Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26572345-20160117234247

I've been working on this piece for a couple of months on and off. I initially planned it as a supernatural story and I am still hoping to go through with that, but as I was writing it I noticed that any mystical elements weren't going to come into play until much later. At the point where the story currently finishes, the supernatural elements were going to be introduced not long after, but I am just concerned that this may lead to a jarring shift in tone when the reader reaches that point. I'd appreciate your thoughts on this, as well as what parts of the story could do with a bit more polish.





Whoosh Man's Sidekick

I’m sure many of you reading this can say that you can look back fondly on your childhood. This delicate period of our lives holds many happy experiences that shape us as we grow, and it is common to cherish these memories from time to time. Birthday parties, road trips and intense hide-and-seek sessions can easily be recalled with heartfelt nostalgia by many a folk. These little slices of innocent joy will always have a place in our hearts, no matter how aged and slow we are likely to be in later years.

With all this said, I cannot bring myself to look back on my younger says with any ounce of fondness or yearning. I was unfortunate to witness something no five year old boy should ever have to see and until recently I thought I had moved past it. A few nights ago, something dark and terrible I had tried so hard to keep forgotten for so many years came back into my life in a way I had never thought possible, and even now I’m still finding it difficult coming to terms with what I’m experiencing.

I’m sure you have many questions as to what I am trying to say but the truth is that even now I’m trying to put the pieces together. I figured that writing down my experience may stir up some buried recollections that would provide further answers to what I’m going through. I’ll try to be as coherent as I can with this account but I cannot promise it will make all that much sense as I’ll be referring to very murky and strained memories; memories of my childhood.

I suppose I should start with my brother, Joseph. He was older than me by two years and always kept an eye out for me, taking it upon himself to make me, “Chuck”, his own responsibility. He was regarded as a generally great guy by all his friends and family; selfless and packing a devilish sense of humour, he was just the sort of person anyone would gravitate towards. I loved that son of a gun more than anyone else; the two of us were inseparable and I’m happy to have known him.

I like to believe that he was shaped somewhat into the good natured soul he was by his love of comic books. When we were growing up, we were both obsessed with superhero stories. We would sit together and read issue after issue, watch the movies and generally be amazed by the great feats of power and righteousness that each character expressed. I tended to prefer the heroes in Marvel’s output; Joe was enamoured by DC’s collection of champions. We’d have the occasional quarrel about which publisher offered the better characters, but our attention spans would lead us back to the comic in our hands and we’d once again find ourselves captivated with what we were reading.

Joseph’s particular favourite was Superman; a character with just about any power possible and could easily be considered a god, but no matter how dire the situation at hand he always tried to do the right thing for the people of Earth.He was the ultimate symbol of justice and righteousness that Joe he absolutely adored. Funnily enough Joe couldn’t get himself enthused about Batman all that much, which I think was due to the lack of fantastical elements that drew him so close to the Man of Steel. Well, that and the Dark Knight’s association with Robin, one of many sidekick characters along with Supergirl and Aqualad that Joe was not above grumbling about when they happened to appear at the turn of a page.

Our enthusiasm got to a point where Joseph decided to create his own superhero. It may not have seemed like a grand undertaking to someone a bit older, but seven year old Joe felt quite sincere about his very own character. I can remember waking up in the middle of the night and peering over to his bed to see him wide awake and sketching what he thought his champion should look like. I can still remember him wrapped up in his Superman pyjamas going wild with pen and paper, writing down name after name trying to find one to match his excited vision.

The result of Joe’s enthusiasm that night was Whoosh Man, who in hindsight came across like a rather simple Superman clone who had more emphasis on flying around and apprehending criminals through the power of flight. Silliness aside, Joe was enamoured with his creation and decided to go further by creating comic books to go with the character. Dad was more than happy to lend him reams of lined paper for him to scribble down issue after issue, hoping to stretch Joe’s creativity. I was always excited when Joe would come hurtling down the stairs, wide-eyed with excitement to show off the latest issue to me and my family.

In these comics, Joseph made himself the main character, and could transform into Whoosh Man at will. He was made out to be a near unstoppable figure that lived a secret underground base he named the Whoosh Cave. Even if he did happen do die in battle, Joe explained that Whoosh Man would be brought back by a large device in the cave which he called the ‘Anti-Death Machine’. He would simply reform and then fly out of the main tunnel and jump right back into the action.As you can tell, childish sensibilities were one of the many things that made these stories fun to read at the time.

Being the closest to him, I instantly became the main reader of his comic series, as well as its main critic. When the Whoosh Cave became a part of his stories, I remember asking Joseph why Whoosh Man didn’t have some kind of base of operations in the sky, or why he didn’t just live in an aircraft if flying was so important to the character. Joe shrugged and simply said that he dreamt about an underground base one night and it seemed to make sense for the character, he didn’t say anything more about it. At that point, small peculiarities like the cave didn’t really matter, all Joe wanted to do now was to write and draw page after page of adventure and action.

Joe was always eager to show off his character and the stories he wrote to the neighbourhood kids, but I was always his biggest fan and I felt a little honoured at the time that I would be the first in line to read what my brother would come up with. Not long afterwards, he insisted to our parents that he needed to make a costume, as a way to live out Whoosh Man to the fullest. I can still remember running around the garden watching Joe strut about proudly in his get-up, a bright orange cape billowing behind him with each cocky step.

<p class="MsoNormal">This fascination with this superhero would go on for quite a long time. Joe would spend his time after school lurched over the table, colouring pencils and paper at hand, going wild with whatever kind of story he managed to dream up in between lessons. I can recall one particular instance where I caught him wearing his costume while drawing, trying his best to get into character; all the while shouting catchphrases and throwing his fists into the air. I rolled about on the floor laughing, tears streaming down my face.

<p class="MsoNormal">It was pretty easy to see that Joe got really carried away with Whoosh Man, but this wasn’t something that concerned my parents at first. They were just as happy as Joe was for finding some kind of creative outlet that was keeping him out of trouble, and not being on the wrong side of the law. I should mention that our family lived in a neighbourhood not too far from a hotbed of criminal activity, and our mother and father were always making sure that we weren’t being influenced by kids and people from “the bad side of town.” I can remember one day where we both made a half-baked plan for Joe to dress up as Whoosh Man and to head out to that area one night to take on numerous bad guys, but whenever we set a date Joe would always delay it. He’d climb into bed on whatever night we scheduled and just say that he wasn’t ready yet and needed more time to prepare, leaving me bitterly disappointed.

<p class="MsoNormal">One thing that we were able to pick up on was that Joe became increasingly sensitive to recommendations or critiques of his work, and he would often choose to be in a foul mood for most of the day if we suggested certain changes. One example that I can remember from early on was asking him if Whoosh Man ever needed a sidekick, hoping that a cartoon version of me could be included in the comic for a smaller part, while Joe/Whoosh Man was the central focus. Joseph didn’t like this at all, saying that he would stop writing the stories altogether before even thinking of bringing in a sidekick.

<p class="MsoNormal">Another instance that stuck in my memory was a week or so after the sidekick conversation, while I had just finished reading one of his comic book issues. I took the time to ask him how the Whoosh Cave worked. From what I recall, the base had a holding cell where criminals would be thrown inside and simply left alone, usually kept there by the end of the issue. I think I must have made some kind of comment about it, asking where the criminals go to after they’re thrown in the cell and then making a sarcastic joke about the villains dying in the cage and then rotting away until there would be nothing left by the next issue.

<p class="MsoNormal">That was the only time that Joe hit me, square in the jaw as well. After I tumbled to the floor, I looked up at him, eyes welling with tears and trying to stifle a whine. He was horrified at what he had just done; he ran over and put his arms around me, saying he didn’t know what made him do that. Obviously Joseph got punished for it and profusely apologised for his outburst, but the event stuck with me for a long period afterwards. He had gotten so agitated about a petty suggestion that threatened his hero’s appearance of righteous moral perfection that it had made him violent. I think it was at this point that some signs were beginning to show that this wasn’t just his enthusiasm for Whoosh Man; it was starting to develop into something more pronounced and confusing.

<p class="MsoNormal">Joe’s affinity with the character continued for another couple of months and it eventually got to a point where it was starting to bother my parents. They were always willing to support and entertain Joe’s flights of fancy, but they were beginning to notice that he wasn’t getting enough sleep each night and that his grades at school were plummeting. I was starting to share their concerns as I was most likely the one person who was able to see Joe’s condition at its worst. Joe would wake me up in the middle of the night, his eyes eclipsed in dark rings and his voice croaking after working for several hours on a finished comic.This went on for night after night, where he would awaken me at stupidly late hours and struggle to talk while trying to hand me comics that I was too groggy to care about.

<p class="MsoNormal">I had also noticed that the comics were starting to get weirder. There was one particular part in an issue I remember where Whoosh Man had intercepted some criminals robbing a jewellery store and then used his powers of the wind to push the air out of the criminals’ lungs, suffocating them and leaving them unable to scream for help. Most of that book was set in the Whoosh Cave with Whoosh Man frantically questioning how the ADM came into existence with a fearful expression on his face. Joe’s handwriting became scratchy and disjointed, making it difficult to understand what he was writing about, as well as what was running through his mind.

<p class="MsoNormal">I believe the final straw came when my parents learnt that Joe was responsible for a violent incident at school. I wasn’t aware of this on the day, but he had hidden the Whoosh Man outfit in his backpack and brought it with him into class. By the time lunch came around and the other kids had made their way onto the playground, Joseph had gone into the toilets, changed into his costume and started indiscriminately beating up other kids, mostly the ones from the rough neighbourhood. I remember him walking up to one of the quiet kids, Terry, and punching him repeatedly in the face, knocking out two teeth.

<p class="MsoNormal">The school’s councillor had told Mom and Dad that Joe’s behaviour was disruptive and that if he didn’t change his attitude towards Whoosh Man and settle down, he would face the risk of being removed from the school. While in the office, Joe was insistent that what he did was the right thing; he had convinced himself that Terry was already committing acts of crime, and he later told us that the poor kid was destined to be a criminal when he grew up.

<p class="MsoNormal">My parents decided that they had to do something help Joe before this spiralled into something damaging. While I can understand that what they did was an act of love, when I look back on it now they appeared to be ill-informed on how to properly sort out the troubles that my brother was going through. One night, my mother came into our room with a glass of water and said she had a surprise for Joe. She held out her hand and showed us a little white disc.

<p class="MsoNormal">‘This is a Super-Pill’, she said, clearly trying to hold Joe’s attention, ‘These pills can give you special powers, but they only work when you go to sleep after swallowing them’.

<p class="MsoNormal">This was enough for Joe to reach out and throw the disc into his mouth, taking a swig of water afterwards. I remember asking for one as well, but Mom said that Joseph needed it more than I did. She also said that she only had enough pills for one of us, and that it would take several nights before anybody would notice any powers developing. I went to bed feeling pretty dejected that night.

<p class="MsoNormal">The following morning, Joe got onto bragging about how these new superpowers were going to open up new story ideas and that he couldn’t wait for when they would emerge and wouldn’t shut up about it for the rest of the day. When we were getting ready for bed later that night, Dad came in with another small white disc and a glass of water. Joe didn’t even give him a chance to speak before snatching the pill and swallowing it, not even stopping for water.

<p class="MsoNormal">Our parents kept this routine up for several nights, Mom or Dad would bring the pill and water for Joe excitedly gulp down. After about a week or so, Joe was starting to get increasingly impatient, getting sick and tired of waiting for his powers to appear, but he was getting more sleep each night and seemed to have recovered from his period of daily drowsiness. While my mother and father were satisfied with the results, I noticed that Joseph still wasn’t acting as normally as he was before.

<p class="MsoNormal">Joe’s output on the comics had slowed down, but the distressing jagged artwork and the changes in tone were still a common occurrence. I did ask him during one of his drawing sessions whether he would like to sit down and read some Marvel or DC with me for old times’ sake, just to briefly take his near constant focus away from Whoosh Man. He then snapped at me, saying that “none of those fake heroes matter now, only the real one means anything to me”, then turned and sat hunched over the table, fixated on the scrawled, crinkled paper he continued to draw on. It was clear that Joseph wasn’t entirely on the road to recovery; he had stated that Whoosh Man was a real person. I think I was worried that this was going to continue to escalate into something big, but I don’t think I had any idea how this was all going to turn out.

<p class="MsoNormal">That night as I was getting ready for bed, I made my way into my room and found Joseph stapling the pages of his last book together. By the time he had finished, I had already curled up into my blankets; I didn’t feel like being bothered at all, especially with how loud and indignant he was that I should read his latest piece, saying over and over that it was his masterpiece. After holding my ground after a couple of nudges and pushes, Joe relented and went over to his bed taking the comic with him, muttering and grumbling under his breath. At this point I was too tired to care.

<p class="MsoNormal">After what felt like a short while, I was shaken awake by my father, clearly agitated and distressed by something. As I realised it was now morning, I looked around the room and saw Joe’s bed vacant, and then looked back at Dad, both of us shaking and afraid. He said that Joseph had gone missing, he couldn’t be found anywhere in the house. Dad had phoned the police only a few minutes ago and told me that Joe’s costume was missing as well. The most disconcerting thing about this was that the cabinet where the ‘Super Pills’ were kept had been raided, leaving an empty canister. I felt my heart leap into my throat, a thousand thoughts rushed through my mind, pondering what kind of trouble Joseph could be getting up to.

<p class="MsoNormal">After Dad had left the room, I rushed straight towards the cupboard to see if Joe was hiding inside. Finding nothing, I rushed back to Joe’s bed and pulled back the sheets, still hoping that this was some kind of poorly conceived practical joke and that he would make himself known before too long. I looked under his pillow and found another comic book, one that I think he had meant to show me on the night he’d finished it, but I didn’t care enough to read it at the time. I flicked through the pages, teary eyed and sweating, looking for anything that might explain why Joe had to rush off without telling anyone.

<p class="MsoNormal">The story was another weird one; Whoosh Man spent an entire issue fighting his arch-nemesis, the disembodied head of an insane scientist in a floating device with claws, known as ‘Dr Behead’. Whoosh Man ended up dying a record total of five times before violently putting the villain down and throwing him into the holding cell in the Whoosh Cave. Each time the ADM revived him, Whoosh Man grew more distressed and disfigured, Joe’s handwriting getting more scratchy and bold with each panel, clearly trying to show him in a state of utter panic. The last few panels had the sketchy and disturbed hero contemplating that with such a strong opponent, he will need to have a sidekick in the future; the comic ending with a promise that the next issue will reveal who is set to take the mantle as Whoosh Man’s companion.

<p class="MsoNormal">Something about this story just felt off; it didn’t seem like the kind of thing that Joe would be happy to write about at all. Whoosh Man would never be this out of his depth in the previous stories and Joe never liked the idea of sidekicks in the regular comics he read. I slipped it back under his pillow and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen. Mom was on the phone to several of her neighbours, desperately asking if Joe was seen by any of them. I helped myself to a bowl of cereal, any distraction was welcome at this point.

<p class="MsoNormal">After a while, I heard a knocking at our door and both parents rushed to answer it. I bounded out the kitchen to the front door, hoping to welcome Joseph back with open arms, but instead a gaunt, shaven old man in a black cloak stood uneven in the doorway. Our local priest, Father Harrison, stood in the doorway panting and drenched in sweat. After collecting himself, said that we had to hurry before Joseph did something dangerous. I missed the beginning of the conversation while I was still upstairs, so I didn’t grasp what kind of trouble Joe had gotten himself into. Without hesitation, Dad grabbed my arm and followed Mom to the car, my mind still trying to process what could have happened.

<p class="MsoNormal">With my mother taking the wheel, she pursued Harrison’s vehicle through Saturday morning traffic, and it didn’t take long before we arrived at the church. I was then yanked out of the car and held in my father’s arms as they rushed onto the yard. A crowd had gathered around the building and I saw that they were all looking up towards the roof. I found by head turning upwards and saw the silhouette of a small figure, strutting around with a thin cape billowing behind it. I felt my stomach drop and my eyes growing wide with horror as I made the connection.

<p class="MsoNormal">Joe had somehow managed to climb onto the roof of the church, still dressed in his costume and looking out of breath. When Dad asked what was going on, an onlooker said that Joe had been up there for hours, running back and forth along the roof, as if he was trying to prepare himself for something. My mother shrieked and shouted at her son to come down, pleading with him to see sense. Joseph stopped in his tracks and looked down; a shocked and disgusted was stretched across his face when he gazed upon the gathering, following with an accusing pointed finger.

<p class="MsoNormal">He shouted towards the crowd, pointing directly at Mom; he was horrified that she had just revealed his secret identity in front of a large group of people, especially as he had convinced himself that his powers were just about to be activated. I found myself shouting with the crowd, telling him he was wrong and that he should just wait until services arrived to take him off, but he wasn’t listening, he just continued pacing and snarling down at the group below.

<p class="MsoNormal">I found it hard to believe that the little angry boy staggering on the church was my brother, it was if I was witnessing a stranger and I’m ashamed to admit for a moment I did forget, remaining silent and taking in the spectacle. After a short while of my parents continually trying to find other ways to coerce him down, Joe paused again and started to address the crowd once more, his orange cape billowing more intensely in the morning wind.

<p class="MsoNormal">‘The time has come to prove myself, and the new age of heroes begins with my maiden flight across town! The Anti-Death Machine guarantees that I will be the most powerful superhero of all time!’

<p class="MsoNormal">Gasps of abject horror from my parents weren’t enough to bring him out of this manic state, neither were the pleas and desperate words of the confused onlookers enough to sway him. His eyes shifted and darted from one person to another, wide and confused as his teeth chattered. I joined several other people in calling his name, trying to get him to realise what he was doing, but we were responded with another shrill shout and a hateful stare.

<p class="MsoNormal">‘Stop calling me that! Joseph is nothing but a memory, Whoosh Man is here to stay!’

<p class="MsoNormal">He then started sprinting across the roof; his gaze was fixed on the skyline with clenched fists and bared teeth. The increased frantic shouts and screams of the crowd didn’t appear to faze him as he kept on moving, getting ever closer to the edge with one arm outstretched in the direction he was running. I shrieked his name as loud as I could, hoping that I could do something to prevent this tragedy, but he rushed and kept on going until his feet touched nothing but air. The orange cape billowed behind him as he screamed all the way down.

<p class="MsoNormal">Joe’s head hit one of the gravestones, breaking his neck and caving the left side of his skull, a sickening crunch and crackle echoed in the churchyard. His shaking body then landed onto his back as he fell on the ground, a torrent of blood gushed out of his nose and mouth, his eyes went dull and lost focus while his neck was nearly horizontal. I remember screaming and begging whoever was near to do something, anything to save him from dying. My young mind couldn’t understand at that point that it was already too late for him, and no amount of tears and wailing would be able to fix this. I watched him quiver one last time, then finally laying unmoving in a still puddle of blood. My brother, Joseph, was dead.

<p class="MsoNormal">I was still clutching my mother’s leg and hysterically sobbing when the ambulance came to take his body away, I didn’t dare turn round to look. The crowd did their best to offer their sympathies and Father Harrison said he would do what he could to help with the funeral arrangements, but my mother didn’t want to hear any of it, Dad just sat on the steps with his head in his hands. Mom took me to the car while my father stayed behind in the churchyard, barely holding himself together as he relayed the details to the police. As the car drove away from the church I lay across the seats of the car, screaming in anguish, tears streaming down my face, coming to terms with the fact that I would never see Joe again.

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<p class="MsoNormal">Thanks for taking the time to read this, can't wait to hear your comments.

<p class="MsoNormal">My other work: The Fuil Bauchan <ac_metadata title="Unfinished Story (65% Complete), would appreciate feedback and direction"> </ac_metadata>