing he loved was himself? At first, they set up meetings with every eligible maiden in the kingdom. One had to catch Prince Narcissus’ eye, right?
Wrong.
The prince became even more obsessed with his reflection claiming “Look how beautiful she is! How could I ever marry someone when my love is this charming?!” Prince Narcissus also started to see his lover in other places besides his bedside mirror. He talked to her in windows, cups, and even puddles after it rained.
The king and queen were truly at a loss. At this point, they would have to change him as heir and place their daughter in his place. It was then a trusted advisor suggested:
“If the prince is so in love with his looks, then why not find someone who fits his aesthetics?”
The suggestion became their last hope. The king and queen announced to all nearby kingdoms that no matter the status, as long as they looked similar to their son, they could try for his hand.
Women and even men flocked to the castle. It was a sea of blonde hair. Among these contestants was a young girl named Helena. She had blonde hair and blue eyes like the rest of them, but she was unique in one special way. Helena was a witch.
Helena was also very bored.
She had heard of this mad Prince Narcissus despite residing two kingdoms away and wanted to see him in person. A man who was in love with himself! Maybe he could cure Helena of her boredom. Fortunately, this contest was being held. Unfortunately, she had black hair and red eyes. Nothing magic couldn’t fix, though.
However, when she showed up at the overly grand Nightwell palace, Helena didn’t expect the prince to be so charming. Her boredom as well as her apathy was cured. Each day she spent conversing with the prince (no matter how forced it was on his end) made Helena feel warm. She didn’t want to say it was love, but maybe something close to it. The prince also seemed to warm up to their conversations. Prince Narcissus got rid of the other contestants but couldn’t bring himself to get rid of his first love. He wasn’t against introducing Helena to her, however.
“Honey” he looked at the mirror “this is Helena, a new friend of mine.” Prince Narcissus nervously chuckled and waved his hands to reassure that they were just friends to Helena’s chagrin. The prince then made his voice higher to respond as his love. “It’s fine, love, I’m not so closed-minded as to not allow you to have female friends. Just don’t forget about me.” The reflection pouted. The two, no one, continued their discussion. However, Helena, no matter her original intentions, felt disturbed seeing the man she lo-liked so engrossed in madness. Although, she still tried to be polite and waved to the prince’s reflection with a kind “hello.”
Helena had a new mission. She needed to rid the prince of this mirror. Of his insanity. Despite being a witch, Helena had really come to care for Prince Narcissus. Outside of his narcissism, he was a kind prince who cared for his people. She didn’t want to see such a bright future go to waste.
That night she consulted all her spell books. There had to be something that could help her prince! Then she found it. The spell that sealed her fate. It wasn’t a grand spell. The cost wasn’t even that high, certainly not her life. It was a spell that targets the mind. The issue was that Prince Narcissus was seeing his reflection as a separate being and gender. So, the purpose of the spell was to remedy that. Prince Narcissus’ reflection would merge with his own perception of himself and he would no longer identify it as another person. Helena thought the prince would
certainly be embarrassed after learning that his reflection wasn’t another person, but she would be there to support him. Maybe he would even be saddened.
She never thought anger would be the go-to emotion.
Prince Narcissus was inconsolable. The spell worked. However, instead of acknowledging that his reflection wasn’t a real person, the prince wailed that his lover was killed. His perfect darling was gone and only he remained inside of the mirror’s reflection. Prince Narcissus was angry. He screamed throughout the castle trying to find whoever was responsible for his lover’s death. Head rolled wherever he strolled. The prince couldn’t accept it. Why? Who would want to kill his beautiful beloved? Her innocent blue eyes and blonde hair couldn’t inspire animosity! So, why!? Why would someone hurt her? He killed his way trying to find the murderer. He eventually had to kill the right target, right?
The palace was slathered in blood. The knights who arrived on the scene thought they were in hell. They expected chaos. Wailing maids and screams for help. However, it was so silent. The only sound came from the heavy pants of Prince Narcissus. He looked like a devil who had crawled its way out of hell. Blood and clumps of gore stuck to his skin like a second outfit. The prince’s blonde hair was dyed red and veiled his face. Only bloodshot and bulging eyes were seen. They were so dilated that the once famed starry blue eyes couldn’t be seen. All that was left was an angry man hell-bent on what he thought was revenge. It was the demeanor of a murderer. The pressure surrounding Prince Narcissus left the knights quaking. They had lived in a time of peace. The carnage in front of them was something they never imagined.
“Move” Prince Narcissus commanded.
The knights were so stunned they didn’t dare to move. Freeze had won over fight and flight.
“Orrrr” the prince slurred “was it you?” His head snapped up to scrutinize the knights. “Did you kill her?”
At this soft yet dangerous tone, the knights made the collective decision to shake their heads no and move the hell out of their prince’s way. The royal family’s famed strength was already exemplified in front of them. They didn’t need a more personal example.
Prince Narcissus moved ahead of these pathetic knights. They couldn’t even protect one innocent woman. After he has gotten justice, he’ll have to execute them for their incompetence. Gods above, how was he going to live without her? Their conversations were the one thing that could relax him after a long day of training as heir. The soft way she spoke his name, the way her plush lips formed-
“Prince Narcissus?”
Helena gasped. This wasn’t anger. This was rage. How could her once kind prince cause such a disaster? How? She almost felt like sobbing at the prince’s demonic visage. It didn’t resemble the man she fell in love with.
“Helena.” Prince Narcissus, despite his sorrow, was able to recognize the friend he spent the last weeks talking with. Their conversations were always pleasant. He had even introduced her to his beloved. Wait. Could Helena have-?
“You! Was it you Helena? Did you murder my lover? Were you so jealous of our love that you had to ruin the one good thing in my life?”
“The one good thing in your life?” Helena scoffed. She intimately knew that feeling. To live a life full of unhappiness, of boredom, but have all of it erased by a shining light.
“You were that to me, my prince.” Helena didn’t think she was the type to fall so fast, but their conversations, the stories they shared, made their way into her heart. It was so short, only a couple of weeks, but Helena thought a bond had formed between them.
“Lies.” Prince Narcissus hissed. “Answer me. Was it you?”
“My prince. Prince Narcissus. Please, listen. The person you loved wasn’t real!” Helena sobbed. What can she do for a man so blind?
“That’s not what I asked.”
Helena shakily laughed with tears running down her face. She lifted her head to stare directly into her love’s cold eyes. Helena sealed her fate and whispered “Yes.”
Prince Narcissus thought he felt his heart break a second time. This was someone he genuinely enjoyed being around. Maybe without his darling, he could have grown to love her. Alas, no one could ever top her. The reflection he saw in the mirror.
Helena went on to explain that she was a witch. A witch who desperately wanted to cure herself of the apathy that grayed her life. From changing her hair and falling for the prince, it was all said. She ended the speech by removing the magic, changing her appearance. Helena appeared before the mad prince as her original self.
Prince Narcissus couldn’t believe her. A witch! She was just like the evil being from the stories he read as a child. A jealous wench who came to separate the protagonist and his fated lover! Maybe his beloved just needs a kiss and she’ll return? His broken mind thought this to be a solid plan to use after he got rid of the obstacle in front of him.
“I truly believed you to be a dear friend Helena the witch. I’m almost sorry to do this.” The prince placed his sword at Helena’s neck, slicing a shallow cut.
Helena’s red eyes widened, shifting to stare at the man she grew to love. There were currently 56 spells at her disposal to harm him and ensure her safety. However, she couldn’t do it. Helena couldn’t hurt Prince Narcissus. All she could do was whisper “please” over and over. Hoping for true love to win over madness.
Seeing her desperation and love, Prince Narcissus lowered his sword. His mind wavered. Was he truly insane? Was his darling really fake? Was Helena telling the truth? “Are you? Can you swear that you told no lies?”
“I swear,” Helena firmly said. Her demeanor was determined. She didn’t have the appearance of a liar.
Prince Narcissus knew this. So he smiled. He smiled and smiled and smiled. He smiled all the way until he thrust his bloody sword into her chest. “I can’t accept it.” Prince Narcissus couldn’t accept that his lover was fake. So, he killed the one thing that could prove his love false. Helena.
Helena felt a fishy taste in her mouth and gagged on the blood suffocating her throat. This was the man she fell for? A man who was willingly blinding himself? She stared at the sword penetrating her chest and let out a wet laugh. She laughed just as the prince had smiled before he placed this sword inside of her. Helena looked up into the prince’s dim eyes, her own mixed with pity and schadenfreude. She didn’t have the 56 spells she had a couple of seconds ago, but there was one important spell she could use in the time she had left. Helena’s voice grew enchanting and filled the air with power.
Broken up with bloody coughs she spoke “Prince Narcissus, the mad prince, my love, I curse you. I curse you, a man willing to be blind, to never see. You will no longer gaze upon the reflection you love so. You will spend the rest of your days blind, cursed to search for the reflection you made your lover. This is the last command of I, Helena Abaddon, the Last Witch of the East.”
Her eyes, now glowing with power, slowly dimmed. Helena spent her last minutes pitying Prince Narcissus and the past her who fell in love with such a broken man. Her last thought was for a next life where they would never meet.
Prince Narcissus watched the witch’s body slump on his sword. He almost scoffed at her pitiful curse. It was definitely in line with what a villain would do. They always have to make one last haughty statement before they die in obscurity. He laughed at Helena’s corpse and pulled out his sword with a squelch. It was now time for the protagonist to save his lover! Who, by his knowledge, was waiting for a kiss in his bedroom mirror. Prince Narcissus ran the way back, avoiding the puddles of blood and corpses lining the way.
Out of breath, Prince Narcissus stared at his reflection. Who now looked like a beautiful sleeping princess in his eyes. His eyes blurred with tears. Prince Narcissus went to wipe them but only came away with streaks of blood. He was not crying. So, why was his vision blurring? Prince Narcissus thought the tunnel vision he saw his princess with was also strange. Why was everything fading? It couldn’t be Helena. He had killed her minutes ago. He avenged his lover and all that was needed was a kiss. So, why? Why was his happy ending fading in front of his eyes? Where was it?! Prince Narcissus started to panic. The prince’s body tilted away from the mirror and his bloody hands pawed at his face.
“No, no, no” Prince Narcissus gasped. “The protagonist is always happy in the end! The heroes win and the villains lose! SO? WHY?”

Why couldn’t he see?

Chapter 1: And It Was Yellow

From my great-grandfather to my grandfather to my father, my family has a history of fighting crime as a superhero named Yellow Raccoon. I was the next person in the bloodline to take on the mantle. My name is Andrew Midas Fairon. I, alongside my little brother James, was raised in Grease City, New Jersey.
It was Friday. It was May of 2021. It was also my senior year of high school. I was walking home from the bus stop with James.
“I am excited for Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings,” I said.
“I’m mainly excited for Loki,” James replied.
“Personally, although I enjoyed Thor: Ragnarok, I didn’t like how Hela was Odin’s daughter. I was expecting her to be Loki’s secret daughter who is destined to bring the end of Asgard.”
“Well, the MCU is its own universe.”
“I understand that, but I really enjoy it when they follow some of the comics.”
James and I arrived at our house. As we walked in, we saw Dad and his friend Lucas Aznavour. Lucas went by ‘White Archer’. He was in his hero outfit, looking like a basic cosplayer. Dad was also in his hero outfit. It was a yellow tactical jacket, an old gray biker helmet with goggles, and a gray face mask to cover his whole face.
“Hey, boys,” Dad said.
“So, one of them is the next Yellow Raccoon?” Lucas questioned.
“Yup,” I answered. “It’s me.”
I then went upstairs. James went to the garage. He was a tech-wizard and would sometimes create gadgets for Dad.

I walked into my room. In my room were two posters of Spider-Man and the band Genesis, a shelf of books, and a messy bed. On my desk were a computer and an Xbox. I would occasionally hook my Xbox up to my computer.
“What a day,” I said as I layed on my bed.
My phone received a text. It was from Jolene. We have been friends since freshman year of high school.

Hey, man, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out at my place.

I then replied back with a text.

Sure. What time do you want me to arrive?

Jolene then replied back.

6:25.

“Boys, pizza!” Mom yelled.
I then got up from my bed and walked out of my room. James, Mom, Dad, and Lucas were sitting on the kitchen table. I sat at the table.
“Dude, Metal Head was one tough villain to fight,” Lucas told Dad.
“Glad I had my gadgets,” Dad said. “Thanks, James.”
“How is your school project in the garage so far?” Lucas asked James.
“It’s going good,” James replied. “The thrusters are now going fifteen miles per hour.”
“Dad, Mom, I was wondering if I could go to Jolene’s house,” I said.
“Sure,” Mom replied. “Just be home by nine.”
“Okay,” I then said.

It was now 6:10. I left the house and started walking to Jolene’s house. It was a nine minute walk. Three thugs walked in front of me.
“Hey there, pal,” the first thug said.
“Give us whatever you have, punk,” the second thug said.
The third thug grabbed my shirt. I smacked his hand off of my shirt.
“Get off me, man,” I shouted.
The second thug punched me in the face. I fell on the ground.
“Hey, you three,” a voice yelled.
It was Dad in his hero outfit. Dad punched the second thug in the face and grabbed the first and third thugs by their jackets.
“Hey, man, why are you hurting us?” the third thug asked. “We were just talking to this kid.”
Dad threw the two thugs on the side of the road. The three thugs then ran off.
“This ain’t over, pal!” the second thug yelled out.
“I had them,” I said.
“It didn’t look like it,” Dad replied. “I’ll escort you to Jolene’s.”
Dad and I walked down the sidewalk.
“Andrew, if you want to take on the mantle, you show me that you’re ready.”
“I understand that, and I’m trying to fight back, but sometimes it could go too far.”
We then arrived at Jolene’s house.
“Alright, see you when you get home,” Dad said.
I walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. Mrs. Stevens opened the door.
“Ah, Andrew,” she said.
“Hey, Mrs. Stevens.”
I walked inside. Jolene walked downstairs. Jolene looked like an anime character with her purple-dyed hair.
“Hey, Andrew,” Jolene said. “It’s 6:20. I told you to arrive at 6:25.”
“I like arriving early,” I replied. “Want to play on the Nintendo Switch?”
Jolene and I went upstairs and walked in her room. In her room were a poster of Prince’s Purple Rain, a large television, a Nintendo Switch, and an Xbox. Jolene handed a blue Nintendo Switch controller to me as she had the red controller.
“What game do you want to play?” she asked.
“Mario Kart 8,” I answered.
“So, what are you planning to do after high school?”
“I was just hoping to enter college through something relating to journalism and photography. I’m always busy at the newspaper club every Tuesday.”
“Are you going to John Hall University?”
“Yeah.”
My phone then went off. I received a text from Dad.

Hey, I was hoping that we could have a father-son bonding day and walk around Downtown Grease City. We rarely hang out that much.

“It’s my old man,” I told Jolene. “He wants me to hang out with him tomorrow.”
“Do so, then,” Jolene said. “Now let’s play Mario Kart 8.”

Chapter 2: A Father-Son Night Gone Wrong

It was Saturday. I woke up at 7:10 AM. I walked downstairs to the kitchen. I poured a cereal box of Lucky Charms and then milk into a bowl. I hate people who put milk and then cereal in a bowl. They are evil.
“Hey, Andrew.” Dad walked in the kitchen. “We’ll go to Downtown Grease City at 6:20 PM.”
“Okay,” I replied.
“Go wake up your brother,” Dad demanded.
I went upstairs and walked into James’ room. In his room were two posters of David Bowie and Daredevil, a computer, and an Xbox.
“Hey, man, Dad is making breakfast,” I told him.
“I’ll be down there in a bit,” he responded.
I went back downstairs and sat back down at the kitchen table. I continued eating cereal.
“James is on his way,” I told Dad.

It was now 6:00 PM. I was wearing my Daredevil shirt. Dad was wearing his Punisher shirt.
“You always want to arrive early,” he said to me. “Bye, honey.”
Dad and I walked out of the house and into his black Pontiac Firebird. I got in the passenger seat as he got in the driver seat.
“Let’s talk, son,” Dad said as we drove away from our house. “To become the next Yellow Raccoon, you need to…prove your independence. Show me that you are ready to take on the mantle.”
“I understand, but I’m trying,” I told him.
“You got your ass kicked, and I had to save you, which I’m glad I did. I’m basically Mr. Miyagi from Karate Kid.”

As Dad and I drove into Downtown Grease City, I looked out the car window. Downtown Grease City was my favorite place to go to. Other than Terry’s, there were Grease City Mall, Marshall’s Comic Books, Ditko’s Apartments, Tobias’ Corner, the Maria Market, and the Marvin Marriott. I usually go to the Marvin Marriott for nerdy conventions.
“Let’s go to Terry’s,” I said.
“Sure,” Dad responded. “I can also go for a burger.”
Dad parked in the Grease City parking lot. Terry’s was two blocks away from where we parked. We got out of the car and walked.
“Terry’s isn’t that far,” Dad said.
“Help!” a voice called out.
Dad and I looked down an alleyway. A masked man held a pistol at a woman. The man also had a lion tattoo on his left wrist and blue eyes.
“Give me your purse!” the robber yelled.
“Stand back, Andrew.” Dad ran towards the robber. “Hey, dude!”
He grabbed the robber’s left wrist and pushed it down. A gunshot fired. Dad fell on the ground.
“Dad!” I yelled.
The robber ran off. I ran to Dad. His right leg had a bullet wound.
“Ma’am, call an ambulance!” I yelled. “Damn it! Dad, look at me. You are not going to die.”
The woman pulled out her phone and dialed 911. “Yeah, 911? I am near Terry’s in an alleyway, and a boy and his dad are with me. The dad has been shot. Please be here as fast as you can.”
“Andrew,” Dad muttered.
“Dad, I’m sorry. I should have helped. I could have helped…”

It was a six minute drive to Grease City’s Emergency Room by ambulance. I was sitting outside of room 211. I felt scared and frustrated. Two police officers walked up to me.
“I’m sorry, son,” the first police officer said.
The second police officer asked, “Do you know who shot him?”
“The man had blue eyes and a lion tattoo on his left wrist,” I answered.
“Sounds like the same guy that has been robbing people in alleyways,” the first police officer said. “We’ve been trying to catch that guy for three weeks.”
“Hope your father gets well, kid,” the second police officer said.
The two police officers walked off.
“Andrew,” a male voice yelled out.
I looked to my right. James, Mom, and Jolene were running towards me.
“James, Mom, Jolene,” I yelled.
Mom hugged me as she cried.
“How did you guys get here?” I then asked.
“Jolene’s dad drove us to the hospital after you called Mom, telling us that Dad was in the emergency room,” James said.
“What happened to your dad?” Jolene asked.
“He was saving a woman that was getting robbed, and was shot by the robber,” I said.
A doctor walked out of the room.
“Your dad is okay,” he said. “We managed to get the bullet out. His right leg is paralyzed, though. He will stay in the room for a couple weeks. Months maybe.”
“I’m glad he is alive,” I calmly replied.
“You guys can see him if you want,” the doctor said.
The doctor then walked off. James, Mom, Jolene, and I walked into the room Dad was in. Dad was laying on a hospital bed.
“How are you doing, Dad?” I asked.
“I’m doing fine, kids,” Dad said. “James, Lisa, Jolene, can you three go out for a bit? I have to talk to Andrew.”
James, Mom, and Jolene walked outside the room.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t help,” I told Dad.
“It’s okay,” Dad said. “You are young, and I don’t want you or James getting hurt.”
“I just thought because you fought in Grease City for twenty two years that you would save that woman.”
“Look, just go home and get some sleep,” Dad demanded. “I’ll be fine. Lucas will protect Grease City.”
I walked out of the room.
“I know what to do,” I told myself. “I’m taking the damn name!”

Chapter 3: From Protege To Hero

It was Monday. I had never forgotten what happened on Saturday. I was sitting alone in the cafeteria during my lunch period. I was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Jolene walked over to my table and sat right next to me.
“Hey, I’m…sorry about your dad,” she quietly told me.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s okay.”
“Hey, Fairon!” a voice yelled out.
I turned around. Scott was walking over to me. He would bully me and was also part of the Daryl Dingos football team. He used to date Jolene, but they broke up around sophomore year of high school.
“Not now,” I whimpered.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.” Scott continued to walk over to me.
“What the hell do you want, damn it?” I stood up right in front of his face.
“I’m sorry, man,” Scott calmly said.
The bell then rang. I grabbed my backpack as Jolene got up from her seat. Jolene and I walked off to fifth period.

School was finally over. James and I were walking home from the bus stop. James was very talkative despite what happened.
“How’s your, uh, driver’s ed?” he asked me.
“It’s going good,” I quietly responded. “I will take my driving test this June.”
“Mom was thinking that I start driver’s ed after this summer.”
“How can you be so…calm even after what happened? Our dad literally was shot this Saturday, and here you are now, acting cool as if nothing happened.”
James and I stopped walking. He looked away from me.
“You’re right,” he muttered quietly. “I’m trying to forget it and acting like Dad just broke his leg.”
James then turned to look at me and started crying. We then continued walking home.
“I’m sorry, man,” I said.

James and I arrived home. Lucas was in our house.
“Hey, kids,” he said.
“Hey, where’s our mom?” I asked Lucas.
“She is still at work. She might arrive after midnight. I just came to check on you two.” Lucas then walked out of our house. “See you two later.”
James then walked upstairs. I opened our downstairs closet. I moved the board games and the random blankets out of the way. Behind them was a yellow button. I pressed it. A small area next to the button opened. In it was Dad’s hero outfit.
“For you, Dad,” I said.

I was now on top of a building called Ditko’s Apartments in Downtown Grease City in the Yellow Raccoon outfit. It was three floors tall.
“Oh, crap, dude,” I said to myself. “Andrew, make Dad proud.”
I pulled out a grappling gun and shot it at the building across the street. The hook hooked on a billboard on Terry’s. I took a deep breath and jumped off the building. I swung over traffic and then crashed into the billboard.
“Made it,” I said to myself.
A gunshot was heard. It was from inside. I jumped off the roof and landed on my feet.
In Terry’s was a masked robber aiming a pistol at the employees.
“Give me the money,” the robber yelled. “That was a warning shot.”
I looked at the man’s left wrist. On it was the lion tattoo. I walked inside and ran towards the man. I punched him. He aimed his pistol at me. I grabbed it and dismantled it.
“You like shooting people’s parents?” I yelled.
“How do you know what happened?” he asked.
“I saw you shoot a man as his son watched!”
“Then, why didn’t you do anything?”
I was now frustrated. I threw him out of Terry’s onto the sidewalk. The police arrived. The officers walked out of their cars. Two of them walked up to the robber.
“Thank you, Y. R.” An officer walked up to me. “We’ve been trying to catch that guy for weeks. I’m Commissioner Eric Jefferson of the Grease City Police Department.”
“Nice to meet you.” I shook his right hand.
“Well, I better get going.” Jefferson then walked off.

I then arrived home. Mom was sitting on the couch.
“Where were you?” she asked in disgust.
“Fighting crime,” I responded calmly.
“I arrived home and noticed you weren’t in the living room, the kitchen, your room, or anywhere in the house.”
“I just want to make Dad proud, but I got the man that shot him!”
I took off the helmet, goggles, and face mask.
“Andrew, I understand what you’re going through, but you need to let Lucas do the job while your dad is in recovery.”
A knock was received at the door.
“Go upstairs, change, and go to bed,” Mom demanded.
I ran upstairs into my room. I layed on my bed and put the covers over my head.
“Hey, Andrew,” a familiar voice said.
I put the covers off of my head and saw Lucas in front of me.
“Hey, Lucas,” I said.
“I knew about you fighting the robber that shot your old man,” he said. “I went to your house to talk to you. I understand that you want to be like your father, but you need to focus on school and your driver’s ed.”
“I just wanted revenge.”
“Revenge is sometimes not the answer. Back in 2006, when I was your age, I wanted to kill the man that killed my father, so I trained myself to be an archer for two years. I soon found the man. As I aimed my bow at his face, I noticed that the man had a daughter. I couldn’t kill him, so I did the logical thing – I told him to turn himself into the police. He is currently serving his time for four years in prison. His ex-wife took custody of his daughter.”
“The man I went after didn’t have a child.”
“You don’t know that – right when you left, I walked by Terry’s and saw a boy looking for his dad. He told me what he looked like – blue eyes and a lion tattoo. You should get some sleep.”
Lucas then got out of my room as I felt bad.

Chapter 4: Graduation Is Here

May 29th was finally here. It was the day I finally graduated. I was at the Daryl Oates High School graduation ceremony with Jolene. Our parents took a picture of me and Jolene in our high school graduation suits. Mom’s parents were also there, and so were Dad’s parents.
“Mein Gott, you are finally an adult.” Grandma Waltz hugged me. “Sorry about your papa.”
“I’m glad that we flew all the way from Coyote Hill to see my grandson graduate,” Grandpa Fairon said.
“Are you thinking of getting a job?” Jolene asked me.
“I was thinking of working for Taylor Press,” I said. “Mom has been stressed since Dad got shot. I need to help pay the bills.”
“Jolene, over here,” Jolene’s friend called out.
“See you later, Andrew.” Jolene then walked off.
I then walked to James, Mom, her parents, and Dad’s parents. Mom was on the phone.
Grandpa Fairon walked up to me. “I’m proud of the next Yellow Raccoon.”
“Your son doesn’t think that I’m ready,” I told him.
“Okay, we’ll be there,” Mom said before hanging up the phone. “Andrew, we have to head to the hospital.”

James, Mom, her parents, Dad’s parents, and I arrived in Dad’s room in the hospital.
“Hey, kids,” Dad said. “Congrats, Andrew. Uh…all of you…go get something. Andrew, Dad, and I are going to talk.”
“Okay,” Mom said.
James, Mom, Grandma Fairon, and Mom’s parents left the room as Grandpa Fairon and I walked up to Dad.
“I’ve been thinking about what you did the other day,” Dad whispered. “I think you are ready. I am proud of you.”
“Mike has been telling me about what you did after he was injured,” Grandpa Fairon said to me. “Your great-grandfather, Peter Fairon, was your age when he began fighting Nazi spies in Coyote Hill in 1941. He wore his father’s World War One outfit and added goggles to it. He even met President Franklin D. Roosevelt and Commander Eagle in 1942 before fighting in World War Two.”
“Before fighting in the Vietnam War, Dad over here met Richard Nixon in 1970,” Dad revealed. “He also met Ronald Reagan in 1988.”
“You fought alongside Task Force Blue in the Iraq War in 2002,” I said. “Mom and I lived in Munich, Germany.”
“Mike, how are you?” A man with a gritty British accent walked in the room.
The man wore a blue business suit and had a goatee.
“Who are you?” I asked the man.
“Joseph Connery, agent of the Support National Organization. I came here to visit your father. I led Task Force Blue.”
“S.N.O., the anti-terrorist organization?” I questioned. “Grandpa told me about you guys. The organization was formed during the formation of NATO in 1949.”
“Connery, I’m talking to my father and my son, dude,” Dad said. “Get out of the room. This is private.”
“Let me know when y’all are done,” Connery told me as he walked out.
“Now, Andrew, you have proven that you are ready,” Dad said. “A hero may not get what he deserves, even after stopping a serious problem. People like you don’t ask for much. No reward. No reputation. You keep fighting for those who need help. You guys should catch up with the others.”
Dad’s speech moved and motivated me. Grandpa Fairon and I got up and walked outside of the room. Connery was waiting outside the room.
“You can go talk to him,” I told him.
Connery then walked in the room as Grandpa Fairon and I walked off.

Chapter 5: Job Hunting Is Easy For A Fairon

June 4th was here. I was walking around Grease City with James and looking for a job. I was carrying around my resume.
“My birthday is in two days,” James said.
“Can’t wait,” I happily commented. “You’ll be sixteen.”
“There are a couple of jobs you can work at. Terry’s. Marshall’s Comic Books. Lil Julius.”
James and I stopped at a newspaper stand. The guy at the stand gave a newspaper to me. I then gave a dollar to him. An ad from Taylor Press in the newspaper caught my attention.

HELP WANTED. WE ARE LOOKING FOR MORE PEOPLE THAT ARE GOOD FOR PHOTOGRAPHY AT TAYLOR PRESS.

“I think I already found a job,” I told James.
“Really?” James questioned. “What?”
“Taylor Press – they are looking for photographers.”

James and I walked into the Taylor Press building. I walked in front of the woman at the front desk.
“Uh, hi, I’m here for a job,” I said to her.
“Sit down,” she said. “Tim will be with you in a moment. Name please?”
“Andrew Fairon.”
James and I sat near the front desk.
“Why are they needing photographers?” James asked.
“Maybe because they are running low,” I answered.
“Andrew Fairon?” the woman at the front desk yelled.
“Wish me luck,” I told James.
“Fifth floor, room 504,” the woman said.
I went to the elevator and pressed the button to the fifth floor. I arrived at Timmy Taylor’s office.
“Uh, Timmy Taylor?” I questioned.
“Yes,” he answered.
“I’m here for a job,” I said.
I gave my resume to Taylor. He began reading it.

Name
ANDREW MIDAS FAIRON

Profile
I WAS BORN ON NOVEMBER 2ND, 2002, IN GREASE CITY. I WAS IN THE NEWSPAPER CLUB AT DARYL OATES HIGH SCHOOL FOR TWO YEARS. I TOOK PICTURES FOR ITS NEWSPAPERS WHILE ALSO WORKING ON MY JOURNALISM.

Address
154 BLUE OYSTER STREET, GREASE CITY, NEW JERSEY, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Taylor looked at me and then at the resume.
“You’re hired,” he said. “You do the photography while one does the journalism.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“You start this Tuesday,” he then added.
I walked out of his office. A woman then walked up to me.
“You are now the new guy,” she said.
“Uh, yeah,” I replied.
“I’m Laura Calvo. Welcome to Taylor Press.”
“Andrew Fairon.”
“You’re the kid whose father was shot?”
“Uh, yeah, want to hang out sometime? I was hoping to make new friends.”
“Sure. What’s your phone number?” Laura pulled out her phone.
“It’s 272 313-6099,” I revealed.
“Okay, got it. See you later.” Laura then walked off.

Chapter 6: First Bad Guy

June 8th arrived. The Grease City Festival was here, celebrating two hundred and thirty-one years after the city’s founding. Dad was with me, James, Jolene, Laura, and Mom. He had crutches to help walk. We all walked around Downtown Grease City.
“Glad you are out of the hospital, Dad,” James said.
“My leg should finish healing in a week,” Dad replied.
“I’m going to get a cheeseburger.” I walked to Terry’s.
A loud laugh was heard. I stopped walking and looked up into the sky. A man in a mechanical suit wearing a mask resembling a phoenix with huge mechanical wings flew by. The phoenix mask wearing man threw a gray ball near Terry’s. The ball began beeping.
“It’s a bomb,” I yelled.
The gray ball left a big explosion. Everyone in the Grease City Festival panicked and either ran away or hid.
“Grease City!” the phoenix mask wearing man yelled. “Where is Yellow Raccoon?”
I ran into an alleyway and quickly changed into my Yellow Raccoon outfit. I soon ran out in the middle of Downtown Grease City.
“Hey, man,” I shouted at the phoenix mask wearing villain. “Who are you? Evil Icarus?”
“The name is Gray Phoenix,” he said, “and you will die.”
Gray Phoenix landed on the ground.
“Okay, let’s go.” I swung the first punch.
Gray Phoenix dodged and punched me back into a window at Terry’s.
“A hell of a punch,” I commented as I got back up.
Gray Phoenix walked up to me and then swung his fist at me. I dodged and uppercutted his face, pushing him back. Gray Phoenix charged at me. I grabbed him and threw him onto the sidewalk. He turned towards me. Blood began dropping out of his mask.
“You win.” Gray Phoenix threw his bomb on the ground. “We’ll meet again!”
Smoke came out of the bomb. Gray Phoenix’s laugh was heard. As the smoke cleared, Gray Phoenix was gone. Jefferson walked up to me.
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
“He calls himself ‘Gray Phoenix’, and has mechanical wings,” I said. “Looks like we have a threat to Grease City.”
I shot my grapple gun at the top of Ditko’s Apartments. The hook catched onto the building. I flew off as I held the grapple gun. I grabbed and pushed myself onto the building.
“Fought your first villain,” a familiar voice said.
I turned around and saw Lucas in his hero outfit.
“White Archer,” I said.
“I saw how you fought,” Lucas said. “I’m impressed. I was about to take care of it.”
“I just wanted to have a normal day. No villains.”
“A hero can’t rest, dude. They fight until crime is no more.”
“I never thought being a hero was hard.”
“Well, I got to head home – you should, too.”
Lucas then jumped off the building. I ran over to the edge of the building and looked over. He was gone.
“What an exit,” I commented.

Three days had passed. Dinner smelled good. I smelled it from downstairs in my room. It was chicken enchiladas, my favorite. Dad was cooking dinner. He learned how to make chicken enchiladas from his mother. Mom then walked into my room.
“Arlington Starling, my client, is coming over for dinner,” she said.
“The head of Starling Industries is coming over?” I replied.
The doorbell then ranged.
“That’s him,” Mom said.
Mom ran downstairs and opened the door. Starling had glasses and brown hair.
“Ah, Mrs. Fairon, hi,” Starling said.
I then walked downstairs.
“Mr. Starling, hello.” I shook his hand.
“Lisa has told me about you and your brother,” Starling said as he then walked in the kitchen. “Hello, Mike.”
“Hey,” Dad said, “congratulations on the court case about your now ex-wife.”
“Thank you,” Starling said.
I then walked into the kitchen.
“I can’t believe the head of Starling Industries is at our house,” I commented.
“You remind me of my son,” Starling replied. “He is your age. Just graduated from Daryl Oates High School.”
Mom, Dad, James, Starling, and I sat at the dining room table with their dinner.
“Have you heard of the Gray Phoenix attacking the Grease City Festival?” Dad asked Starling.
“It is unbelievable and unexpected,” Starling said.
“He almost killed me,” I told him.
“We live in Grease City,” James stated. “Crime happens all the time.”
Everyone then started eating dinner.

Chapter 7: An Interview At Starling Industries

I was driving to Starling Industries near Darin Beach. The building had fifteen floors. I parked in the parking lot and got out of my car. Starling Industries had a lot of scientists from what I saw. I walked inside the building and up to the front desk.
“Hello, I’m here for an interview for Arlington Starling,” I said.
“He’s been waiting for you, Mr. Fairon,” the security guard at the front desk replied. “Floor fifteen.”
I then walked to the elevator and pushed the button to the fifteenth floor.

I arrived at the fifteenth floor. I walked out of the elevator and up to Starling’s desk.
“Andrew, hello,” he said cheerfully.
“Hello, I’m here for the interview,” I said. “I’ll be asking three questions.”
I pulled out my notebook and sat on a chair.
“Okay, ask me your questions,” Starling demanded.
“How did you start this company?”
“I enjoyed technology and science as a kid. I graduated from John Hall University at the age of twenty-two in 1988. When I founded this company in 1989, the U.S. military asked for advanced technology.”
“How did you get to where you are right now?”
“I invested in what I love to do. I was an assistant for many scientists.”
“Last question – what advice do you want to give people that want to be geniuses?”
“Uh…well, whatever you are into, see it as a passion. A gift to be exact.”
I then got up from the chair.
“I think we are done here,” I said. “See you. Have a good day.”
“You too,” Starling replied.
I walked into the elevator and pushed the button to the first floor.

The elevator then stopped at the fourteenth floor. A scientist then walked in and pushed the button to the twelfth floor.
“Are you the reporter?” she asked.
“Yeah, I just finished the interview,” I answered.
The elevator then stopped at the twelfth floor. On this floor were mechanical wings and little jet packs on a desk. The scientist then walked out of the elevator. The elevator doors then closed.
“I think I have a lead,” I muttered.

Chapter 8: Let’s Do This Like James Bond

It was 12:00 AM. I walked on the left side of the building. I picked up a rock and threw it at the security camera. I lockpicked the backdoor and got inside the building. I walked up the stairs to the twelfth floor.
I arrived on the floor six minutes later. A guard was walking by. I ran into a room and hid behind a desk. The guard went to the elevator. The elevator doors then closed. I turned on a flashlight and went through the top left drawer. I found a document and read it.

May 21st, 2021. This log is coming from Dr. Ferdinand. Dr. Starling was ordered by the U.S. military to begin Project Harpy.

May 27th, 2021. Project Harpy is nearing completion. Dr. Starling insisted on injecting the test pilots with an immune serum.

June 2nd, 2021. Dr. Starling insisted on being the first test subject. I injected him with the immune serum. He began having mental breakdowns. His wife Catherine plans on suing him for being abusive to his own son, John. He threatened John to lie at the court case, without the lawyer knowing.

My god, I thought, I need to get these to the public.
I folded the documents into squares and put them in my left jacket pocket. The elevator dinged. I hid behind the desk again. The elevator doors opened. Starling walked by.
“Hello, Gray Phoenix,” he said to his suit. “Let’s cause some destruction.”
I got out from behind the desk and ran towards Starling.
“Don’t!” I yelled.
“How did you get in the building?” Starling asked.
“A raccoon has his ways,” I replied. “Don’t do it. Turn yourself in.”
Starling punched me in the face. I put my hands over my face. Starling quickly put his phoenix mask and jetpack with wings on. He jumped out of the window and activated his jetpack, flying into downtown.
“I’ll take the stairs,” I said.

Chapter 9: It’s The Final Showdown

I arrived in Downtown Grease City. I was relieved not to see Starling anywhere yet.
“Yellow R.” A woman ran up to me. “Have you seen my baby? His name is Cain.”
A laugh was heard. I looked up. Starling was on top of Taylor Press. He was holding a baby.
“Yellow Raccoon!” he yelled out loud.
I pulled out my grapple gun and shot it. The hook catched the top of the building. I grabbed the edge and pulled myself up.
“Gary Phoenix, don’t do this,” I demanded.
“Catch the baby.” Starling threw the baby off the building.
I jumped and dived to the baby. I grabbed the baby and shot the grapple gun at the building. The hook catched the top of the building again. The baby and I were three floors away from the ground.
“The grapple is slowly taking us down,” I said.
“Time to die,” Starling yelled.
Starling started flying right towards me. A crowbar was thrown at him. He missed and flew past me. Everyone in Downtown Grease City started throwing stuff at Starling.
“Hey, leave him alone,” a man yelled. “He’s trying to save a baby!”
“You mess with Yellow Raccoon, you mess with Grease City!” a woman yelled.
Someone threw a rock in Starling’s jetpack. The jetpack malfunctioned. Starling crash-landed on the ground. I safely landed on the ground. The woman ran up to me. I handed the woman’s baby to her.
“Oh, my God, Cain,” the woman cried. “Thank you, Yellow Raccoon.”
The baby was in perfect condition.
“Yellow Raccoon, you’re dead,” Starling shouted.
He got back up. He and I walked towards each other.
“People will fear people like us, people who want respect and rewards,” he then said.
“That reminds me of something someone told me,” I said. “A hero may not get what he deserves, even after stopping a serious problem, but heroes like me don’t ask for much. No reward. No reputation. You keep fighting for those who need help.”
Starling then swung at me. I dodged and punched him in the stomach and then the face. Starling then punched me in the face. He swung at me for the third time. I grabbed his arm and punched him again. Starling fell onto the ground. Police officers ran towards Starling. They took off his mask. Everyone was shocked to see him revealed as Gray Phoenix.
“Yellow Raccoon.” Jefferson walked up to me. “How can a popular guy become a villain?”
I handed the documents to Jefferson. “These will answer your problems.”
I then walked off as Starling was put in a police car.

Chapter 10: Time To Have My Independence

I was moving out. It had been a month since I fought Starling. James and I were putting some boxes of my stuff in my car.
“Can’t believe you’re moving out,” James said.
“Yeah, I know,” I replied. “I’m moving to Ditko’s Apartments. Rent is cheap there.”
“I also can’t believe Arlington Starling was Gray Phoenix.”
“Yeah, the S.N.O. put him in an advanced prison called Svartalfheim Prison in Scotland.”
I then got in my car and drove off. I looked at my left rear view mirror. James was crying. I stopped at a red light and pulled out my phone. I called James. He then answered.
“I saw you crying,” I said.
“I wasn’t,” James said on the phone. “Something was in my eyes.”
“Sure. Tell you what…you can ride your new bike to my place anytime you want. You can even stay if you want to hang out with your brother.”
“Okay.” James started sobbing. “You’re the best damn brother in the world.”
I then started crying. “You are as well. You’re making me cry. You have helped me out through everything I’ve been through.”
“Take care, man.”
James then hung up as I entered Downtown Grease City.

I arrived at Ditko’s Apartments. I walked up to the front desk.
“I’m here for my new apartment,” I told the manager. “Name is Andrew Fairon.”
“Follow me, lad,” the manager said as he got up.
I followed the manager. We walked up the stairs to the third floor. We arrived at room 3B.
“This is your room.” The manager gave a key to me. “Pay your rent once a month.”
“Okay,” I said as I entered my apartment. “Well, time to unpack my stuff.”
It took me twenty minutes to take all the boxes out of the car and to my apartment. Gunshots and screams were heard outside. I quickly changed into my hero outfit. I went outside through the window. I shot my grapple gun at a building and swung into the chaos as the one and only Yellow Raccoon.

Chapter 11: Is This Like A Post-Credit Scene?

December was here. It was a snowy day in Grease City. I was now nineteen. I was with James Jolene in my apartment. She wanted me and James to check her blood sample. James looked at her blood sample through the microscope.
“So, what’s wrong with me?” Jolene asked worryingly.
“There are orange spots,” James answered as he looked at Jolene.
“How long have you been feeling…weird?” I asked.
“After James’ sixteenth birthday party at Tobias’ Corner,” she answered. “My parents told me that we’ve inherited it since World War Two.”
I accidently knocked an empty soda can off the table. I then blinked. Jolene was now holding the empty can in her hand.
“How did you get that so fast?” I asked.
“I…went fast,” Jolene just said.
“Andrew Fairon,” a voice called out.
A superhero-dressed man walked into my apartment through my window. The man’s helmet resembled that of an eagle.
“I need to get a lock for that window,” I commented.
“I’m Jack Shuster, also known as Independent Eagle,” the man said.
I was shocked to see Jack in my apartment. Dad told me about him. His great-grandfather fought in World War Two as the original Commander Eagle.
“What are you doing here from Arlington Bay, New York?” Jolene asked.
“I need the Yellow Raccoon’s help,” Jack revealed.
“Why me?” I asked.
“There’s a threat on our way,” he replied.
“Wait, you’re Yellow Raccoon?” Jolene excitedly questioned me.
“Yes,” James and I replied.