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Superhero Stories Written in Ink

Copyright Brent Meske 2013

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I still remember the feeling I had when I first heard about Marcus Patterson. It’s the type of thing you’ll always take with you, like when you ask your grandparents about the twin towers and nine eleven. A lot of them get decades in their eyes, drifting off through the years. My grandpa rakes his hand through his hair every single time he does that. Every story, significant or not, puts the years in their heads, until they go spiraling off into stories.

He chuckled when I asked him about Marcus. ‘I used to love comic books,’ he told me. ‘Movies, comic books, all the horror novels. Then there I am, looking on the Internet one day, and there’s a boy with a bus for a jacket. Used to be my dad could tell you right where he was when Kennedy was shot, and how they all took the day off in remembrance. He was in eighth grade, did I tell you that? He could tell you right where he was when the Discovery blew up. I tell you that one?’

Of course he’s told me that. Just like he was walking to college on the day that the planes crashed into the twin towers. Just like he was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair when he read about Marcus, computer tablet in his lap with the really big fonts so he can make out the words without his bifocals. He says they make him feel like he’s not twenty-four anymore. The same look always crosses his face when he says that, with his eyes sparkling just a little. There’s still mischief somewhere in there, and the years haven’t dulled that. He’s still sharp, and I can tell it every time I look at him. My grandpa, he’s still strong as a horse, he’s still got a full head of hair, and he still talks about women like he could pick up some college coeds if he decided to head out on Friday for a couple of brews with his pals.

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