So as I mentioned last time, I’ve started work on a new superhero story. This is a character I’ve had floating around for a while and I think I finally came up with a fun angle from which to tell his story. I like this beginning. Now that I reread that earlier post I see that apparently I had decided against trick arrows, but why the hell would I do that? When I sat down to write I immediately started coming up with ridiculous and fun trick arrows for him to employ.

Anyway, here are the first few hundred words of an as-yet-untitled Quivering Jack story.

Quivering Jack story
The first arrow shattered against the brick wall, a deceptive action that masked the small pellet that ricocheted from the ruins of the arrowhead to jam the would-be mugger’s gun barrel. The following arrow featured a broad, flat head that hammered against the criminal’s shoulder-blade with a crack that signaled significant hospital time. The man screamed and staggered aside. The young man he’d accosted cringed for a moment, then fled the alley, vanishing into the bright sunlight of the open street.

The fire escape shuddered as Quivering Jack leaped over the rail to the dank floor of the alley. He looked as dashing as he does on television or in the newspapers, a modern-day Errol Flynn in a black barnstormer-styled Kevlar jacket and diamond mask. As Jack strode toward the mugger, he clipped his compound bow into a holster on his back. The mugger groaned and fell to his knees, clutching his useless gun with one hand and nursing his injured shoulder with the other.

“Richard!” Jack cried. “Rich! Richard…” he paced in front of the man, stroking his chin. Then he abruptly stopped and placed his hands on his hips. The tone of his voice dropped ominously. “Richard Rayne. We meet again.”

“Son of a bitch!” Rayne moaned. Quivering Jack laughed and gave a playful jab to the man’s crippled shoulder. Rayne choked in pain and collapsed writing to the ground. Little more than skin and bones, Rayne was clearly strung out–meth, probably–and incapable of more than a token resistance even before the shattered bones.

“Don’t worry, Rich,” Jack said. “The ambulance should be along shortly.” He motioned to me, and after a moment I realized he wanted me to call 911. I scrambled to get the phone out of my pocket and juggle his quiver at the same time. I felt like a medieval caddy. “And don’t be too concerned about that…what’s that, your collar bone? You’ll be up and about in months. In prison, of course, but still.”

With that, Quivering Jack decided to make his exit. He dashed toward the alley wall, sprinted up the brick to grasp a drainage pipe, and flipped up and over the edge of the roof. I stared after him as his haughty laugh filtered back to taunt the mugger, who cursed in agony.

The 911 operator picked up and I stammered out my request for an ambulance. When I mentioned Jack’s name I could almost hear the operator roll his eyes. Then he asked who I was.

“My name’s Fletcher,” I said. “I’m his PA.”