Lol.
15 Minute Writing Challenge (Just Write)
Sky-diving. The very idea terrifies me. I hate heights. I recently went wobbly in the knees watching Skyscraper with The Rock. Camera angles usually don't affect me, but some of the ones in that movie actually made my balls quiver. So, imagine how I'm feeling in the door of this plane. I have a death grip on the sides of the open door as my legs try to melt out from under me. I may have a new outlook, but still the same old fear.
Why am I here then, right? Watched another movie recently, and it made me think about something. It basically said: live your life to the fullest. You only get one shot at it, and if you're not living it to the fullest, then you're just waiting to die. ...Pretty sure I didn't repeat that as I heard it.
Anyway, the point is it gave me a crazy mental image: running from Death. Just doing one crazy, facing-your-fears thing after another, and dare Death to catch up to you. Not... not "tempt fate," exactly. Just... Death must get bored right? Everyone has their appointed time and all that, but maybe challenge Death to a race?
Like: I'm going to jump out of this plane. You (Death) could cause something to happen so that I die in the process. Maybe my parachute doesn't open. Maybe it opens too soon, and I get tangled up on the plane. Maybe I hit a goose on the way down and get knocked out, like the way Fabio cut his nose on that rollercoaster that time. Maybe I just have a heart attack from the fear. Maybe I make it back to Earth, but I land in the water, and sharks get me instead.
Or, maybe I live. Maybe I scream a lot of the way down, but pull my ripcord at the right time, and sail down to a safe landing. And I laugh because I lived through it, and breathe a sigh of relief, and just whisper, "Not today. I'll see you next time. I'm going to Spain for the Running of the Bulls."
Is that... is that a death wish? Or a mid-life crisis? Or just wanting to do more than I've done before? ...I don't know, but I imagine if you challenge Death to catch you, you should be prepared to run your hardest. Today is Day One, and I'm just getting started.
Where will it take me? Will I just tour the world experiencing life? Will I get sucked into some high-action drama, coming close to dying, but winning the day? What if Death gives up, and just says, "Forget it. I'm tired of chasing you. You just have to live forever." ...Does Death get tired? Do I have the stamina to stay out of Death's reach?
***
- Story and original characters owned and © Chris Bishop, 2025.
- Fabio's brand is ©Fabio, and can easily be replaced if need be.
Dead Man Walking
At one end of the street stood a skeleton in a coat, hat, and sunglasses with a lit cigarette between its teeth. The men had been unloading every gun they had at it for the last ten minutes. There wasn't a single window in the bank behind it that hadn't been blasted out in that time. Finally, they began to run out of ammo, and other than screaming bystanders, everything got really quiet.
The skeleton's head creaked to the left, then to the right. Then it said, "You boys about done?"
One of the men yelled, "Dios! I'm outta here!" and took off running down an alley.
"Good, it's my turn," said the skeleton, holding up two Glocks.
"What are you?!" shouted one of the men. "We fired everything we've got at you!"
"Yeah," it answered as it put one gun in the crook of its arm. It gripped the cigarette with two bony fingers, inhaling on it for a few seconds. Then it flicked the cigarette away, and somehow blew out the smoke. "But you didn't hit anything vital."
Then he started down the street, picking off the men as he went. Some ran, and made it to alleys or inside of buildings. Some died running. Some were so terrified that they made it easy for the skeletal gunner, and died where they stood.
By the time it made it to the end of the street, not a man was left standing. They were either dead, or fled. It stashed the guns in shoulder holsters, looked at its watch, and said, "Where did I leave my cigarettes?"
"Smoking's bad for you, senor," said a woman crouched behind a trashcan.
Looking over towards her, its head creaking again, it said, "Does it look like that matters to me? Do you have a cigarette?"
"Here, senor," said a man, coming out of a store, outstretched hand shaking as he offered a cigarette. "Please, senor... who are you?"
The skeleton fished in its coat pocket for a lighter, lit the offered cigarette, and took a draw to get it going. Pocketing the lighter, he started to walk away, and said, "Most call me Dead Man Walking. It's good to be back."
***
- Story and original characters owned and © Chris Bishop, 2025.
- Pic is open source, so available for use by anyone, but it's A.I., so unavailable to be used for profit.
Red Helen
"Her name is Red Helen. Sometimes an agent, sometimes a mercenary, wanted by Scotland yard and the whole alphabet soup," says Amelia Earhart. "We want her first."
"Director," says Agent Clayton, "why is she called 'Red Helen?' The butterfly on her neck looks more like a Blood-Red Glider - the Cymothoe sangaris."
"You missed your calling, Clayton," says Earhart with a smirk. "She's also known as The Blood-Red Glider, and more commonly Sangria. But she's known as Red Helen, because her real name got out: Helen Sotomayor. Spanish national. One of the best-trained we've ever seen outside of the United States."
"You sound surprised," says Albert Ross. "You know better than most that good agents come from anywhere. Not just the States."
"Yes," acknowledges Earhart, "but my surprise is that she's from Spain. The CNI is good. The fact that we don't hear much about them shows that. But their agents don't go rogue very often. We're not sure what set Sangria on this path. We want to know. But mainly, she has something we need."
"What's that?" asks Clayton.
"That blood-red butterfly broach at her throat. Intel says it carries at least one microdot with information on every mission she's ever done, plus info that could put certain government officials in prison for years."
Ross whistles. "An insurance policy. Nice. Who's she worried about?"
"Everyone," says Earhart. "We're going to offer her sanctuary in exchange for sharing the info she has."
"Think she'll go for it?" asks Clayton.
Amelia looks at her, and says, "It's your job to find out, Agent. Bring me Sangria."
"I like 'Red Helen' better," says Clayton as she stands up and pushes her chair under the table. Nodding, she says, "Director. Ross," and she heads for the door.
***
- Story and original characters owned and © Chris Bishop, 2025.
- Pic is open source, so available for use by anyone, but it's A.I., so unavailable to be used for profit.
Jiki
"My lord," says the Yakuza underboss, "May I present my most loyal soldier. Her name is Jiki."
"Her skin..."
"Pale and beautiful, like the porcelain she is named after, my lord, but hard as the hardest stone. And she's strong."
The boss raised an eyebrow as he looked her up-and-down unapologetically. Then he began eyeing her head. "And her ears?"
"Wish, my lord," answers Jiki. "I wished to hear better, and like a boon from any jinn, the wish went sideways. It gave me bigger ears. The Wish disappeared before I could ask for them to go back to normal."
"Consider yourself lucky," says the boss. "The third wish was killing people. I thought perhaps you were yokai."
"I am not yokai, my lord," Jiki answered sternly, but not disrespectfully.
"And did it work?" asks the boss.
"My lord?" she says.
"Your wish. Do you hear better?"
"Yes, my lord. More than I care to at times," she admits.
"Your rock body has made you blunt," he observes.
"It has afforded me some liberties, my lord," she says with a nod, "but I answer directly not out of disrespect, but so as not to waste your time."
The boss nods his head lightly. "Hm." Turning to the underboss, he says, "I will take her."
"Wha--" he starts.
"--I said I shall take her." Looking to Jiki, he says, "Do you wish to move up?"
"It would be my good pleasure," she says.
"Now wait just a minute! M-my lord, she's my bodyguard!" protests the underboss.
"And everything you have is mine, Yamagucci. Is it not?"
Yamagucci looks momentarily angry, then conflicted, then contrite. Bowing his head, he says, "Yes, boss."
"Good," he says. Looking back to Jiki, he says, "Now, do you know my name?"
"No. 'My lord' has served me just fine," she says with a demure nod.
"Time to learn it," he says with a mirthless grin. "You may call me Mister Yotoro."
***
- Story and original characters owned and © Chris Bishop, 2025.
- Pic is open source, so available for use by anyone, but it's A.I., so unavailable to be used for profit.
Messy
"Next," called Tre, as he looked at his tablet, making notes on the last applicant.
The door opened and closed, the noise from outside momentarily getting louder, then muting to almost nothing as the door glided shut. He looked up, and saw a young, muscular woman in black and red with silver gauntlets and a blue cape.
"Costume's kind of... busy," observes Tre, "and what is that fur at the neckline? You think this is Game of Thrones?"
The girl looked annoyed, and started to answer, but Tre continued. "It's not. You're applying for consideration to the next iteration of the Fraternity of Heroes." He tilts his head to one side, and then the other. "We're still workshopping the name, but it has legacy." Pointing his stylus her way, he says, "What's the 'M' stand for?"
Sarcastically, she answers, "It stands for 'My eyes are up here!' You're a rude son of a bi--"
"--I'm already in," he assures her. "Name's 'Plus,' as in..." He finishes the sentence by multiplying himself into three exact duplicates, all holding tablets. "Guess what? You're not," all three of them said. The two duplicates disappearing, he says, "We don't have time for your attitude, or your drama."
She goes from offended to shock in two seconds, then protests, "No, wait. It's for 'Missy.' Give me another chance."
Without looking up from his tablet, he answers, "More like 'Messy.' Goodbye," he singsongs in stereo as a duplicate holds the door open for her.
She looks hurt for a moment, then struts angrily towards the door. "You haven't heard the last of me," she assures the dupe.
"I have," he answers, unconcerned. "Try again next year, Messy. Next!"
She looks at him with the offense all over her face, and then storms across the room, punching a hole in the wall as she reaches the next door, and storms out.
Before that door closes, he calls out, "Make that two years! And we'll bill you for the wall!"
The next candidate walks in, sparks flowing through her hair. "My, aren't you something?" asks Tre in stereo before his dupe disappears, leaving him sitting with his tablet. "Let's get started."
***
- Story and original characters owned and © Chris Bishop, 2025.
- Pic is open source, so available for use by anyone, but it's A.I., so unavailable to be used for profit.
TCB
"Alright. What's your name?" asks Tre.
"TCB, baby!" she says, crackling with electricity.
He laughs lightly. "'TCB'?"
"It means 'Taking Care of Business.' You know? Like the King?" she says, pulling up her sleeve to reveal a tattoo of Elvis Presley's signature 'TCB' and lightning bolt symbol on her forearm.
"Michael is the King," Tre countered, "and tattoos aren't allowed for the team."
"Prince was better," she answers, "and it's henna. It'll be gone in a few weeks."
"Hm," says Tre, with a raised eyebrow towards the tattoo. "And what makes you think you're good enough for the Fraternity of Heroes?"
Crackling a little stronger than before, she says, "Psht. Look at me." The lights flicker in response to her power output, and she starts strobing them one-by-one.
Putting a hand up to stop her, he says, "Alright, alright, stop. They're not made for that, and maintenance is busy. What else can you do?"
She powers down with a smile, sparks flowing through her hair again. "If lightning can do it, so can I," she says. "I strike hard, and fast."
"But can you control your levels? Can you keep from killing people?" he asks her, sounding doubtful.
"Boy, I wouldn't be much of a hero if I couldn't," she says like he's slow.
"You're not a hero yet," he says, pointing the stylus at her. "Right now, you're just an applicant."
"Yeah, 'right now,'" she says with one hand on her hip, leaned back slightly.
Tre laughs again. "You're cocky."
"Self-assured," she says, tossing a ball of lightning from one hand to the other and back. "It's not 'cocky' if you can back it up."
Tre taps the stylus on his tablet, and chuckles. "We'll see. Training starts next week. And you better be right about that henna, because the team debuts next month. You can use the symbol on your costume, as long as it's not proprietary to the Presley estate."
TCB glows with power as she shouts, "YES!"
Plus sends a double to the door to hold it open. "Get the details from Miss Johnson at the desk. See you next week."
"Hm," she says as she walks out. She strokes his arm with the tip of her finger as she goes by, making the hairs stand from the static. "See you then," she says with a pointed look.
The double disappears and the door glides shut. Tre sits with a finger to his temple as he feels the static charge on his arm. He smiles. "Oh. She's going to be trouble. I just know it. Next!"
***
- Story and original characters owned and © Chris Bishop, 2025.
- Pic is open source, so available for use by anyone, but it's A.I., so unavailable to be used for profit.
Alien Life As We Know It (S5:E1)
"The Flying African," says Renaldo Guevera. "A statue in one of Mozambique's museums, commemorating the people that Africans have embraced as heroes.
"The story of the Flying Africans can be found in the Southern folklore of the United States. The story goes that a cruel master was making life miserable for his slaves, and they wanted to escape. There was a shaman among them whom they begged to say the words that would allow them to fly away. When he finally did, they all leapt into the sky, and left their master behind."
The camera shifts to Renaldo, and he continues, "But are they aliens? In truth, we don't know. And surprisingly, despite rich oral tradition, neither do they."
The scene cuts to a prerecorded interview with one of the Flying Africans. Subtitles translate his thick accent, even though he's speaking in English. "Who knows? We have always been able to fly. Always. The shaman said the words, and we flew. We have flown ever since. I do not know what happened before that he had to say the words again, because clearly our people knew that he could make them fly. So, at some point, something made us not fly. Perhaps there is a word that can make us not fly? I do not know. It has not been spoken since that day over one hundred and fifty years ago."
Renaldo asks the man, "What about the wings? Can you really sprout wings?" It's a softball question, because the Flying Africans have been well-documented as having wings.
"Of course!" says the man, smiling as wings sprout from his back.
The scene switches back to Renaldo standing in front of the museum's statue. "We don't really know how they can do it, but as you saw, the Flying Africans can sprout wings at will. They mostly save that for special circumstances- usually anything they have to wear ceremonial garb for, as you see on the statue behind me. But amazingly, they don't really need the wings to fly.
"In fact, the only one who does on a regular basis is actually one of the tribal descendants who lives in the States. He calls himself The Flying African, after the famous statue here, and wears the ceremonial garb as his superhero garb to model himself after it.
"We don't know the total number of Flying Africans in the world. They're not all in Mozambique, or even in Africa. The current estimated number is somewhere around three thousand, but without the wings to readily identify them, and the number of people that can fly through other means, we don't really know."
***
| Note: |
|---|
| The Southern Folklore story of the Flying Africans is real. It wasn't a very long story to begin with, and I shortened it severely for the retelling in Guevera's report. -cb |
***
- Story and original characters owned and © Chris Bishop, 2025.
- Pic is open source, so available for use by anyone, but it's A.I., so unavailable to be used for profit.
Alien Life As We Know It (S5:E1), Part 2:Mozambique
The Flying African known as Mozambique has popularized their feathered cape - less formal than their ceremonial garb. When asked about his name, he said this: "Mozambique, like much of Africa, has embraced the Flying Africans. Taking the country's name as my own is my way of embracing them back."
And Mozambique loves him for it. Easily one of the most popular of the Flying Africans, merchandise with his likeness can be found all over the country. Including T-shirts, posters, hand-carved figures, stuffed dolls, and he even has his own Hatchbox car. It's not licensed product either. The hero allows his likeness to be used for profit by whomever it might help.
"Mozambique has loved me, and I love Mozambique. Why should I not help them any way I can? If my picture on a T-shirt will make money for someone, and perhaps put food on their family's table, then I am glad it has helped them. This is the way we are supposed to be with each other."
He's not just popular in Mozambique, and not just in Africa either. He's found fans in Japan, South Korea, France, and the United States. The last of whom seems to have an ongoing love affair with all things superhero.
***
| Note: |
|---|
| This one is not as long, because it was hand-written in 15 minutes, not typed. -cb |
***
- Story and original characters owned and © Chris Bishop, 2025.
- Pic is open source, so available for use by anyone, but it's A.I., so unavailable to be used for profit.
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