Doctor Strange Is My Hero

Doctor Strange Is My Hero — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm going to take a break from pontificating on our current crisis and the implications of the resurrection of ultra-nationalism to talk about a comic book wizard. Because it's a form of self-care and it's something that tickles the cockles of my imagination. I used to do reviews on a fairly regular basis, and while there's definitely enough going on in Doctor Strange to warrant several paragraphs, I'd like to dwell more on why I feel like the character is one of the best transitions from page to screen Marvel has done yet. Let's keep it simple: Doctor Strange is the best Marvel origin movie to date. It has compelling and complex characters, downplays the humorous elements to rely more on well-woven world building and truly stunning visuals, and even gives us a villain with more depth than a soup spoon. Not lots of depth, but its there. It's well-cast, well-written, and Jack Kirby is smiling from the Great Beyond at the capture of his visions of the realms beyond our reality. The true strength of the piece, however, is Stephen Strange himself. Way back in 2010 I pontificated on Strange in the comics, given the decision to have him lose the title of Sorcerer Supreme due to an act of hubris that, while motivated by the best of intentions, cost him dearly. In the film, we can see both that hubris and that humility and self-sacrifice, which I'll get to. But what makes Strange stand out from the start is his baseline level of self-awareness. He knows how great he is, but he tempers that with taking opportunities to save lives as well as proving it. The opening scene's bullet extraction is a fantastic, pitch-perfect moment of character-building without too much exposition or too many bells and whistles. Okay, from here on, it's spoiler territory. Fairly be ye warned. When he loses the fine dexterity of his hands, Strange pushes himself to find a way to fix himself, improve himself. He isn't motivated by an outside force, nor is he willing to settle for a more mundane profession, like teaching or dictating his theories to another person. While he is ambitious, arrogant, and even antagonistic at times, to the degree he alienates friends & colleagues and burns up his life savings, he is still seeking a return to his former glory, a position where he can regain his cushy lifestyle and keep saving lives. That, by itself, makes for a good story. Then, when he arrives at Kamar-Taj, a very interesting thing happens. Once the Ancient One actually allows him to study, he throws himself into those studies. The haunted and hurt surgeon gives way to the astounding and curious student. A legitimate bookworm and very quick study, Stephen Strange gains a fundamental grasp on the essence of the Mystic Arts even as he struggles with the hand gestures that manifest even the most basic of spells. His focus on and struggles with his mangled hands do get in his way, but when he is studying, he gets out of his own way to a degree that is even more inspiring than his redemptive struggle itself. Then, after the obligatory Marvel cinematic fight and chase scenes (which are still Inception-levels of creative and compelling, no seriously, they are that good), we come to his confrontation with Dormammu, ruler of the timeless Dark Dimension and overall sadistic bastard. What does Doctor Strange do? He doesn't unleash any offensive spells, never throws a single punch. Instead, he uses his mind. Knowing that time is foreign to Dormammu, he locks himself and the godlike creature in a time loop, bewildering and frustrating his opponent rather than seeking to destroy or even cripple it. Haunted by the one murder he did commit (even if it was in self-defense), Strange pushes himself to redeem the act, refusing to do actual battle with Dormammu. He dies, over and over and over again, to fill Dormammu with such impotent rage that the entity has no recourse but to bargain with the sorcerer. His calm and somewhat whimsical admission that "pain is an old friend" perfectly encapsulates this strategy. And it works. At last, we have a Marvel movie that reaches its climax in a way that, while gruesome, ultimately resolves in a non-violent fashion. And after all of that, Strange is not Sorcerer Supreme. He has no predefined destiny, no obligatory position as an exemplar or pinnacle-occupying hero. Instead of promoting his own genius or prowess, he humbly becomes the mere guardian of one of the Sanctum Sanctorum locations that protect our world, and offers his assistance to those who share his goals, even if they present a possible threat. He shows intelligence, discretion, charisma, and an ongoing desire to continue improving, continue changing, continue to do and get and be better than the man he was at the start of his journey. This is why I hold him in higher regard than Captain America. I may get some backlash for this. But while Captain America basically was born as a paragon of the virtues United States citizens aspire to exemplify and wish their country would represent, Stephen Strange is truly a self-made and ever-improving vanguard of actions matching intention and morals defining actions. Relying on his wits and intellect rather than physical violence or even his powers, he shows us that what it takes to be a hero isn't what you are, but the choices you make, especially if you've made bad ones in the past. Steve Rogers has made mistakes, but not to the degree of Stephen Strange. Tony Stark has improved himself, but not to the degree of Stephen Strange. He is simply, in my opinion, head and shoulders above the rest. And not just because of the Cloak of Levitation. I'll be watching Doctor Strange quite a few more times. I suspect it will join other works in my yearly practice of revisiting narrative moments that inspire me on a foundational level. There are echoes of who I was, and goals for who I want to be, in the cinematic portrayal of Stephen Strange. This deeply personal connection, along with its production values, memorable portrayals, and mind-bending effects, is why Doctor Strange is, if not the best, one of the finest Marvel movies they have or will produced.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Doctor Strange Is My Hero

Doctor Strange Is My Hero — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm going to take a break from pontificating on our current crisis and the implications of the resurrection of ultra-nationalism to talk about a comic book wizard. Because it's a form of self-care and it's something that tickles the cockles of my imagination. I used to do reviews on a fairly regular basis, and while there's definitely enough going on in Doctor Strange to warrant several paragraphs, I'd like to dwell more on why I feel like the character is one of the best transitions from page to screen Marvel has done yet. Let's keep it simple: Doctor Strange is the best Marvel origin movie to date. It has compelling and complex characters, downplays the humorous elements to rely more on well-woven world building and truly stunning visuals, and even gives us a villain with more depth than a soup spoon. Not lots of depth, but its there. It's well-cast, well-written, and Jack Kirby is smiling from the Great Beyond at the capture of his visions of the realms beyond our reality. The true strength of the piece, however, is Stephen Strange himself. Way back in 2010 I pontificated on Strange in the comics, given the decision to have him lose the title of Sorcerer Supreme due to an act of hubris that, while motivated by the best of intentions, cost him dearly. In the film, we can see both that hubris and that humility and self-sacrifice, which I'll get to. But what makes Strange stand out from the start is his baseline level of self-awareness. He knows how great he is, but he tempers that with taking opportunities to save lives as well as proving it. The opening scene's bullet extraction is a fantastic, pitch-perfect moment of character-building without too much exposition or too many bells and whistles. Okay, from here on, it's spoiler territory. Fairly be ye warned. When he loses the fine dexterity of his hands, Strange pushes himself to find a way to fix himself, improve himself. He isn't motivated by an outside force, nor is he willing to settle for a more mundane profession, like teaching or dictating his theories to another person. While he is ambitious, arrogant, and even antagonistic at times, to the degree he alienates friends & colleagues and burns up his life saving, he is still seeking a return to his former glory, a position where he can regain his cushy lifestyle and keep saving lives. That, by itself, makes for a good story. Then, when he arrives at Kamar-Taj, a very interesting thing happens. Once the Ancient One actually allows him to study, he throws himself into those studies. The haunted and hurt surgeon gives way to the astounding and curious student. A legitimate bookworm and very quick study, Stephen Strange gains a fundamental grasp on the essence of the Mystic Arts even as he struggles with the hand gestures that manifest even the most basic of spells. His focus on and struggles with his mangled hands do get in his way, but when he is studying, he gets out of his own way to a degree that is even more inspiring than his redemptive struggle itself. Then, after the obligatory Marvel cinematic fight and chase scenes (which are still Inception-levels of creative and compelling, no seriously, they are that good), we come to his confrontation with Dormammu, ruler of the timeless Dark Dimension and overall sadistic bastard. What does Doctor Strange do? He doesn't unleash any offensive spells, never throws a single punch. Instead, he uses his mind. Knowing that time is foreign to Dormammu, he locks himself and the godlike creature in a time loop, bewildering and frustrating his opponent rather than seeking to destroy or even cripple it. Haunted by the one murder he did commit (even if it was in self-defense), Strange pushes himself to redeem the act, refusing to do actual battle with Dormammu. He dies, over and over and over again, to fill Dormammu with such impotent rage that the entity has no recourse but to bargain with the sorcerer. His calm and somewhat whimsical admission that "pain is an old friend" perfectly encapsulates this strategy. And it works. At last, we have a Marvel movie that reaches its climax in a way that, while gruesome, ultimately resolves in a non-violent fashion. And after all of that, Strange is not Sorcerer Supreme. He has no predefined destiny, no obligatory position as an exemplar or pinnacle-occupying hero. Instead of promoting his own genius or prowess, he humbly becomes the mere guardian of one of the Sanctum Sanctorum locations that protect our world, and offers his assistance to those who share his goals, even if they present a possible threat. He shows intelligence, discretion, charisma, and an ongoing desire to continue improving, continue changing, continue to do and get and be better than the man he was at the start of his journey. This is why I hold him in higher regard than Captain America. I may get some backlash for this. But while Captain America basically was born as a paragon of the virtues United States citizens aspire to exemplify and wish their country would represent, Stephen Strange is truly a self-made and ever-improving vanguard of actions matching intention and morals defining actions. Relying on his wits and intellect rather than physical violence or even his powers, he shows us that what it takes to be a hero isn't what you are, but the choices you make, especially if you've made bad ones in the past. Steve Rogers has made mistakes, but not to the degree of Stephen Strange. Tony Stark has improved himself, but not to the degree of Stephen Strange. He is simply, in my opinion, head and shoulders above the rest. And not just because of the Cloak of Levitation. I'll be watching Doctor Strange quite a few more times. I suspect it will join other works in my yearly practice of revisiting narrative moments that inspire me on a foundational level. There are echoes of who I was, and goals for who I want to be, in the cinematic portrayal of Stephen Strange. This deeply personal connection, along with its production values, memorable portrayals, and mind-bending effects, is why Doctor Strange is, if not the best, one of the finest Marvel movies they have or will produced.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

My Country In Wartime

My Country In Wartime — Blue Ink Alchemy

I have felt this atmosphere in my country before. In the wake of the attacks on the World Trade Center in 2001, there was a palpable aura around the people who walked to and fro, doing their best to go about their daily lives. We fought back against a paralysis so gripping, it threatened to choke the life from us. We'd been knocked back on our heels. We'd taken a sucker punch to the gut. And we resolved, as a nation, not to let the fear rule our lives. We didn't normalize what had happened. We fought back. We went to war. I hate that word. War. FDR hated it, too. He said as much in an address given at Chautauqua, N.Y. in 1936:

I have seen war. I have seen war on land and sea. I have seen blood running from the wounded. I have seen men coughing out their gassed lungs. I have seen the dead in the mud. I have seen cities destroyed. I have seen two hundred limping, exhausted men come out of line—the survivors of a regiment of one thousand that went forward forty-eight hours before. I have seen children starving. I have seen the agony of mothers and wives. I hate war.

I am seeing, and feeling, so many parallels, between those times and now, that I have to use a word and idea that may prove antithetical to what's best for our society, but rings true no matter how I might deny it. What has happened in the wake of this latest election in the United States is no less than a declaration of war. I look at the rhetoric. I read between the lines. I see what's been spewed from the deep places of the Internet. I hear tell of ambitious plans to continue shifting the global atmosphere to one of hatred and "cleansing", from electing more radically prejudiced leaders to a delineation of in what order to "purge" those who are "lesser". These are more than words. These are weapons. And they are aimed directly at a global heart of compassion and understanding just now beginning to emerge from the darkness. In art, there is truth, and words from one of the authors who helped shape me ring true:

ARAGORN: Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not.

This is why it is so important that this behavior, this aggression, this warmongering, is not normalized. We cannot and must not accept it as the new zeitgeist. We must stand together against a tide of ignorance and smug notions of superiority. Our imperative, as a species that wishes to survive and prosper, is to stand together, in love and understanding, and declare that this venom will not kill us. Regardless of our colors, genders, orientations, creeds, and backgrounds, we owe it to ourselves and each other to work as one to overcome what threatens to undermine, belittle, divide, and destroy us. We had a hand in how this came about. We ignored the warnings. We downplayed the severity of the potential consequences. Some of us fell into arrogant presumption, others savored the opportunity to say "we told you so", still others took the proceedings as a joke, and as a whole, we failed to stand against a rising tide of darkness that now threatens, more than it ever has before, to engulf the world we are trying so hard to save. The mistakes are ours. We made our decisions. We behold and are sickened by the consequences. Blame does not matter. Being crippled by guilt is no better than being crippled by fear. What matters is — what do we do now? We stand. We plant our feet. We take one another's hands. We look at one another to see the light we have to share, and foster that light to shine with our individual flames. We meet the enemy on the field and declare that we do not and will never surrender. This is not normal. This is not right. It falls to us to protect the work we've already done and the potential we have to make our future better. Each of us, as individuals, has something to offer in what is to come. If we can come together, if we can stymie the growing threat of all-encompassing hatred, if we prove that love can, should, and must prevail — we can win this. We can protect ourselves and our future. And we can look back on this moment and say that, this time, this time, evil was not allowed to rule the day. We can prove that we can get, and be, better. We shall overcome. If my voice has any reach, any meaning, I use it to say this: join me. Not in accepting this as the new normal, but denying it power over us and our future. Join me in a community that shares love, strength, and truth. Join me in looking past one another's flaws, mistakes, and prejudices, to the veracity and beauty of our inner Selves, and telling the darkness and hatred in the world that it cannot prevail, it cannot destroy or conquer us, and it cannot and shall not pass. I will not be silent. I will not stand idle. I will not let this poison kill us. I will stand with you, in this time of war. Will you stand with me?

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

From the Vault: Paging Doctor Strange

From the Vault: Paging Doctor Strange — Blue Ink Alchemy

It's been almost six years since I originally wrote about Doctor Strange, and now, there's a major motion picture telling his story. I haven't seen it yet. But I'm very eager to do so. Part of the reasons why are laid out below. As is his origin story, at least from the comics, so... spoilers, I guess? This is a time where, now more than ever, the world needs some magic, and those with the wisdom and humility to wield it for the greater good. The world needs wizards.

---

As much as I never really got into reading his stories on a regular basis, I'm a big fan of Doctor Strange. Marvel's a world full of armored geniuses, super-soliders and Viking gods. Standing right beside them is this bookworm, a former surgeon who managed to become Earth's Sorcerer Supreme? How did he do it? Did he stumble across a magical MacGuffin or get touched by an angel or bitten by a magical spider? No. He worked for it. Granted, his origin story isn't a terribly noble one, but this is Marvel we're talking about. Strange was a gifted surgeon who cared more about his wealth and reputation than actually helping people. He got involved in an auto accident that damaged the nerves in his hands. He lost much of the fine manipulation necessary to be a surgeon. Stubborn and vain, Strange refused to take a position as a consultant or practice 'lesser' medicine and hunted down every potential cure he could find. His search was fruitless and drained his fortune, leaving him a destitute back-alley doctor, his reputation lost and his bar tabs mounting. Finally, he heard word of someone called "the Ancient One," pawned the last of his possessions to seek the hidden monastery, and begged for the Ancient One to heal him. The Ancient One refused. Furious, Strange very nearly left only to see the Ancient One beset by mysical forces. His curiosity overwhelmed his frustration and he began to speak to the Ancient One as a pupil does to a student. Uncovering treachery and trying to warn the master, Strange overcame his selfishness and vowed to combat the evil he'd seen with his own eyes. Through years of study and practice, he became a sorcerer and one of the foremost minds of the arcane in the world. He's been through a lot. He's faced all sorts of challenges from the likes of Doctor Doom to personifications of cosmic forces. He's survived them all, with nothing more than the contents of old scrolls and his own quick thinking. And he has never, ever gone back to thinking only about himself. At every turn, he's contributed to the greater good of the world around him. How is this not something to which we should aspire? Doctor Strange is a shining example of the proper response to hubris and hardship. Despite all his challenges, all he's lost, he soldiers on, taking on the next obstacle as resolutely as possible. He never gives up. Even when he loses the title of Sorcerer Supreme, he holds on to his abilities not to pursue his own aims, but to help from the sidelines, advise from the shadows. He still refuses to give up on a world that would have given up on him long ago. I have to wonder if, these days, walking as he does with a sullen disposition and rocking a mean trenchcoat, he ever thinks back to those days as a surgeon, to the way he'd casually light a cigarette the moment he's out of the operating room ensuring the patient can pay for the life-saving medicine he just administered. Since becoming a sorcerer, he's never demanded payment, never asked for special recognition or reward. Even when he's all but bugged to remain with Luke Cage's New Avengers, he politely and humbly tries to tell them he's not worthy to stand among them, that his mistakes are too great, his burdens too much for others to bear. Yet he has borne the hardships of others many times, and when Strange finally cracks the smallest of smiles, it's a greater statement than reams of text could make. Brian Michael Bendis and Grant Immoren are doing a fantastic job with Strange. I'm glad to see him in this current form and look forward to more. When I was a child, I was fascinated with the magic. Nowadays, I'm fascinated by the man.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

— Blue Ink Alchemy

This was a terrorist attack. Looking at the outcome of the 2016 Presidential Election in the United States, that is the only conclusion that makes sense to me. Granted, I'm no authority on such matters, but the evidence points to a large number of voters who did not respond to polls, organized and mobilized in large numbers, and took action to undercut and disenfranchise a progressive movement that, while stymied thanks to the DNC, still has momentum and promise. A lot of people are terrified as a result. And that is the goal of a terrorist attack. Not the loss of life. Not the damage to property. The fear. We don't talk about white terrorism a lot in this country. It doesn't get a lot of press. It doesn't sell headlines. And even if it would, the white businesspeople in charge of the news media don't normally allow such things to come to light. It's always been easier to foist blame upon the other and alienate those who are different. It's deflection. It's projection. And, most disgustingly, it's worked for millennia. I know this might be coming off as hysteria or paranoia, but this is the only way the outcome makes any sense to me. White rural voters — poorly educated, irrationally angry, entrenched in antiquated notions, and/or deliberately misinformed — let their hate fester in their homes and hearts. They ignored polls and pundits. They anticipated election day. And they turned out in droves. Motivated by ignorance, hatred, and fear of their own, they pushed their racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic agendas through in the form of a demagogue, and they're salivating at the thought of 'taking [their] country back' and 'making America great again'. If that isn't terrorism, I don't know what is.

---

It was arrogance, on both sides, that allowed this to happen. I mean, we've been on this path since before the "American experiment" began. But I don't have the room to expound upon that here. All I can do is look at the facts. Not cast blame, but discuss facts. The DNC, in its arrogance, turned its nose up at a progressive platform full of motivated, well-educated voters whose candidate spoke with conviction, passion, and honesty. The prevailing Democratic campaign, in its arrogance, did not take the threat of hate-fueled demagoguery seriously. Disgusted voters, in their arrogance, raised middle fingers to the call for a unified front from the very candidate they had backed, and threw their votes away on candidates that did nothing but fracture their own base. And the arrogance of the opposing voter base that they would 'rise again' pushed them to take deliberate action that threatens to set this country back decades, if not reshape it into something truly ugly and unrecognizable to the idealists who fought for the freedom of slaves, women's suffrage, and the rights of the LGBTQ community. In one way or another, we all have a share of responsibility in how things have turned out in this country. Which means the responsibility of pushing back against our mistakes and doing better, acting better, being better, falls to us, as individuals, and as a people who need to stand together, believe in ourselves and one another, and not go quietly into the night.

---

I'm terrified. I worry about a lot of people around me. My thoughts are with the wonderful human beings I've met who boldly express their nonbinary identities, the indigenous people of this land who have been cruelly and wantonly abused since Europeans landed on their shores, and the women and people of color who now have to wonder what the future holds for them and their families. I'm disconnected from many of those I knew personally. I've worked hard to be a better version of myself than I ever have before, in spite of the fact that, in the long run, that work may not matter to anybody but myself. Every day, that work continues, in spite of the phantoms of my mistakes and this renewed feeling of despair. But this is not a time to crawl into a hole and cover oneself in dirt. I feel and acknowledge my fear and my grief, but I will not allow them to prevail over me. I recognize that my sincerity and integrity and veracity may be questioned, but I will not allow my voice to fall silent. In spite of all the damage that has been done, through deliberate acts or poor decision-making, on a national or personal level, I still believe we can rise above our circumstances and what is set against us. I still believe in the better natures within us — as Yoda put it, "luminous beings are we, not this crude matter" — that defy basic animal reactive impulses of lashing out blindly, fleeing, or freezing. I still believe that love is far, far more powerful than hatred. I still believe that our capacity to imagine one another complexly is far, far more powerful than reducing one another to caricatures of humanity or spectres of monstrosity. I still believe that, without violence or destruction, love can prevail over fear, knowledge can prevail over ignorance, and barriers set up by established and insecure bastions of power can be smashed by those who stand together, as one unified force of understanding and love, and say

NO. YOU MOVE.

Like so many, I feel like an outcast, disconnected from what I thought I knew, adrift in uncharted territory. But dammit, I am still holding onto the idea that there is good in this world. And it is worth fighting for. It may be a foolish idea. I've had quite a few foolish ideas in my lifetime. Some lead to horrible mistakes. This isn't one of them. This foolish idea, this one, is good, and worth sharing. And if all I can do is share it with you, tell you that you're not alone, and that I love you — we may have never met, we may have lost touch, we might never meet, but dammit, I love you — and that we can and will fight back against this — not just fight, but win — then that is what I will do. With all the strength I have. With all of the love in my heart. With every breath I take until I breathe my last. I stand with you and for you. Now. And always. Let's get to work.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

— Blue Ink Alchemy

This was a terrorist attack. Looking at the outcome of the 2016 Presidential Election in the United States, that is the only conclusion that makes sense to me. Granted, I'm no authority on such matters, but the evidence points to a large number of voters who did not respond to polls, organized and mobilized in large numbers, and took action to undercut and disenfranchise a progressive movement that, while stymied thanks to the DNC, still has momentum and promise. A lot of people are terrified as a result. And that is the goal of a terrorist attack. Not the loss of life. Not the damage to property. The fear. We don't talk about white terrorism a lot in this country. It doesn't get a lot of press. It doesn't sell headlines. And even if it would, the white businesspeople in charge of the news media don't normally allow such things to come to light. It's always been easier to foist blame upon the other and alienate those who are different. It's deflection. It's projection. And, most disgustingly, it's worked for millennia. I know this might be coming off as hysteria or paranoia, but this is the only way the outcome makes any sense to me. White rural voters — poorly educated, irrationally angry, entrenched in antiquated notions, and/or deliberately misinformed — let their hate fester in their homes and hearts. They ignored polls and pundits. They anticipated election day. And they turned out in droves. Motivated by ignorance, hatred, and fear of their own, they pushed their racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic agendas through in the form of a demagogue, and they're salivating at the thought of 'taking [their] country back' and 'making America great again'. If that isn't terrorism, I don't know what is.

---

It was arrogance, on both sides, that allowed this to happen. I mean, we've been on this path since before the "American experiment" began. But I don't have the room to expound upon that here. All I can do is look at the facts. Not cast blame, but discuss facts. The DNC, in its arrogance, turned its nose up at a progressive platform full of motivated, well-educated voters whose candidate spoke with conviction, passion, and honesty. The prevailing Democratic campaign, in its arrogance, did not take the threat of hate-fueled demagoguery seriously. Disgusted voters, in their arrogance, raised middle fingers to the call for a unified front from the very candidate they had backed, and threw their votes away on candidates that did nothing but fracture their own base. And the arrogance of the opposing voter base that they would 'rise again' pushed them to take deliberate action that threatens to set this country back decades, if not reshape it into something truly ugly and unrecognizable to the idealists who fought for the freedom of slaves, women's suffrage, and the rights of the LGBTQ community. In one way or another, we all have a share of responsibility in how things have turned out in this country. Which means the responsibility of pushing back against our mistakes and doing better, acting better, being better, falls to us, as individuals, and as a people who need to stand together, believe in ourselves and one another, and not go quietly into the night.

---

I'm terrified. I worry about a lot of people around me. My thoughts are with the wonderful human beings I've met who boldly express their nonbinary identities, the indigenous people of this land who have been cruelly and wantonly abused since Europeans landed on their shores, and the women and people of color who now have to wonder what the future holds for them and their families. I'm disconnected from many of those I knew personally. I've worked hard to be a better version of myself than I ever have before, in spite of the fact that, in the long run, that work may not matter to anybody but myself. Every day, that work continues, in spite of the phantoms of my mistakes and this renewed feeling of despair. But this is not a time to crawl into a hole and cover oneself in dirt. I feel and acknowledge my fear and my grief, but I will not allow them to prevail over me. I recognize that my sincerity and integrity and veracity may be questioned, but I will not allow my voice to fall silent. In spite of all the damage that has been done, through deliberate acts or poor decision-making, on a national or personal level, I still believe we can rise above our circumstances and what is set against us. I still believe in the better natures within us — as Yoda put it, "luminous beings are we, not this crude matter" — that defy basic animal reactive impulses of lashing out blindly, fleeing, or freezing. I still believe that love is far, far more powerful than hatred. I still believe that our capacity to imagine one another complexly is far, far more powerful than reducing one another to caricatures of humanity or spectres of monstrosity. I still believe that, without violence or destruction, hope can prevail over fear, knowledge can prevail over ignorance, and barriers set up by established and insecure bastions of power can be smashed by those who stand together, as one unified force of understanding and love, and say

NO. YOU MOVE.

Like so many, I feel like an outcast, disconnected from what I thought I knew, adrift in uncharted territory. But dammit, I am still holding onto the idea that there is good in this world. And it is worth fighting for. It may be a foolish idea. I've had quite a few foolish ideas in my lifetime. Some lead to horrible mistakes. This isn't one of them. This foolish idea, this one, is good, and worth sharing. And if all I can do is share it with you, tell you that you're not alone, and that I love you — we may have never met, we may have lost touch, we might never meet, but dammit, I love you — and that we can and will fight back against this — not just fight, but win — then that is what I will do. With all the strength I have. With all of the love in my heart. With every breath I take until I breathe my last. I stand with you and for you. Now. And always. Let's get to work.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

From The Vault: The Drifter's Hand

From The Vault: The Drifter's Hand — Blue Ink Alchemy

Last week, I posted some Flash Fiction that put some old gods in new situations. This has been an interest of mine for some time. I thought I'd pull in some old stories of mine and see what else can be done. Like this one - The Drifer's Hand. It would be silly to try and translate every story from the Eddas in this way, but I still feel like there's more story, here. I don't know if I'll do anything with it, but maybe... Just maybe... We'll see, I suppose.

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The Eddas are full of manliness, with epic tales of heroes facing down monsters and often paying a dear price for being who and what they are. And many Old West tales bring us images of stalwart, stoic men standing in dusty roads, eyes narrowed at an opponent, unwilling to back down even if it means a bullet for their trouble. It felt, to me, like a match made in Asgard, and the result is The Drifter's Hand. You can read the text below, or download the PDF here. Either way, read, comment & enjoy. [spoiler] For a good portion of the late 1800s, the Arizona boom-town Midgard was every bit as prosperous and populous as her sisters. She never quite grew to the proportions of Tombstone, though, and as the new century approached she began to shrink. There was talk of the railroad going through or near the town, but local lawlessness kept the Santa Fe people from really committing to any sort of construction. The stranger approached Midgard on a strong but tired horse, his hat half-tipped over his eyes, his beard disheveled and lips cracked from the road. His boots were caked with mud and his duster had more than a couple holes in it, some natural wear and tear while others clearly indicated the paths of past bullets. He seemed heedless of the looks he was getting from Midgard's locals as he rode into town, his horse unerringly heading for the nearest trough of fresh water. As soon as his steed was positioned to wash away some of the dust from the road, the stranger swung down from the saddle, tying the horse to the nearby hitch. Removing one of his gloves, the man bent to the trough and drank some of the water himself. Flicking some droplets away from his beard, he turned and headed in the direction of the saloon. His spurs tapped against the wooden floor. The mid-afternoon crowd in the saloon barely numbered a dozen, roughly half of them at or near the Faro table in the corner. The man behind the cards, a well-groomed gent with a dark waistcoat and thin mustache, glanced up at the stranger before declaring the player to his right the winner. The stranger removed his hat and approached the barkeep. "I'd like a room, if one's available." "Ain't seen you 'round here before," the barman observed as he placed a shot glass on the bar and produced a bottle whiskey. Seeing it, the stranger nodded. "You just passin' through?" "I've been on the road quite a while. Not sure if my last stop'll be Tombstone or further west." The barman nodded, pouring the drink. "Well, there's a room available for the night, if you want it. Dollar and a half a week to occupy it, and that entitles you to breakfast in the mornin'." "Sounds like a good deal." The stranger was rummaging under his duster for his money when the saloon doors swung open again, permitting a stocky man in a widebrimmed hat to enter. The sash around his waist, the band at his arm and the kerchief tied around his neck were all the same color, the red of blood pumping from a gaping wound. "Oh, horseshit." The color drained from the barman's face. "It's Tuesday, Dwight," the newcomer bellowed. "Fenris wants their money." "I don't have it all." The man behind the bar, his hand shaking, produced a modest iron box with a handle. He opened it and pulled out a small wad of bills. "The rooms ain't been full all week and not many people been stoppin' by..." "Stuff it." The newcomer snatched the money from the shaking hand offered to him, and quickly counted it. "This is all? What about that city slicker in the corner?" At mention of the corner, the crowd around the Faro table scattered. The man who'd been dealing raised his eyebrows at them. "Looks like he just lost most of his profit," he observed, not looking at the newcomer. "I already paid Dwight for this week." The newcomer slammed a fist into the table in frustration and grabbed Dwight by the lapels. "I oughta break your face. You holdin' out on Fenris? You know that ain't smart." "I'm sorry! I'll have it tomorrow!" "Tomorrow is when Fenris comes through here and burns this stinkin' waterin' hole to the ground!" The sound of a gun being cocked echoed through the saloon. The newcomer's eyes slid to his right, towards the barrel pressed to his temple. The stranger set down the shot glass with his right hand, the left occupied with gripping the Colt Peacemaker. "I think now's a good time to leave," he told the newcomer. "You lost your marbles, stranger? This ain't your concern." "I plan on sleeping here. If you and whomever this Fenris guy is plan on burning the place down while I'm sleeping in it, I'd say that damn well makes it my concern." "Fenris ain't one guy. Fenris is a force of nature! It'll sweep through this town like a plague outta the Bible!" "Well, you can tell Lucifer all about it when I send you to meet him. Which'll be in 5 seconds if you don't haul ass." The newcomer's face slackened, his eyes flicking between the hard countenance of the stranger and Dwight's disbelieving expression. At the fourth second, he swallowed. "This ain't over." He backed away from the gun, and then shook a fist at Dwight. "This ain't over!" "It is for now," the stranger said. "Disappear." He did. Dwight poured the stranger another whiskey. "Nobody's stood up to a Fenris man for months. You must really not be from around here." The stranger knocked back the shot. "Mind telling me who or what Fenris is?" "Wolves of Arizona." The voice came from the man behind the Faro table, who stood and walked over to join the stranger at the bar. "Thieves, bank robbers, kidnappers and murders. Just the worst sort of cowboy. Most of 'em just wear the red sashes. Fenris folk go the extra mile with those red kerchiefs and armbands of theirs." "Heard most of the cowboys were down near Tombstone." "So they are, stranger, so they are. One for me too, Dwight." "Right away, Mr. Frey." Dwight produced a second glass, cleaning it quickly to pour the dealer his whiskey. "Needless to say," Frey went on, "you've made yourself an enemy, and one that won't easily be placated, Mister..." "Tyr. Jim Tyr." "Pleased, Mr. Tyr. Arthur Frey, at your service." "You can just call me Jim. Mr. Tyr's my father." "In that case, Jim, why don't you call me Art?" "So why are we playing poker now, instead of Faro?" Art shrugged. "I like changing the game. I call." Jim rubbed his trimmed beard and considered his hand. Three threes wasn't a strong one but it wasn't bad, either. He didn't fold. The locals at the table did. Art turned his cards over, showing a straight. Jim leaned back and gestured to the pot. "All yours." Art smiled a bit and raked in the winnings as Jim turned back to his supper. Dwight had waived the fee for his room earlier, and after coming back from a bath and shave, Jim had found a plate of warm food waiting for him, also courtesy of the barkeep. "I hear you ran off one of the Fenris boys." Jim stopped in the middle of slicing a bit of chicken with a dull knife. "He was hassling Dwight and threatening to burn the place down. I'm sleeping here tonight. Didn't want to wake up on fire." "An understandable concern, stranger, but most folk around here don't want to piss off the Wolf." Jim looked up. The man standing over him wore a dark patch over his left eye and the star of a United States Marshall. "They aren't afraid of you, I take it?" "They know I can't be everywhere at once. And when I'm gone they think it's fun to shoot my deputies. Always have plenty of witnesses to say it was self-defense or some such, though. Everybody's afraid of 'em. They, on the other hand, don't seem to be afraid of anything." "They should be. Every man's got the same blood, same skin, same tendency to die when shot or stabbed." "Now there's a pitch-black observation." The Marshall leaned on the bar. "Where are you from anyhow, Mr. Tyr?" Jim bristled. "Back East. Grew up around Arlington." "You fight in the war?" He looked at the Marshall. "Yeah. Did you?" Before the Marshall could answer, the doors of the saloon burst open. Three men walked in, all wearing the red of Fenris. Dwight ducked behind the bar and the music stopped. "Odin! Where is he?" The Marshall turned. "Right here next to me, Luke Hundr. And you ain't taking him tonight." Luke stalked towards the table, his two cronies in tow. Art made a move to stand, but Jim shook his head. He stepped away from the others and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. "You looking for me?" Luke scowled. "Hear you pulled a gun on my man Butch." "Butch was shaking down Dwight for money he didn't have. He threatened to burn the place down. Since I'm sleeping here, I asked him not to." "You've got it wrong, stranger. Butch wasn't going to do a thing on his own. WE will burn this place down. We put up the money for Dwight to open this little establishment, and if we want to burn it down since he can't pay us, we'll do just that." "Not in city limits," Odin said. "You got a permit for this land, Luke? if so, you'll want to evict Dwight and foreclose." Luke waved a hand dismissively. "That takes too long. I want my money or my land. If I can't have one I'll take the other." He smirked at Odin. "And I know you got a hangin' to be at tomorrow, Marshall. Got that nasty murderer Surtur locked up an' ready to swing. Wouldn't want to miss that, would you? Been chasing him, what, ten years?" Odin's eye narrowed and his mustache curled around his face in a frown. Luke looked past the Marshall at Jim. "Tomorrow, you meet me out in the street or I burn this place down with you in it. Got it?" Jim crossed his arms. "So you and all of your boys can shoot me at once? I didn't fall off the stage yesterday." "It'll just be you an' me. We'll settle this." Luke smiled unpleasantly and tipped his hat to Odin. "Have a nice trip, Marshall." The Fenris men left in short order. Jim rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Regretting pulling that gun on Butch?" "I don't do regret, Marshall. I take it he's met men in the street before?" "Many a time. Like I said, always plenty of witnesses saying the deputy or other poor sod drew down first. They say Luke's got a sense for traps. Any time more than a couple of my men have been waiting for him to show, he doesn't." "And I gather Luke won't be showing up alone." "Probably not." Odin patted him on the arm. "Nobody'll think the less of you if you're gone before dawn." "And leave them to burn Dwight's place down? No way, Marshall. I'm not letting a mongrel like that run me out of town, and Dwight's place is better standing and unscorched." "I have to agree." Art Frey had resumed shuffling the cards, but wasn't paying much attention to them. His eyes were on the men discussing the showdown. Music was playing again and people were going about their business. "This is our town, Marshall. It doesn't belong to Fenris." "Art Frey, you ought to be ashamed of yourself." Odin looked the gambler over with his good eye. "Siting here behind your cards for months not doing a damn thing about these hooligans. Why now?" "They never threatened Dwight like this before. It's be a very lean time. He hasn't had lodgers, nor I many punters. Dwight and I got a good partnership going. I don't want to see it end in flames." "Do you even own a gun?" "Matter of fact, I do. Damn peculiar Henry rifle. Most people find it's too heavy in the barrel or the stock, but if you know her balance and how to use it, the damn thing very nearly aims itself." Odin looked back to Tyr, who shrugged. The marshall then ordered three whiskeys, drank with the men and replaced his hat. "I need to see to Surtur's transportation. We'll be gone before dawn. I wish I could delay but the judge is eager to put this on in the books. Good luck, gentlemen. You're gonna need it." Odin left the saloon. Art turned to Jim. "I hear you served in the war?" "51st Virginia. You?" "I'm a Massachusetts man, myself." They drank their next shot of whiskey in silence. The horse at the hitching post turned to Jim, as if to ask a question. The drifter saw the look, knowing what it meant. "I don't know what I'm doin' out here, either." The dawn broke over Midgard, painting the town and the surrounding parched lands in pinkish reds. The stagecoach with Marshall Odin, his prisoner and deputies had already rattled out of town. The sound of hooves brought Jim's attention back to the street ahead of him. Around him, the signs of the shops swung in the morning breeze. The large sign for the livery stayed in place, dominating the second floor of the barn on the north end of town and sheltered from the wind. Jim stepped away from his horse, hands held at shoulder height. He didn't want to get shot before Luke Hundr had a chance to get off his ride. Eight men on horses came around the corner and down the street. Jim frowned. "I'm here like we agreed, Luke Hundr." He waved his right hand. "My gun hand's empty. I thought you said it'd be just you and me." Luke smirked as he swung down from his horse. The other Fenris men stayed mounted, and Jim saw one of them was Butch, the beefy face under the wide-brimmed hat leering at him. Nobody else was out in the street or even near windows Jim could see. That was probably a safe bet on their part. Without a word, Luke drew his pistol and shot Jim. The impact of the bullet half-spun the drifter to his right and sent him to the dirt. Jim had been shot before, which didn't make it sting any less, but helped him fight down the sense of panic that always came with it. He saw his right hand, ruined, pumping blood into the dust. "I told my first lie when I was six years old," Luke told Jim as the hooting from his men died down. "I ain't quit since then." "Yeah, well. I may not have the experience you do, but I ain't always a hundred percent truthful either." Luke cocked his head to one side, leveling his pistol. "Really? Do tell." "For one, I ain't alone either." From behind the livery sign came a loud crack. Butch was taken right off the back of his horse, a hole opened up in his chest. The others' mouths opened in shock and Luke turned to see what'd happened. That was his mistake. In a flash, Tyr grabbed the pearl handle of his Colt with his left hand, drew the gun and fired. His shot caught Luke in the shoulder, spinning him fully towards his men. Jim rose behind him, the wide eyes of the mounted Fenris men on every move he made. "For another, I'm a southpaw." The second bullet shoved Luke to the ground, his skull shattered from the impact. Tyr, his right hand at his side and streaming blood down his leg, aimed his gun at the next Fenris man. When another tried to draw down on him, the Henry rifle made itself heard again, dropping the offender. The remaining Fenris wheeled their horses, and two more were shot down as they rode for their lives. Jim sank to his knees. He holstered his gun and raised his right arm with his left hand, trying to slow the bleeding by elevating the wound. Art Frey appeared beside him minutes later, the Henry rifle slung over his shoulder. His clothing was still somehow immaculate, despite having to climb into the trestle of a stable in the dark. "Here, Jim." Art handed him a flask, which Art discovered was full of single malt scotch. He nearly coughed when it hit the back of his throat. The gambler helped him to his feet. "Let's get that hand looked at." "Whatever hand I'm holding next, Frey, it's going to beat yours. I'm feeling pretty damn lucky today." Art chuckled. "I'll take that bet, Tyr. Now, let's make sure you don't bleed to death before I take the rest of your money, too." ~ fin ~ [/spoiler]

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Blue Ink Alchemy