February 22, 2011

CHANGES, Part Three

Posted by jtminor under Fatherhood, News
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Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don’t want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can’t trace time

In December of 2009, I wrote, “Changes, part one.” It was about how I met my wife through eHarmony and my reaction to their questionnaire’s questions about children. I didn’t want children but I fudged the truth a bit to leave the possibility open. It was only a small fudge because part of me did want children but I hoped to be a better person before allowing that to happen.

In March of 2010, I wrote, “Changes, part two.” This one was about my relationship with my father. I meant for it to explain why I felt inadequate to be a parent. Admittedly, this turned into a long, deeply personal, self-serving, rant that revealed many unresolved issues I had with my father. Even though this one did veer away from the point, it was very therapeutic and I don’t regret writing it. I also believe it still made its point; I was afraid of becoming my father and doing to a child what was done to me.

Rebecca's picture from eHarmony

I ended “Changes, part two” with the first moment my wife-to-be seriously asked the question about having children. She wanted to try. Did I? The words caught in my throat. I knew I should say no. That would be the responsible and sensible thing to do but a part of me wanted to say yes too. I was also planning to propose and was afraid of screwing it up. So I said we could think about it. Rebecca accepted this but I could tell she was disappointed. Despite my fear, I did ask the question, what if I didn’t want children? Would she look for someone else? She said no, she loved me and if we didn’t have a child then that’s the way it was meant to be. I was touched but I didn’t quite believe her. Not because I had any reason to doubt her but because I have always had a hard time believing this stunningly beautiful woman would choose me in the first place.

Rebecca has Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) and always assumed she would be unable to get pregnant. For most of her life, she had put the though out of her mind. Then, about two years before we met, Rebecca did get pregnant with her previous companion. It was a total shock to her. She miscarried the baby at 8 weeks but the experience made a profound changed her thoughts about children. She wanted to be a mom.

Wearing the ring

On August 21st of 2007, I proposed to Rebecca. I bought a nice ring and took her to the Hotel St. Germain in Dallas under the guise of celebrating her birthday. The waiter brought the ring to the table in an elaborate display. I asked if she would share her life with me without fumbling my words. My timing and delivery were perfect – if I do say so myself. Don’t ask me what I said, that’s all a blur. I just remember the look in her eyes when she realized what I was asking. And I remember her saying “yes.” It was one of the happiest days of my life. We set out planning the wedding. Then, a couple of months before, Rebecca brought up children again. She wanted to start trying after our honeymoon. I had convinced myself that we were still in the “thinking about trying or not trying” stage but she had jumped ahead of me. I was conflicted, I liked the idea of fatherhood but I still thought it was irresponsible to allow my father’s offspring to continue the line. Then I thought, I’m not my father and our child wouldn’t be me. I realized that I couldn’t honestly answer the question of what kind of father I would be and it wasn’t fair to just assume the worst. However, it was also not fair to take that kind of chance with a child’s life. My mind went back and forth with this and ultimately I decided to let the Fates decide, as they always have. I’m not an overly Religious person but I do have a sense that things will work out as they must. I can do my part but ultimately I have to adapt to the curves in my life. The image of the mythological Fates, the three sisters of the Weird, the Maiden, Mother, and Crone deciding our lives with a ball of yarn and scissors, seems as appropriate representation of my beliefs as any. I agreed we’d try for children and I left the decision of my fatherhood in those three lovely lady’s hands.

Wedding day

Rebecca and I were married on August 21st 2008. It was a beautiful ceremony in the botanical gardens of Zilker Park in Austin. In late January of 2009, we went on our honeymoon to Switzerland, Venice (for Carnevale), Amsterdam, and Paris. It was a fantastic time. About a month after we came home, we started talking to a fertility doctor.

Because of Rebecca’s PCOS, we knew we would need help getting pregnant. The doctor put her on a round of Clomid to induce ovulation. We went through the cycle but nothing happened. Rebecca was disappointed but we knew it was just the first step. For myself, I felt very detached from the whole process. I was waiting to see what the fates would decide. During this time, I was also given a semen analysis – not as fun a test as one might think – and it was found that my swimmers were a little slow and not too bright. Probably the product of my age but they weren’t sure. The problem wasn’t bad enough to negate us ever getting pregnant but it did mean we would have to be more aggressive. We were referred to a fertility specialist, named Dr. Shahryar Kavoussi. He suggested a method called IUI. This is a process where the sperm is collected and “washed” to remove the duds and keep only the best swimmers. Then the sperm is injected into the cervix, bypassing a large portion of the gauntlet a sperm has to survive in order to fertilize the egg. I felt this was cheating. Maybe the Fates had already given us our answer. We were not supposed to have children and we were just using technology to force the issue. I didn’t voice this opinion and, ultimately, I think it was just my fear talking. Using Clomid didn’t bother me because, deep down, I knew it would probably never work. I agreed to try IUI but I still didn’t believe we would ever get pregnant.

Prior to trying IUI, Rebecca first had to grow eggs for fertilization. To do this, she took a series of injections that stimulate egg production. Dr. Kavoussi wanted to monitor her closely during this process. If she created too many eggs, then there was a possibility of multiple babies. The goal was a single baby. Twins was acceptable, triplets was pushing it, but any more than that is really considered malpractice. There was also a chance for her to become hyper stimulated and her ovaries and fallopian tubes could twist – very bad.

With the first round of IUI she did become hyper stimulated, not enough to be dangerous but she was in a lot of pain. One night, when the pain was at its worse, she came out of the bathroom and said she hoped this worked because she didn’t know if she could go through another round. Right up until she said that, I had felt totally detached from the process and maybe even a little hopeful it wouldn’t take. I should have been happy with what she said. Instead, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t talk. Did she mean it? Was this it? If she quit now, we would never have a child. And, to my total amazement, I didn’t want that. Tears welled in my eyes and I asked her if she was serious. She said partially, but admitted it was probably just the pain talking. I was relieved.

What happened to me? In one moment, my whole outlook seemed to change. I wanted to be a father. Can change happen that fast? Maybe, but I think it was an evolution I was too dumb to see. A gradual change that only became evident when there was the possibility of not having children.

It was around this time I first had the idea to write about our attempts to get pregnant. I thought it would help me understand this change and I liked the idea of our child (if we had one) reading about how his parents became parents. Unfortunately, I am a procrastinator and this didn’t get started.

We finished out that first round of IUI and nothing happened. We tried a second one. This time Dr. Kavoussi tried a more conservative approach so Rebecca wouldn’t feel as much pain and something happened. The pregnancy stick came back with the faintest of lines visible. It looked like we were pregnant. We were thrilled. I’m usually a somber fellow but I actually felt a little giddy. It turned out to be a false positive. Rebecca was very upset and so was I. Again, I was struck by how much it bothered me. That feeling of changed was there again only stronger.

I finally wrote the first installment of “Changes.” It was really just an introduction, a quick piece about who I was before I met Rebecca.

Believing we were pregnant only to find out it didn’t work, left us both disheartened. We looked into IVF – where they remove the egg, fertilize it, and then place it back, in hopes it will attach to the wall of the uterus. We were lucky, in that our insurance would cover IVF but we were unlucky because the clinic Kavoussi used did not accepted insurance. It’s a very expensive procedure and we couldn’t afford to pay for it ourselves. We would have to find a new fertility doctor and a different clinic. We really liked Dr. Kavoussi and didn’t want to change so we decided to try one more round of IUI.

With the third round, it seemed like something tried to happen again. Rebecca experienced some symptoms of pregnancy. We were cautious this time, tried to manage our excitement. Then one night, Rebecca had some bright red bleeding. We were worried and felt that something had tried to happen and then went wrong again. If so, it could mean the problem wasn’t getting the egg to fertilize but getting it to attach to the uterine wall. In this case, IVF wouldn’t be any more effective than IUI.

I wrote the second installment of “Changes” which, as I said, turned into a rant but was meant to illustrate how my horrible relationship with my father caused me to never want children. I was planning on writing the last installment, this installment, as soon as I was done with the second one. It would talk about our attempts to have a child and the odd change that occurred in me. As you can tell by the year hiatus between part two and this one, life got in the way.

In February of 2010 I became very ill and almost died. (You can read about it in “Hey Lazarus Man.”) I was hospitalized with Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome (ARDS) for three weeks. I was in the ICU for a week, placed on a ventilator, and treated with extremely high doses of steroids – the only treatment for ARDS. I survived but spent the next three months recovering from the effects. Once I was back on my feet, our doctors told us the steroids could have affected my sperm count and jeopardize our ability to have a child. Sure enough, when I was tested, my count was lower but it was still strong enough that something could happen. It would just be harder than ever.

I wanted to keep trying, no mater what. I wanted to be a father.

Whatever change I had been going through, culminated with my illness. Facing your death changes your perspective. I was so appreciative of my family and my friends. I loved my wife so much more than I thought possible and I knew she would be a good mother. I also knew something else. I could be a good father too. I am like my father in so many ways but I am not him. I have met many of the same demons he faced and I have come through to a different place than he did. It was time to live outside the shadow of my childhood.

We decided to go with IVF. But while we were looking into that, we figured it wouldn’t hurt to try one more round of IUI. Neither Rebecca nor I had much hope of it working.

Tomorrow, February 23rd, at 7:30am, a year to the day I was taken off the ventilator at the hospital, Phoenix Griffin Minor will be born. My son. I know he’s my son because he’s stubborn and has refused to turn head down for delivery. He’s breech and my sweet Rebecca will have to have a Cesarean birth. This scares the hell out of me. At the same time, neither of us can wait to see the face of our boy, to hold him for the first time, to hear his first breath, and see his eyes open for the first time. We are prepared. We’ve packed a bag for our stay at the hospital, set up the crib and the car seat. Mostly, we are trying to keep busy but it’s not easy. It’s been a long nine months. We’ve watched our son develop since his first ultrasound at six weeks old when he as just a tiny mustard seed. Even at that early age, the tissue that would become his heart was beating. We’ve been with him through the genetic testing to look for conditions more common in babies of forty year old parents. We’ve waited for each milestone, his 8-week ultrasound, his twentieth ultrasound, and the first time Rebecca could feel him kick. We’ve attended the classes and tried to prepare ourselves as best we can. It’s been a long road but, now that his birth is only hours away, it seems like those nine months evaporated in the blink of an eye. When asked if I’m ready, I’ve always told people “no.” Because, no matter how much we think we are ready, we won’t be and we’ll just have to go with the flow. But now, in the last few longest days of the pregnancy, I have never felt more unprepared. Simply assembling a crib tent to keep the cats away from our baby seems like a massive engineering feat.

Phoenix is coming. It is just hours away.

We have everything in place for his arrival but we are not ready. I know this. I also know this is the right time for him to come into our lives. I needed to find someone as magical as Rebecca. I needed to confront my fears of becoming like my father. I needed the year of fertility treatments and disappointments. And I needed to get sick and almost die. Each link in the chain led to this greater moment of becoming a father. Each landmark of my life, joyous or tragic, facilitated the change in me. The Fates know what they are doing and I thank them. I also know the “change” isn’t over. In fact, I think it’s only just begun.

Dedicated to Phoenix Griffin Minor.I love you son.

–Jason

 

February 21, 2011

New Orleans Comic Con Wrap Up

Posted by jtminor under Comics, News, Star Wars: TOR
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It’s been a very busy month and it’s only going to get more stressful I fear, but I’ll talk more about that in another post. For now, I thought I’d follow up on our trip to the New Orleans Comic Con.

I haven’t been to a comic convention in about fifteen years and haven’t drawn a comic book for eleven of those years. So when Wizard’s World invited me to the New Orleans convention, my first thought was, “why?” However, I love New Orleans and wanted to go back so it was a perfect opportunity. The question was; what was I going to do for two days at a comic book show? I figured the only chance for those days to not be a total waste was if I did everything I could to let people know who I am and what I’ve done.

I’ve always been a horrible self-promoter. A perfect example is the first convention I “worked” as a professional, which, coincidently enough was when I lived in New Orleans. It was a small one in Baton Rouge and I drove in with a friend of mine. I found my table, unzipped my portfolio, and haphazardly laid out the pages I wanted to sell. It looked very unprofessional and, oddly, enough, no one came over to talk to me. In fact, they seemed to give my table a wide berth. My friend couldn’t take it and rearrange my table in a professional manner. He neatly laid out the pages for sale, organized by title. He placed my portfolio in the center and fished out a few copies of my published books and splayed them out in a semicircle. Amazingly, people started coming over. It was a lesson for me about presentation but it was also a lesson in not being embarrassed to put myself out there.

In recent years, with the explosion of social media, I’ve been experimenting with self-promotion. And I am still fighting embarrassment. It’s hard because part of me thinks it’s all self-serving, pretentious crap and the work should speak for itself. But the truth is, artists who hope to make a living off their work must be able to sell themselves, to convince editors, publishers, producers, and the public that they are worthy of interest. Your work can’t speak for itself if no one is listening. There are so many talented people out there, you have to be a little self-serving and pretentious to be seen. You do have to keep it balanced, however, or you’ll become all show and no substance. In other words, an asshole. Luckily, I’m surrounded by artists better than me so it keeps me somewhat grounded.

Working on a Turtle's sketch

For the New Orleans Con, I printed up two large posters. One was a collage of the different comics I’d done in the past so that people could easily see my published books. The second one was for Star Wars: The Old Republic, my current project. Our lead concept artist, Arnie Jorgensen – one of the “better artists” who keeps my ego in check – painted the SWTOR poster. I printed out screenshots from our game to display, brought some of my best original comic work to show and sell, and sold comp issues of books I’d worked on. I Tweeted, Facebooked, and Blogged as much as I could stand. I did whatever I could think of to let people know I was there. In the past, I’ve spent whole conventions staring at the wall – trust me, it sucks. If all this got a few people to show up, then it was worth it, if I made a little money to pay for the trip then so much the better.

My wife and I drove to New Orleans the night before the convention. The next morning we lugged a hundred pounds of comics and artwork to the convention center, over broken and craggy New Orleans streets – not fun. By the time we found the entrance, got our passes, and set up our table, I was dying. I barely had enough time to cool down before people started showing up.

Batman Sketch

Day one of the convention went surprisingly well. I had a steady flow of people, enough to make a bathroom break difficult. I sold a lot of comics and met a lot of people excited for Star Wars: The Old Republic. I did a couple of sketches and sold some of my original art. Towards the end of the day, as people were clearing out, Aaron Douglas (Chief Tyrol from “Battlestar Galactica”) came by my table. My wife and I both are big fans of “Battlestar Galactica” so it was a trip to meet “The Chief.” He was a cool guy and we chatted for a bit. Then he bought a copy of “Flashes of Fear” (the Halloween anthology I helped put together). Apparently, Aaron Douglas is also a fan of Star Wars: The Old Republic because he was wearing a SWTOR tee-shirt. Keisha Tillis from “The Walking Dead” also stopped by. She was sweet and “The Waking Dead” is another of my favorite shows – great comic too.

Day two was a little slower. I sold some more original pages, sketches, and comics. I met some really cool people. One nice surprise was how many became nostalgic when they saw the books I’d worked on. Like the woman who was there with her two kids but stopped when she saw “The Books of Magic” comics at my table. She had really loved that series and got a little sentimental when she saw them again. Her kids had never heard of “The Books of Magic” and were more interested in the “Spiderman vs. Punisher” book I did. Another girl actually got a little teary eyed when she saw that I had worked on “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” Apparently, the book meant a lot to her. Very few of these people knew who I was. I was just some anonymous artist to them. It was the stories and the art that had moved them. And I liked that. It made me proud to have been a small part of something that had such an impact on people.

By the end of the day, I got a chance to walk around, talk to a few people, and compare notes with other artist. I met Bill Sienkiewicz for the first time. He’s one of my favorite artists and a huge influence on me. I bought a sketch from him and talked shop for a bit. Just that short conversation with him was a huge motivation for me.

Overall, the convention was way more successful than I could have hoped and I had a good time. I didn’t make enough money to cover the whole trip but I did make enough to cover the cost of the Sienkiewicz sketch and pay for our meals in New Orleans, both of which were not cheep.

Jackson's Square

We spent our last day in New Orleans wandering around the French Quarter. We had beignets at Café Du Monde for breakfast and walked through Jackson Square. We checked out the apartment where I used to live on Conti Street and tried to find some of my old haunts. Unfortunately, almost all of them were gone. We tried to go to La Madeleine – one of the mainstays of the Quarter – for lunch. It was gone too. There was a new restaurant in its place so we ate there. The waiter told us that La Madeleine had closed up shop after Katrina, as had many of the restaurants in the Quarter, but new places were opening up. We walked around a bit more, checked out Bourbon Street and a few of the touristy places. For a break, we rode the streetcar to the Garden District and back. We stumbled upon a film crew shooting an episode of “Treme” and unknowingly walked through the set, past actor David Morse. We nearly wreaked their shot and got a few nasty looks.

Outside my old apartment on Conti Street.

That night we’d planned to go to the House of Blues for dinner but got pulled, almost against our will, into a tiny Italian place called Frank’s. This place was great. Frank himself took care of us. He was no joke – serious Italian and serious food. He told us that people were talking to him about a doing a reality show, so be on the look out. Oddly enough, there were also a couple of comic book collectors there. My wife and I spent the whole time eavesdropping on their conversation. I’ve met many collectors in my day but never any like these. They talked about dropping 200 grand for original art like it was nothing, and causally mentioned owning Fantastic Four number one. It was almost surreal, like Mallrats meets the Sopranos.

We called it a night and headed home the next day. It was a good time and it was nice to see New Orleans hosting such a large comic con. It was the first time a convention that size had been held in the city and the people were very happy to be there. I think it made the whole event seem a little more significant. Many of the people who came by my table were natives, they had lived through Katrina and put it behind them but it hung in the air. You could feel it. The storm did not kill New Orleans but the city is still recovering and figuring out what it will be in the future. It’s quieter than I remembered, different in a way that’s hard to describe. It just wasn’t the place where I used to live, more like that place’s twin brother

–Jason

 

February 18, 2011

Chapter Play: Chapter VIII

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The “Gabriel Writer” has printed the 8th installment of “Chapter Play.” You can catch up on the whole story here: Chapter Play

I hope you enjoy it

–Jason

Chapter VIII: In which the hero awakes to gunfire.

Moonlight gleaned from the tip of the dwarf’s 38 special. He bit down on his cigar and glared with his good eye. “She’s dead, Carl, and you’re next!” The gun’s blast lit up the dark office like a strobe light and Carl felt a bullet narrowly miss his cheek.

“Your daughter was dead when I got there, Lewis. Nothing I could do!” Carl inched closer to his desk where he kept a Walther PPK pistol.

“I don’t have a daughter, you idiot. It’s my fiancée who’s dead. You didn’t find her in time, just like you won’t find your daughter either!” The one-eyed dwarf fired again, the kickback almost toppled him. A lamp next to Carl blew apart. “And I’m not a dwarf for Christ sake! That’s only in your stupid book!” The dwarf grew taller; his legs straight, his fingers thinned out, and his forehead receded. He fired the gun twice more as Carl dove behind the desk.

That’s right, it was Lewis’s fiancée who died. This is a tragic love story, not a detective pulp. Carl thought to himself. How could I get that confused?

“It’s not a love story either, you sanctimonious prick! It’s my life!” Lewis screamed. “My beautiful Clair is dead. Your girlfriend, Katarina, will be next. You won’t save her or your daughter!” Lewis fired again and again. “Wake up, Carl. You can’t save anyone!” He blasted out the front window. “Wake up!” he fired again.

“Wake up!”

“Wake up!” Margo screams over the gunfire and breaking glass. “Damn it, Carl get up, we have to get out of here!”

Carl McGavin’s vision swims. The sound of Margo’s cries echo down a long tunnel in the center of his brain. Vincent yells for Margo to take cover as two more loud bangs pound into his skull. Vincent must be shooting but at whom?

The room is in shambles, the front window shattered, and bullet holes riddle the walls. Margo pulls him behind the bed. “Get down!” she yells as another volley blasts through the front door. Vincent, crouched next to the door, is covered in splinters. He springs up and blindly fires two shots out the window before taking cover again.

“What’s going on?” Carl tries to shake the hangover away.

“We were coming to wake you when they pulled up and just started shooting. Vince busted in your door and we barely made it inside. We didn’t even get a good look at them.” There is panic in Margo’s eyes. The gunfire starts again and she ducks her head screaming.

Carl scans the room. The table where he’d been drinking the night before was knocked over and his gun was on the far side of the room. He lunges for it, keeping low to duck the bullets flying over his head. He grabs the gun and checks the clip. Six rounds left, only the bullet he used to kill Matt Richards is missing. The shooting stops for a moment and Carl crawls over to Vincent.

“Where are they?”

“Blue Sonata, on the right, two of them.” Vincent says as he reloads his revolver. “This is the last of my ammo!”

“They’re waiting for us to run dry so they can finish us off.” Carl peeks out the broken window and sights the Blue Sonata.

“What do we do?” Vincent’s voice shakes.

“We charge.” Carl says. Vincent looks at him like he’s mad. “We drive straight at them and make every shot count.” Vincent looks at Margo for a moment. She cringes behind the bed in tears. He nods in agreement. Carl shouts to Margo, “Wait until you hear my call. Then grab my backpack and anything else you can carry and come running.”

“What if you don’t call?” Margo’s voice cracks. Carl’s expression is grim but he doesn’t answer.

“You go low, I’ll go high.” Carl says and Vincent nods again. “On three, 1…2…3!” Carl screams a blood-curdling cry, flings the motel door open, and charges out, keeping his body sideways to make a smaller target. He fires once and the windshield of the blue Sonata spider webs. One gunman breaks cover and fires. The bullet just misses Vincent as he dives to the ground, aiming for the second gunman’s feet under the Sonata. He lets off three rounds, striking the second gunman’s shin. Carl fires again and wings the first gunman’s right arm. Despite his wounded shin, the second gunman leaps up shooting. Vincent recognizes him and freezes, it’s officer Charlie Day. Carl pushes Vincent out of the way and fires back; a third shot that narrowly misses officer Day. The first gunman pushes Charlie into the Sonata’s passenger seat before taking the wheel. Their tires squeal in the parking lot and Vincent fires four more rounds into the car as it speeds away.

“That…was…” Vincent tries to say but he is too winded.

“I know.” Carl says. “Margo! Let go, now!” He yells. Margo runs from the motel room with Carl’s backpack stuffed full and the threesome climb into Vincent’s green Dodge. “Get us out of here fast. Head east on 29. We’re close to Buchanan Lake. There are some back roads on the other side of the lake were we can lay low for a while.” Vincent puts the car in gear and peels out of the parking lot onto TX-29.

“I can’t believe it, that was Charlie back there.” Vincent concentrates on the road. “I spoke to him last night. He said they traced some calls you made to New Orleans, Carl. They think you’re going there. Charlie said he was covering for me and asked if you were still dead! Acted like it was a joke. I told him we were in Burnet. He must have traced the call.”

“But why? Charlie let us go in Austin?” Margo cries.

“That’s because he thought I was already dead.” Carl says flatly. “Somehow he found out different. He’s probably mixed up with the same people who sent Matt to kill me.”

“Jesus! It’s my fault!” Vincent says. Carl knows better. He made a call of his own last night. He remembers the thick Russian accent on the other end telling him he would be dead by morning and he remembers Saffy’s screams. Who are these people? Katarina’s husband, Igor, must be behind this but he never had cops in his pocket. He must be big time now.

“It’s not all your fault, Vince. I might have…” Carl starts to say when the car jolts forward. Margo screams and Vincent sees the blue Sonata in the rearview mirror. It speeds up and rams them from behind again. His car swerves and Vincent tries to keep it on the road. “Damn it!” Carl yells. “Give me your revolver!” Margo fumbles Vincent’s gun from his holster and hands it to Carl. “We’re coming up to the bridge. Just beyond that is a side road. Take it!” Carl shields his face with his casted left arm and fires the revolver out the back windshield. It shatters and he empties the gun into the Sonata. It swerves into oncoming traffic, narrowly missing a silver Prius. They enter the bridge and the Sonata speeds up. Carl draws his Walther PPK and gets off one shot before the Sonata clips their left bumper. The Dodge spins out, crashing through the concrete railing of the bridge, and into the water below.

To be continued…

 

January 15, 2011

New Orleans Comic Con

Posted by jtminor under Comics, News, Star Wars: TOR
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Shortly before Christmas, I received an email asking if I’d like to attend the New Orleans Comic Con. I’m not sure why, I haven’t “officially” worked in comics in a long time. However, I did live in New Orleans at one point and, of all the places I’ve lived (and there have been a few), New Orleans was one of my favorites. I’ve had an itch to go back for some time, especially since the tragedy of Katrina. Don’t ask me why such a horrible thing would make me want to go back. I’ve also had an urge to go back to New York ever since 911 as well. Maybe it’s because I’m a sick bastard or maybe it’s because I want to see what has become of these places that have made such and impact on my life. Whatever the reason, the timing of this invite was perfect. My wife and I are about to have our first child in March and this my be our last opportunity in quite some time to travel. We decided to go.

Now, I have to figure out what I’m going to do for two days at a comic convention when the last comic I worked on was ten years ago. Luckily for me, Comic conventions are not just about comics anymore. I’ve managed to collect approved art work and videos to show from Star Wars: The Old Republic and I’ll be answering questions and talking about my team’s work on the project. I’ll also have some my original comic book pages for sale as well as comic books I’ve worked on. And I plan to take some copies of Flashes of Fear, the anthology book in which I wrote one of the stories and did several interior illustrations. Of course, there’s the usual convention fare, signing autographs and doing sketches for people.

Hopefully somebody will come by my table and chat for a while. Otherwise, those two days will be very long and dull.

If you’re reading this and can make it to the convention, come on out and say hi. If you can’t make it but know someone who might be interested, then please spread the word. It would be much appreciated.

You can find more information here: http://www.wizardworld.com/home-neworleans.html

And my page is here: http://www.wizardworld.com/jasontemujinminor.html

Thanks

–Jason

 

January 2, 2011

Chapter Play: Chapter VII

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The “Gabriel Writer” has printed the 7th installment of “Chapter Play.” You can catch up on the whole story here: Chapter Play

I hope you enjoy it

–Jason

Chapter VII: In which the hero makes a call.

Carl McGavin sips his Vodka. He stopped bothering with the tonic an hour ago. It’s not often you die and are reborn in a single day, even Jesus took three. He deserves a little liquid numbing. Carl sets his glass on the table next to his gun, a Walther PPK, and the business card he took from Matt Richards’s wallet. On the front is a dancing girl silhouetted in yellow. Carl flips it over to read the Chicago phone number scribbled on the back. Nights like this are why he quit the P.I. gig to be a writer. Hiding out in a rural motel, wanted for double homicide, on the run with a nurse he kidnapped and her police officer brother, hunted all the while by people who want him dead for reasons he can only guess. It’s no way to live. Carl should be safe in his house, writing his novel. Unfortunately, both went up in flames. Still, if he has to start over, the death and resurrection of his protagonist makes a great beginning.

“Pop da trunk, Vince. Don’t make this hard!” Officer Charlie Day was a short stump of a man with day old whiskers and bad breath. Vince Burke saw the worry on his sister’s face as she watched from the passenger seat and considered coming clean. What choice did he have?

“Fine Charlie, but don’t fly off the handle.” Vince popped the trunk of his old green Dodge, “I can explain all of this.” What they saw left them both stunned. The battered body of Carl McGavin was splayed out before them. His face had been put through a meat grinder, his arm in a cast, and an elastic bungee cord wrapped tight around his throat. He looked as dead as they come.

“Jesus, Vince! You stupid son of a…”

“He…” Vince gaped at Carl’s body and thought fast. “He killed my partner, Charlie. He was a stinking cop killer. I ain’t the first to take one of them off the streets. You know what that’s like, right?” He gave Charlie a conspirator’s nod but officer Day stared daggers into Vince.

“Hey Charlie!” Officer Day’s partner yelled from the second floor railing outside the room where Carl had been lying low. “Someone was here, but they’re gone now.”

“Alright, Mac.” Officer Day quickly slammed shut the trunk of the Dodge so his partner wouldn’t see the body. “Take another look around, I’ll be right up.” Day turned back to Vince and whispers, “Damn it, Vince. What was you thinkin?”

“I guess I wasn’t.”

“Damn right, you wasn’t.” Officer Day looked around for any potential witnesses. “You get this car outta Austin now. Take a vacation, go to Fredericksburg; lots ah open areas out there to lose ah body. You hearin me? We already lost a good man when this sum’ bitch killed Matt. I ain’t losin another cop cause you did somthin stupid!”

“I owe ya, Charlie.” Vince said. Day shook his head and…

A loud knock at the door rouses Carl from his musings.

“It’s Vincent, open up.” Carl finishes his drink and pours another. It’s a good start for his new book. He’ll change the names, of course, and it needs a lot of “play,” as he calls it, but not bad. He staggers to the motel door and swings it open. The stink of liquor makes Vincent wince. “You shouldn’t be drinking.”

“What do you want?” Carl takes another drink and falls back into his chair.

“Margo picked up some food. Probably better for you than that drink.” Vincent tosses a fast food bag on the table.

“I disagree.” Carl swirls his ice and takes another sip. “Why’d that cop…Day…why do you think he let us go?”

“I don’t know.” Vincent sighs, “Charlie lost a partner a couple years back. Maybe he was sympathetic. Or maybe he was just looking out for one of his own. He would choke if he knew I was really helping a cop killer.” Vincent sneers. “What made you think of playing dead?”

“Best I could come up with. Why are you helping a cop killer?” Carl slurs. “And don’t give me that crap about recognizing Matt’s gun.” He motions to the Walther PPK. “Matt was a lot of things but stupid he wasn’t. He wouldn’t plant a gun that could be traced back to him.” Carl finishes off the glass and pours another.

Vincent is quiet for a moment. “Don’t tell Margo.” He says finally. Carl nods for him to continue. “Matt’s been…different since his wife left. A couple of months ago he busted a prostitute. She resisted arrest. He snapped and beat the hell out of her…then he raped her. I wasn’t there, but I knew, everyone did but they wouldn’t do anything so I…I called Internal Affairs. I should have called them sooner but…”

“You were afraid of being called a traitor.”

“Matt found out and threatened Margo if I didn’t stop the investigation. I said no.” Vincent continues. “You were right, Matt planned to kill Margo and frame you. If he was on someone’s payroll, then they might want Margo out of the way too. No loose ends. She’s the only family I have, I won’t give them a chance to hurt her again.” Vincent shakes with anger.

“What Matt did, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Eat your food, stop drinking, and go to sleep. We leave in the morning.” Vincent slams the door on the way out.

Carl finishes his drink and looks at the business card again. Matt had been a friend once, how could he be a rapist? Was someone using that to blackmail him? Maybe the same “someone” who has Katarina and her daughter…his daughter. He grabs the phone and dials the Chicago number.

“Alright, who are you?” Carl says as the phone rings.

“Who is there?” A thick Russian accent answers. Carl immediately thinks of Igor Sereda, Katarina’s husband and the man who once shot him, but the voice isn’t right.

“It’s Matt…Richards.” Carl bluffs but his words slur.

“Richards is dead. Who is this?”

“Carl McGavin, that’s who I am!” Carl stammers.

“McGavin dead too.” The voice is leery.

“Wrong Ivan! You missed. I’m coming for Katarina and my daughter. You tell…you tell Igor I know what he did. I know…”

“This call was mistake, Mr. McGavin! You will be dead by morning. We…” The man is interrupted by a commotion then a woman’s voice comes through the receiver.

“Don’t come Carl!” He recognizes the voice. It’s Saffron James, the girl he took into his care so long ago. “Please, just run now before…” There is a smack and Saffron shrieks.

“Saffy! Damn it! Don’t you touch her, I’ll kill you!” The line goes dead. Carl tries to stand, to rush out the door, and get to Chicago as fast as he can, but the room spins and Carl McGavin collapses.

He awakes the next morning to gunfire.

Continued in Chapter VIII…

 

December 7, 2010

Chapter Play: Chapter VI

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The “Gabriel Writer” has printed the 6th installment of “Chapter Play.” You can catch up on the whole story here: Chapter Play

I hope you enjoy it

–Jason

Chapter VI: In which the hero makes new friends.

“Drop the gun now, Mr. McGavin! I won’t tell you again.” Officer Vincent Burke’s hand is steady; his gun doesn’t shake, but sweat beads on his forehead. Nothing good will come of this standoff if he can’t end it quick.

“So you can off me for shooting your partner? Not gonna happen, son.” Carl’s voice is steady but the pain from his burned leg causes his gun-hand to shake. “Shoot or talk. Your choice, Vince old pal.” Carl knows if this goes down, he’s going to loose. Then, a shadow catches his eye and Margo Burke rushes in. She slides between the two men, in the line of fire. They both raise their guns rather than risk shooting her.

“We don’t have time for this, Vince! They’ll be here any minute. We…” Before Margo can finish, Carl collapses on the edge of the bed and she rushes to his side. “What’s wrong?”

“My leg, the pain’s getting worse.” Carl groans.

“Jesus, the bandage is a mess.” She says, lifting his pant leg. “Where’s the Hydrocodone?” Carl points to the bag of medicine and bandages he forced Margo to steal in their escape from the hospital.

“Why are you here?” Carl asks as Margo removes the old bandage.

“I told the cops what you asked me to, that you killed Jenny and then officer Richards when he tried to arrest you.”

“Her name was Jenny?” Carl asks. Margo looks at him for a moment before digging out some gauze from the bag.

“But what you said about Richards wanting to kill me instead of Jenny really scared me. Before I left your room he said he wanted me to…”

“Margo!” Vincent interrupts. “I’ve heard your side but I’m not taking another step until I get the truth from this guy.”

“Vince, I called Brenda. She was on duty all night and no one visited Carl’s room. He couldn’t have gotten a gun like Richards said. So where did it come from? Richards had to have brought it to frame Carl. If I had gone back to that room instead of Jenny, I’d be dead now.” The words catch in Margo’s throat.

“You want the truth, Vince buddy? Fine but you ain’t gonna like it.” Carl grunts as Margo cleans his wound.

“Try me.” Vincent keeps his gun at the ready.

“The body you found in my house, it was a woman named Martha Ellington. She represented an old client of mine named Katarina Sereda. Katarina’s daughter is missing but before I could find out more, the Ellington woman exploded in my office. Someone must have planted a bomb in her purse. I told your pal Richards all of this and that I was going to find out who was responsible. That’s when…Jenny walked in. Richards shot her with this gun.” Carl holds up the Walther PPK, it’s silencer still attached. “Then he tried to shoot me with his Revolver. He missed. You know the rest. I think your partner was sent to kill me by the same people who planted the bomb on Ellington.”

Vincent is quiet for a moment. Then holsters his gun and picks up Carl’s backpack. “We need to get moving. The cops will be here soon.” He starts packing Carl’s belongings.

“Aren’t you the cops? Why help me?”

“Margo’s right. It doesn’t add up.” Vincent nods to the Walther PPK. “And I recognize that gun. It’s Matt’s. He took it off a junkie we arrested two years ago. Called it his Bond gun.” Margo and Carl are both stunned. “I’ll meet you at the car, get a move on.” Vincent steps out.

“How did you find me?” Carl asks Margo.

“The hotel manager here saw your picture in the news. He tipped off the police. We got here first but they’re on their way.” Margo gives Carl two Hydrocodone “Can you walk?”

“I’ve done a lot worse on this leg lately, I’ll make it.” Carl stows his gun in the waistband of his pants and limps to the door. Margo helps him down the stairs and to Vincent’s beat up, green Dodge. Vincent tosses Carl’s backpack into the open trunk and then motions for Carl to climb in as well.

“In there?” Carl sighs.

“Just until we get through the roadblocks.” Vincent says.

“Where are you taking me, anyway?”

“North, out of Austin, after that you are on your own.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re doing this but thanks.”

“Just get in.” Carl climbs in with the old spare tire, a jack and crowbar, some bungee packing cords, and his backpack. Vincent slams the trunk shut as a police cruiser pulls into the hotel parking lot.

“Vince, what do we do?” Margo whispers frantically.

“Stay calm. Get in the car and wait.” Vincent recognizes the two officers stepping out of the cruiser, Charlie Day and Mac Johnson. “I’ll take care of this.”

“What’s officer Burke doin here? He’s supposed to be on mandatory bereavement?” Officer Day says to his partner loud enough for Vincent to hear. Officer Johnson doesn’t respond.

“I heard you guys had a lead on Matt’s killer. Thought I could help out.” Vincent tries to sound professional.

“Not your job, Vince. Bereavement leave means just that…you leave.” Officer Day smiles broadly.

“Matt was my partner, Charlie. What do you expect me to do? We’re too late anyway. He was here, room 26.” Vincent points to the second level room where Carl was. “But he’s long gone.” Officer Johnson runs up the stairs to room 26 without a word. Officer Day continues to smile but never takes his eyes off Vincent.

“That’s too bad. Say, is that little Margo?” Officer Day walks past Vincent toward the car. “Why would you bring her here after all she’s been through?”

“You try telling Margo no?” Vincent says half-heartedly.

“How you holdin up, sweetie?” Officer Day leans in and looks around the interior of the car.

“I’m fine, Charlie.” Margo’s tone is clipped.

“Good, good.” Officer Day says, looking back at Vincent. “You know I’m going to have to search the car?”

“Why?”

“For all I know you just killed yourself a cop killer, stuffed his body in the trunk, and now you plan to dump it outside of town. Not that I’d blame you but I’ve gotta check.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“It is ridiculous isn’t it? But that’s the job.” Officer Day keeps smiling but Vincent is sweating. “Pop the trunk, Vince. Don’t make this hard.”

Continued in Chapter VII…

 

November 16, 2010

Chapter Play: Chapter V

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The “Gabriel Writer” has printed the 5th installment of “Chapter Play.” You can catch up on the whole story here: Chapter Play

I hope you enjoy it

–Jason

Chapter V: In which the hero escapes.

“I repeat, send out your hostage, safely. We can still work this out Mr. McGavin.” Officer Vincent Burke shouts into the megaphone. There is no answer but he knows his sister is in the burnt out house. Keep it together, Vincent, he thinks to himself.

Margo hears the subtle tremor in Vincent’s voice. He’s worried. Her captor stands by the window with his gun at the ready, cool as a cucumber. She remembers Officer Richards, Vincent’s partner, whispering in her ear as she left Mr. McGavin’s hospital room, “Your patient’s a dangerous guy. We think someone smuggled him in a gun. Give me five minutes to sweat him then come in with an excuse for me to leave. Maybe we can catch him trying to dump it.” But Margo was pulled into another patient’s room and asked Jenny to help Richards instead. A few minutes later, they were both dead and Margo was a hostage.

Carl McGavin is bruised and bleeding from his fight with Richards. His burned leg is flaring up and the cast on his left arm feels like an anchor. Outside, Burke is waiting for him to say something. The rookie’s scared but not fooling around. Jesus, what a mess! Carl looks over his bedroom. The fire left it untouched but, across the hall, sunlight pours through the ceiling of the guest bedroom. The collapsed plaster and rafters form a rickety ramp to the roof. He looks at Margo and sighs.

“You need to go before things get worse.”

“What?” Margo asks in disbelief.

“I’m sorry I got you involved but I didn’t have a choice.”

Margo slowly stands up but doesn’t leave.

“Go on, I won’t shoot you.” Carl says quietly. Then he shouts to Burke outside. “Hold your fire, Officer Burke. Your sister’s safe and I’m sending her out.” She slowly walks backwards to the door, still not trusting Carl. “Margo,” he says making her jump. “Don’t tell them what I said about being set up. When they ask, you tell them I killed that girl. Tell them Richards tried to stop me.”

“Why?”

“Richards needed an excuse to kill me, that’s why he had two guns. Killing the girl and framing me would have worked but people would still have asked questions. If I had, on the other hand, killed the sister of a fellow police officer then he could fast-track the case and nobody would raise an eyebrow.” Margo turns white. “I think he planned on killing you instead of that girl. If the people who sent Richards think you know something, they’ll come after you too.”

“Oh…” Margo doesn’t know what else to say. She turns and walks to the stairs as if in a trance.

“She’s comin down, Vince old pal! Safe as can be” Carl yells again and shoves the gun in his backpack. He runs to the stairs and listens as the officers move in to grab Margo. She’s telling them not to shoot and Vincent asks if she is okay. Carl runs across the hall and into the guest bedroom. The debris ramp doesn’t look very secure but there’s no time for second-guesses. The scorched rafters creak under his weight as he climbs up but they hold. On the roof, he crouches low and works his way to the east side of the house. It always irritated him how close his neighbor’s house was built to his, now it might be his only chance. He gauges the distance. Can he jump it? Does he have a choice? Hopefully, Margo is distracting the cops. Carl takes off running, waiting for the last second to jump. He makes the other roof with an inch to spare but lands on his wounded leg, loosing his footing. He rolls down the steep roof, off the edge, and into his neighbor’s shrubs. The pain is awful but he’s made it. The tall fence hides him from the cops. He pulls himself out of the bushes, limps to the back fence, and hoists himself over. Beyond the fence is a large, undeveloped field with a small wooded area in the center. Carl runs for cover. He can hear Burke on the megaphone again, calling for him to come out, but the police are already moving in. He makes it to the trees and pauses to catch his breath. Any minute now, they’ll realize he’s gone. On the other side of the wooded area, at the corner of Howard and Metric, a large green bus is pulling up to its stop. Carl’s in luck, he grabs the lock box from his backpack and pulls out a couple of dollars. Carl limps on board and pays the driver. As he sits down, two police cruisers speed by.

***

Carl woke the next morning with his leg on fire and his whole body in pain. He had ridden the bus as far south as he could and then crashed for the night in a motel more accustomed to hourly rates than nightly. The room had two bullets holes through the front door and a pair of soiled panties in the corner but he didn’t care. Carl dry swallowed two of the Hydrocodone he took as they fled the hospital and started going through Officer Matt Richards’s belongings. There wasn’t much, his keys, some receipts, and a wallet holding forty dollars in cash, ID, and some credit cards. He found a business card for the “Yellow Rose” with a phone number written on the back. From the area code, Carl could tell it was a Chicago number. Then he came across a picture of Matt’s wife and two children and paused. He rubbed his eyes to keep the tears away. Why would Matt try to kill him? Why didn’t Katarina tell him about his daughter? Why send the Ellington woman? And why was she killed?

Carl needed answers and could only think of one place to find them. Katarina and her husband, Igor, had disappeared without a trace. That was a dead end. But he might be able to track down Saffron. She had introduced him to Katarina and had always been the link between them. Although Saffy denied it, Carl suspected they had kept in touch. If she did know where Katarina was, he needed to find out. The only problem was he hadn’t seen her since he left New Orleans, sixteen years ago. Saffy had no family and few friends but there was her AA sponsor, a woman named Lorena Collins. Finding Ms. Collins turned out to be a task in itself. After several hours on the phone, Carl discovered she had gotten married and was now Lorena Woods. She remembered him and said Saffy had moved to Chicago with some friends six years ago. She didn’t know who these friends were and hadn’t seen Saffy since. Then, about a year ago, Saffron called her. She was clearly using again and mumbled something about being fired from a strip join called “The Player’s Diamond.” She wanted money but Lorena refused. Saffy got angry and hung up. That was the last anyone heard from Saffron James.

Carl replays the conversation with Lorena in his mind. He feels like he’s been kicked in the gut. The idea of Saffy back on drugs has shaken him to his core. Would she be using again if he hadn’t left? He doesn’t know. All he does know is that everything points to Chicago and that’s where he’s going. His leg starts to hurt again. He stands up to get more pain meds but stops when he hears footsteps outside his room. The sun is setting and two solid beams of sunlight shine through the bullet holes in the door. Suddenly one goes dark, then the other. Carl hears whispering on the other side. He grabs his gun just as the door is kicked in. He spins around, aiming the Walther PPK, and sees Officer Vincent Burke aiming his revolver at him.

Continued in Chapter VI…

 

November 4, 2010

Flashes of Fear

Posted by jtminor under Art Work, Writing
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flashes of fear

Cover by Ross Carnes

A few months ago, Joan Upton Hall announced at our San Gabriel Writer’s League meeting that she wanted everyone to write a short piece of Flash Fiction for Hallowe’en. Flash Fiction is a very condensed story, complete with a beginning, middle, and end. The word count varies greatly for these stories. Some are as short as 6 words or as long as 1000 words. In the case of our Hallowe’en tales, 200 words was all we had to work with. To put that in context, you’ve already read 90 words – almost half the allotted amount. Writing a complete story into 200 words is very challenging and until you’ve tried it, you can’t really imagine how difficult it is. Anyone who entered a story would have it printed in our newsletter. It sounded like fun. My wife and I thought about what we would write for a bit and then thought no more about it.

At our next meeting, Joan and Sam Holland, the SGWL president, announced they planed on collecting our Flash Fiction stories and publishing them in a book. Ross Carnes, a local professional artist and a member of the SGWL, had already painted a very nice cover for the book and 11 others had submitted stories. My wife and I were very surprised and decided to get busy on our entries. I also volunteered to provided some interior art and Joan and Sam picked out 6 stories for me to illustrate. There wasn’t time for me to do more because they wanted the book finished in time for Hallowe’en. A month later, 41 stories and poems had been submitted and accepted and I had managed to finish all 6 full-page illustrations. Joan Hall edited and proofed the entries and Sam Holland laid out the book and supervised the printing. It ended up being 108 pages and came out looking very professional. I am proud to be apart of it.

“Flashes of Fear” was released on October 16th. The writer’s league held the book launch at the Hill Country Bookstore in Georgetown Texas. Many of the writers, including Rebecca and I, showed up to do readings from the book and we sold some copies.

The book is now available for order on Amazon and through the SGWL website. Hallowe’en may have come and gone, however, it’s always fun to read a good, spook story. So please check out our book. All proceeds go to the writers league, so help out some local artist:

Order Flashes of Fear

 

Here is a Preview…

This is my entry in the book:

It’s Not Your Fault

By Jason Temujin Minor

The cymbal monkey watches from his high shelf with the rest of the toys nobody plays with anymore. He doesn’t scare me. The teacher reads, “One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.” Kids laugh, stick their tongues out, and shove. But I sit still. It’ll be different this time, long as I’m quiet, quite as a mouse. A brown-haired boy turns in my direction. I don’t move. He looks away and I sigh in relief. The room becomes suddenly cold and the teacher’s breath fogs as she talks. Confused, she gets up to check the heat. The children grow quiet.

The cymbal monkey is doing this. He enjoys these games.

“Don’t! Please, you promised!”

The monkey says nothing. Why should he? I’m his prisoner.

The boy looks at me again. This time his eyes go wide. His lip trembles. Did he hear me? Does he see what the monkey did to me? I start to cry.

“It’s alright,” I tell him. “It’s not your fault.” I touch his arm. He shrieks and wets his pants. They all see me now. Children scream, cry, and run. They can’t help me, no one can.

“It’s not your fault!”

 

And here is my wife, Rebecca’s story:

Of Dead and Dogs

By Rebecca D. Minor

Bells tinkled as Jacob entered the old B&B.

“Coming! I’m bringing candy!”

“Auntie Joan, it’s me, Jacob.”

“Oh, Jacob! I thought you were late trick-or-treaters. Speaking of late, you’re the last to arrive. We have to be up early for All Saints services so let’s get you settled. I only have a twin left and I’m afraid it will make for cramped sleeping.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Just be sure to keep yourself tucked in. You’ve heard tell of dead and dogs? Remember anything hanging over the edge of the bed entices the dead to come lickin’ at it…”

“…and dogs too, I know. I’m surprised Bugles didn’t greet me when I drove up.”

“He’s old and probably curled up with one of your cousins for now. Here’s your room. If you don’t want Bugles bothering you…”

“…licking me.”

“Latch your door, Smarty-pants. He knows how to open lever handles. Sweet dreams.”

“Thanks. Goodnight, Auntie Joan.”

Before morning, Jacob stirred to Bugles nudging, lapping, and gently tugging at his hand. After batting him away he soon heard the dog scratching to get out. Half asleep, Jacob unlatched the door, only to find Bugles wanting to come in.

 

And here are a few of my illustrations:

Illusions

Illusions

The Ghost of Old Man Krebbs

The Ghost of Old Man Krebbs

 

You're One of Us Now

You're One of Us Now

There are 39 more frightening, spooky, creepy, funny, and otherwise clever stories and poems from very talented writers in the book for your enjoyment (not to mention 3 more illustrations), so I hope you’ll give it shot.

Order Flashes of Fear

Thanks

–Jason

 

October 26, 2010

Chapter Play: Chapter IV

Posted by jtminor under Writing
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The “Gabriel Writer” has printed the 4th installment of “Chapter Play.” You can catch up on the whole story here: Chapter Play

I hope you enjoy it

–Jason

Chapter IV: In which the hero takes a hostage.

Officer Matt Richards fires his Walther PPK pistol, its silencer muffling the sound. A small red hole appears in the hospital tech’s head, blood splattering the door behind her. Richards pulls a second gun with his left hand, a police issued 9mm revolver, and aims it at Carl McGavin. “You never knew when to let things go.” He fires. The blast is deafening. The bullet ricochets off Carl’s bedside table, spraying his lunch all over him. For an instant, the two men look at each other. One shocked he missed and the other shocked to be alive. The moment gone, Carl shoves the table away with his clumsy, casted, left arm and rolls to his side. Another loud boom as Richards fires again, this bullet strikes the pillow where Carl’s head just was. With his right hand, Carl throws the IV stand at Matt, yanking the IV from his arm. Richards smacks it away but he’s distracted long enough for Carl to rip his covers off and tackle him. The Walther PPK skitters into the corner as Carl grabs hold of Matt’s left hand, the one with the revolver. He slams it into the wall until the gun drops. Richards punishes Carl’s ribs with blows and then delivers a roundhouse right to the bandaged wound above his right eye. Dizzy, Carl rears back and Richards kicks him in the chest, sending him sprawling into the corner of the room. He’s on Carl immediately, battering his ribs and kidneys. Carl tries to block with his cast as he reaches for the PPK. He feels the gun, grabs hold, and shoves it into Matt’s stomach. His eyes are closed but he hears the thump of the silencer as he fires. Richards’s body goes taught and then collapses on top of him. He shudders a few times and then is still. Breathing hard, Carl closes his eyes and tries to collect himself.

A scream jerks Carl into action. He pushes Richards’s body off of him and gets to his feet. The nurse, Margo Burke and a security guard have run in. Margo futilely attempts to revive the hospital tech while the guard fumbles with his revolver. Carl levels his pistol. “Don’t, young man.” He tells the guard and notices his wedding band. “Your wife don’t wanna be a widow.” The guard looks Carl in the eye and freezes.

“You killed her!” Margo screams in tears.

“I didn’t, he did.” Carl motions to Richards’s limp body. Then realizes he’s holding the gun that did kill her. “Damn it!” He says to himself.

“Please, Mr. McGavin, stop this before anyone else gets hurt.” Margo tries to steady herself.

“No one will get hurt. Just give me a minute to think.” The police are going to match the bullet that killed the tech with the gun he now holds. Probably what Richards intended in the first place. Carl sees a plastic grocery bag by the sink. “Fill that bag with pain meds and some fresh bandages.” He motions to the sink with his gun. Margo does as she’s asked, hoping to get rid of him. “Then empty Matt’s pockets in the bag too.” Margo looks uncertainly at the officer’s dead body but says nothing.

They hear sirens from the front of the hospital. The cops are here already? Carl thinks and starts to pace back and forth trying to decide on the next step. He points his pistol at the guard. “You! Where’s your car parked?” The guard can’t speak so he motions towards the sirens. “Damn it! What about you, girl? Where’s your car?”

“You don’t have to do this, Mr. McGavin. Turn yourself over to the police before things get worse.” Margo says as she stuffs Richards’s wallet into the bag.

“Where is your damned car?” Carl shakes the gun at her.

“Out back! Out back!” She closes her eyes and waits to be shot. Before she can open them again, Carl has her by the arm and yanks her out into the hallway. It’s filled with nurses, patients, and a doctor who all stare at him wide-eyed. He must be a sight, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. More security guards approach. Carl holds Margo in front of him with his cast around her waist and puts the gun to her head.

“Keep back!” He warns the guards and pushes the gun tighter against Margo’s temple. “Where are your keys?” He whispers in her ear.

“Purse.” She points to the nurse’s station. Carl drags her over and she grabs her purse. The guards step back.

“What’s the quickest way to your car?” Carl whispers again and Margo points to a door marked stairs. “Anyone follows us and she’s dead!” Carl shouts before they open the door and race down the stairs. They make their way through the inner corridors of the hospital, people clearing the way as he waves his gun, until they reach a service door that empties out into the parking lot. Margo takes him to her Mazda 3. “Drive!” He tells her and pushes her into the passenger side door. Margo climbs over and takes the wheel.

“Where are we going?”

“My house.” Carl sits low in the passenger seat and tries to catch his breath. This is all too much for him.

“Why are you doing this?” Margo fights back tears.

“I don’t have a choice. I didn’t kill that girl but nobody’s gonna believe that. This is a set up and I mean to find out why. Turn left.” Carl points with his gun.

“Just talk to the police, I’m sure they can help you.”

“The police just tried to kill me. Turn right and keep to the speed limit.”

A few minutes later, they pull up to 2005 Maize Bend Drive. Half of the house is a blackened skeleton with much of the roof collapsed. Police tape surrounds his home. His next-door neighbor’s house, which was built way too close, has also been damaged in the fire. Scorch marks cover one corner of its roof.

“Alright, we’re here. Now please, just let me go.” Margo wipes tears from her eyes.

“Sorry, not yet. I might need your car.” Carl pushes her out the driver’s side door and they dash under the police tape and inside the house. They hurry past the baked remains of his office where the Ellington woman exploded and run up the stairs. In Carl’s bedroom, he sits Margo on the bed, still soggy from the firemen’s hoses. He opens his closet door and pries up a loose floorboard. Carl pulls out a metal lock box, dusts it off, and shoves it into a backpack along with the plastic bag full of medicine and Richards’s belongings. Carl strips off the hospital gown, unconcerned by his nakedness, and quickly dresses himself in an old tee-shirt, brown slacks with suspenders, and an old pair of sneakers. His cast makes it awkward but Carl manages. That’s when they hear sirens and the screeching of tires. “Damn it, faster than I thought.” Carl grumbles.

“Carl McGavin, this is the police. The house is surrounded. Release your hostage and come outside.” Margo recognizes the voice over the megaphone. It’s her brother, officer Vincent Burke. Carl stuffs some extra clothes into the backpack and slings it over his shoulder. He holds the pistol at the ready and peaks out his window. The police are putting up barricades and forming a perimeter. He sees Burke with his megaphone in one hand and a gun in the other. There is no way out.

Continued in Chapter V…

 

September 22, 2010

Grand Prize winner? Who knew?

Posted by jtminor under Award Winning Story
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I recently entered a short story of mine, named “A Dance in the Woods,” in a writing contest sponsored by the CTD – the Coalition of Texans with Disabilities. The contest was state-wide and was open to Fiction, Non-fiction, Poetry, and even Comic Book stories. The only rules were that it had to involve a character with a disability in some fashion. The story I entered was about a young girl with and vivid imagination and a bad relationship with her mother. Amazingly, it won the Grand Prize. I was shocked. It’s the first thing I’ve ever won and, since this is story has been running through my head for years and is the root of a novel I plan to right, I’m very happy this particular story won.

The good news is that I get $500. The bad news, they want me to do a public reading of the story…Good god that scares the hell out of me. Besides, a 6 foot 4, 280 lb., red-head reading a story narrated by a 10-year-old girl, is a little scary.

Here is the link: http://www.cotwd.org/p2p_minor.html

I hope you enjoy it.

You can also check out the other winner’s stories here: http://www.cotwd.org/pen2paper.html

-Jason

 

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