Captain Chicken Hawk

markwildyr.com, Post #69

Courtesy of cliparts.free.net

So far, “Marco? Polo!” is getting good hits… some of them from the “unknown region” I mentioned earlier. Really would like to know who that is.

Let’s try a little flash fiction whimsy this time.

*****

CAPTAIN CHICKEN HAWK

          The life of a superhero ain’t all it’s cracked up to be! Might not be so bad if I could just yell “Shazam!” or “Cream Cheese” or something, but like that guy in the blue union suit and red briefs, I gotta find a phone booth or some nook or cranny before I go into action. And I don’t like wearing my superhero gear under my street clothes… it itches too much. Superman’s lucky he’s in Gotham City with lots of booths. Albuquerque doesn’t have a single one. All we have are these kiosk things, and there’s precious little privacy there.

           Once, as I changed into my uniform, some blue-haired old lady set up such a screech that I had to take off half-dressed. It gets chilly flying around with your fanny hanging out. Tired of losing wallets to thieves while performing heroic deeds, I now hang my street clothes in a tree or from a tall building somewhere. Oh, yeah, and I’m gay. Only superhero who admits to it… but I have my suspicions about Batman and that cute Robin.

           Guess I should say something about my superhero name. I've always been drawn to noble birds, you know, eagles and hawks, but I rejected ‘Eagle’ because it calls to mind this big, bald-headed bird. Definitely uncool. Since there’s already a guy calling himself Hawk, I settled on “Falcon” and added the Captain part to give it some pizzazz.

          My mom, the only soul in the universe who knew my secrets—well, one of my secrets—was totally ignorant of feathered raptors, so she copied a bird from a book and emblazoned it on the chest of the uniform she whipped up. Wouldn’t you know? It wasn’t a falcon; it was a hawk! Worse, some bird-watcher freak recognized it as a chicken hawk, and that was that. Little did anyone understand how appropriate that name was.

           Mom was also the only person who knew where my powers come from, but she wouldn't spill the beans, not even to me. She’s mentioned my absent father exactly once to say he is ‘one of a kind.’ Was I sired by an alien being?

           I spent most of my time soaring over the town keeping an eagle … uh, hawk-eye … out for misbehaving miscreants. Did I draw excited squeals from little kids? “Look! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No! It’s Captain Chicken Hawk!”

          I observed a west side drive-by shooting one day and followed the shooter’s red ’57 Impala to a semi-rural area near the Bosque. When I landed on the road in front of the driver, he screeched to a halt, and with my supervision I saw the lean, young face behind the windscreen harden.

          The kid tromped on the accelerator, and the Chevy shot forward. I executed a somersault over the speeding car and grabbed the rear bumper, twisting the vehicle so that it left the road and bumped across a rough field where it became mired in the sandy soil. The driver bailed and bolted.

          Once again, I took flight and landed in front of the youth. His look went from surprise to panic as he snatched a pistol from his belt and leveled it at me. “Get outta my way!” he yelled in a baritone gone shrill.

           Oh, crap! Not that. I hate guns. Bullets sting like crazy. So I obeyed him. Performing another graceful somersault, I landed behind the startled gunman and grabbed the black thirty-eight revolver from his hand. Seizing him by the scruff of his neck, I took off. Fantastic! I not only had the shooter but also the weapon used in the drive-by. A slam dunk for the cops!

          The little bastard had other ideas. He immediately shrugged out of his muscle-shirt and landed in a heap on the ground. He scrambled to his feet and loped across the field, limping slightly. I hovered above him, admiring the kid’s spunk … not to mention those wiry back muscles that rippled nicely as he ran.

          The kid was slender, almost thin, but his torso had decent definition. Brown skin wet with the sweat of his efforts and fear, glistened in the afternoon sun. He was about to reach cover, so I swooped down and latched onto his belt, angling for some quick altitude to intimidate the kid.

          Didn’t work. Before we were ten feet in the air, he slipped headfirst right out of his baggy, gangsta britches and fell back to earth. If the guy was fetching before, now he was downright sexy. As I dropped in front of him, he came to another quick stop, panting and glaring at me wild-eyed. His chest heaved deeply … erotically. Why would a handsome kid like this shoot another human being? The ink on both arms might have been clues, but I didn't read Tattoo.

          “Who … who are you?” he demanded breathlessly. "That Captain … uh, Captain…”

          “Hawk,” I supplied helpfully.

          “Chicken Hawk,” he corrected contemptuously.

          “I’m your worst nightmare kid,” I replied with as much decorum as I could muster “I’m going to bring you before the bar of justice.”

           The little punk laughed. “You talk like a comic book or something! Hell, you look like a comic book.”

           “That’s the way superheroes talk,” I sputtered indignantly. “Now it’s time to see you to the authorities to answer for shooting an innocent pedestrian.”

          The guy didn’t learn very fast. He made another run for it. I snatched at his shorts, but he ran right out of them. There wasn’t anything to do but hug the naked thug, so I clasped him around the waist and lifted off, heading straight for the cops at the scene of the crime. After handing over the revolver and explaining where they could find the kid’s car, I prepared to take my leave. An officer stopped me by handing over a piece of paper.

          What's this?" I demanded.

          "A ticket for indecent exposure. I figure the perp didn't arrive that way voluntarily. So you're to blame."

          I snatched the ticket and soared away, not to the usual hurrahs of admiring officers of the law ringing in my ears, but with laughter following me into the sky. A reminder not to deliver a naked suspect again. The cops were kinda particular about that kind of thing.

 *****

I know it’s ridiculous, but I had some fun with it. Hope you did, too.

Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns.. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.

Mark

New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

My Shallow Life

markwildyr.com, Post #65

Had quite a few comments on “I’m My Own Man.” Hope the flash fiction piece I wrote for this week generates as much interest. Here goes.

*****

Courtesy of Pixabay

MY SHALLOW LIFE

        

           I lived a shallow, stingy existence in a deep, rich environment. For most of my eighteen years, I had imagined the time when I would leave my farm townhome behind for the wonderful life of a college student. That time was now, and it was nothing like my dreams. I had the scholastic part down okay, but the life eluded me. Everyone else was so cosmopolitan while I was… so provincial. In short, I didn’t fit.

          My dorm mate, who was from Dallas, devoted one afternoon to me and then abandoned me for more interesting company. I spoke the language of tennis and was a fair left-handed player, so most of my free time was spent on the courts. I developed a few sports friends but no drinking buddies. Again, my fault. I didn’t drink and turned down the few invitations that came my way. My attitude was prompted by a father who—if he was not an outright alcoholic—was at least a dipsomaniac.

          On a whim, I tried out for a minor part in a stage play. The character was an odd loner, and I knew how to play that part from the heart, so I was chosen. If a History major was adrift in a broader college milieu, he was totally asea in a Fine Arts setting. Once again, I was alone, sitting quietly while waiting to go onstage while other actors in the wings chatted about this and that. The names of noted playwrights and famous thespians and magnificent dramas flowed easily from their lips, drawing envy and an invisible but substantial curtain around me.

          But I also heard other things… whisperings about this student or that professor. Snippets that occasionally set my ears to flaming. I absorbed a world I’d never known about—or at least dared to talk about—in my little town. And as I listened, I began to recognize some things. Why I was a loner when my spirit cried out for companionship. Why I was different from other boys I’d grown up with. Why I liked to stand in the wings and watch the play when this one boy—Robert was his name—was on stage. Robert with the tousled, curly brown hair and green eyes and shapely physique and manly grace. And I slowly came to understand the reason for my malaise. I’d spent my life denying who I was because it didn’t fit with the norms of my rural Oklahoma roots.

          In all probability, Robert noticed the idol worshiper in the wings. He threw friendly greetings my way and encouraged me in the development of my role in the play. He included me in his comments and refused to be discouraged when I had no opinion on things he was passionate about. I reached the bone-jarring realization I was in love with Robert at just about the same time I learned he was in a long-term relationship with a senior basketball player. Crushed, I finished the run of the play, and despite accolades in the college newspaper, I abandoned the Fine Arts Department and returned to tennis.

          There had been a few changes since I left, but most of the guys I’d played with before were still there. Some complimented me on my performance. Others simply smirked that I’d exposed myself to a fine arts environment. As usual, I ignored them all.

          But one of the changes while I was absent from the courts was a transfer from a junior college named Randy. I took in his black, unruly locks, chocolate brown eyes, taut muscles, and broad smile and felt alive again. Not only that, but he talked to me, confided in me even.

          One night, as we left the court after a set of singles, he halted and spoke as if he were choosing his words carefully. “Didn’t know a university would be so… so clubby.”

          “Snooty, you mean.”

          He flashed that devastating smile. “Yeah, that’s it. How come you’re not?”

          “Because I’m different. I’m an outsider.”

          Those magnificent eyes swept over me, leaving me weak in the knees. “Yeah. Heard you were in a play or something.” He frowned. “But you’re not a Fine Arts major, are you?”

          “Nope History.” I shrugged. “It was just a one-time thing. Wanted to try it out, that’s all.”

          He studied me so intently for a long moment that I began to feel squirrely, smelling the aroma of non-existent lilacs and hearing the chimes of silver bells--equally imaginary. “How about we go for a beer?”

          I came so close, but my father’s image intruded. Such a fine man when he was sober, but a terror when he was drunk. “S-sorry, but I don’t drink.” Shocked by the look of disappointment on his handsome face, I hastened to add. “But I do like a strawberry milkshake.”

          “Malted milks are my favorites. Let’s go.”

          God bless strawberry milkshakes and malted milks—they led to such wonderful self-discovery during my freshman year in college.

 *****

Do you recall any such events back in your college days? I do. Hope you enjoyed the story.

Please take a look at my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. Amazon permits you to read a short passage from the books. I also believe the STARbooks published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are some buy links for CUT HAND:

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

And now my mantra: Keep on reading, keep on writing, and keep on submitting. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.

Mark

New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.