Heart Attack

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July 29th, 2018 by Patrick Starks

HEART ATTACK MAIN

Heroes. What if I was to tell you that the person that sat next to you at work was, in fact, a hero. What would you do? What would you think? What would you feel?

Oh, right, they couldn’t be. It’s impossible. That’s at least what you tell yourself, however, it is sometimes the impossible that can be quite possible. Yet, you have never succeeded in such, so how could they? How can they become so iconic? Well, first one must drop their assumption that that person is beneath them or equal. Titles mean nothing in this life. Rather your that person’s boss, older brother, father, co-worker, it doesn’t matter, they are them and you are you. And the differences tell.

You see Bronson was just a young lad fresh out of college. And over time he’d gotten his masters in Law, however, none would have believed at his firm that he was so much more than meets the eye. Day after day, Bronsan’s co-workers spoke of bridal showers, baby showers, trips to places most would have never considered a vacation, nevertheless, Bronson always remained to himself for there was a mission at hand. Now don’t get it wrong, all of which I speak of is what most of us live for in this life today, however, not all are destined for such things, can we agree?

Bronson wanted to be more than average, it coursed through his veins after all, and the idea’s of living behind a picket fence was just old jibberish to his generation, at least it was for the ones that felt life to be more. In fact, his father was his own boss, who owned his own tennis shop, that of which he used to help kids in need off the streets. And the money he made from such he used to get those same kids through school, and the list would go on. His mother as well held her own business, selling jewelry she made from scratch, and there was no doubt about it, she adored the finer things in life. And like his parents, his grandparents were the same for they were the ones responsible for embedding such drive into the DNA of the family tree. And at the end of it all, they all wanted to see a greater life for all. It was apparent that heroism and the fight for independence flowed through Bronson’s body faster than venom from a black mamba, and it was this he would seek no antidote for. Who would?

In such a plastic world that he lived, Bronson would forever hold doubt in his heart. From the half-naked photos on Instagram, to the cars people drove, to the number of trips you went on, to the people you knew—it was all any cared about or valued to choose—all the things that they wished they could be or do. But Bronson was never known to be a fanboy, not in the slightest, and if he was, it would be geared more towards himself for his love seeped more graciously than the sap from an oak tree.

So many of the gifted. So many overlooked by the aroma of false icons, Bronson thought. And little did the fans of these icons know that in the end they only cared about the money, more so themselves at the end.

“I don’t want to be a role model, I just want to do what I love,” said a Celebrity.

Hmm. They would not be wrong to feel this way. Nobody in this life is responsible for no one but themselves. However, if you’re going to stand at the top of the mountain, if you’re going to expect people to follow your lead, bets do it with good intention—something more than the money in your wallet for this is not fulfillment, this is only death. But of course who doesn’t want to be wealthy and have a better life for themselves? But what one does with that wealth will depict if they are truly a hero or a villain in the making, and it is this that is most important for money only amplifies who that person already is.

Even though his mother told him that he couldn’t, Bronson always felt that he had what it took to save the world. It was a mom’s duty to see her child out of harm’s way. Bronson’s mother had seen it all, and she just wanted to make sure that her child was not taken advantage of. To her, everyone was a suspect till proven innocent.

And there Bronson sat in his worn out computer chair, drawings on the walls of his cubicle as he sipped on a cup of tea that he hoped would bring him closer to the perfect antidote to this life we live.

“That Beyonce was so amazing, she’s such an incredible woman. I could never do what she does,” said a woman from behind.

Bronson’s eyes rolled to the back of his skull. It was the one thing he hated—negative talk—about oneself. People who believed that they couldn’t be as great as the ones they admired sickened him. Everyone had what it took to be something great, in his eyes.

“Better to die trying than not at all,” said Bronson. “You could if you’d just stop…”

And just like that, Bronson had caught his tongue before getting himself into an awkward situation. One of which that could possibly get him fired, however, he laughed. They would be doing him a favor.

They say in life you should always start your days off positive. That positivity along with the faith that you bring will gain you a step closer to your destiny. Although, such is easier said than done. With so many irrelevant thoughts swarming around his mind, from nine to five, it would be too hard to ever fully turn blind from thought, that being the negative ones.

As much as he wanted to shed some light on the ignorance of the ones around him, he was taught by his father that heroes must keep their identity a secret, for the ones around them could never truly understand the sacrifices they make or the trail of blood they leave behind. And loneliness would be at the peak of it all—no more clubs, no more girlfriends, no more parties—just themselves and their gift—the only reason to keep moving forward, to stay alive.

But of course, Bronson had always felt such from birth, and it was this he was never afraid of. To hear his own thoughts, to help the blinded, it was all that moved him faster than a can a of Rockstar.

Beyonce, Oprah, Bill Gates, James Patterson, even Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, he thought about them all and the journey’s they took. He looked at the timeline and then became anxious. Waiting for another ten to fifteen, to twenty years, to be big enough to make an impact in the world was something he felt he hadn’t the time for. Something had to be done now. But little did he know that patience was the key to it all.

“If they believe in what we believe, then together we can heal the rest of the fallen,” said Bronson. “If they believe what we believe in, then together we can rejoice, we can be one, we can find our calling,” said Bronson.

And months later Bronson would finally quit his job. His first task was to build a team, however, had no friends within his circle that cared enough—mediocrity was their only mission in life.  And for hours on end, Bronson worked towards ideas that could make the world internationally a better place for all. He was, of course, American, nevertheless, he never believed in turning his cheek from the whole world entirely. Yet, on his forty inch LCD, others would disagree to that notion.

“It ain’t our problem. Why should we have to help them?” said a woman on Komo 5. “They need to help themselves. Besides, we have too many problems in our own backyard that still need to be addressed.”

The woman had made a few valid points. But in order to get aid from others, you as well have to give some aid for anything to ever get solved. It is the circle of life after all. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch your back, the saying goes.

We as humans were better than that, Bronson thought.  Yet I knew better than he, that he was more than just the average human.

Running footsteps above him then sent vibrations through the ruff. The wall to the right side of his bedroom thumped from a slow to a fast rhythm, and then stopped at the sound of a howling man and woman. It was a Friday night, Netflix and pizza. A marvel show sounded it good, so, he settled for “Black Lightning.” He was never really a fan of DC Comics, however, a so-called witty man made him aware that there was a lot of knowledge that could be taken from a hero’s journey, regardless if it was DC or Marvel. Homework had to be done.

Time went by fast. It was 1am at night. Bronson was now halfway through episode 6, season 1 of Black Lighting. A scream then pierced from behind his front door. More thumping went around but this time he was for sure it was nothing sexual. He then ran to his door tripping over the cord to his lamp. He pulled himself back together and peeked through the eyehole hesitantly. It was a man and a woman.

Crusted hands gripped tightly around the woman’s neck, while all life that the good lord put into her spewed out. She fought but then the man fought harder. Bronson opened the door.

“Hey! Let her go,” yelled Bronsan.

The man smiled. He threw the woman to the side like a ragdoll and then turned his direction towards Bronson. His teeth gritted, along with veins that bulged out of his skin more than a bodybuilder on steroids. He sweated profusely, and the stench of evil emerged from that very sweat like a homeless man in a sauna, if possible.

The man then sprinted towards the door to Bronson’s apartment. Before Bronson could react the two had gone through the door to room 3-406. The man’s weight was now on top of him, and just like the woman moments before, hands wrapped around his neck like a boa constrictor. All life, all fight that he’d been given since birth was now being pulled out of him. Days of becoming a hero were not looking so good.  But then it happened.

A power that not many heroes nor superheroes have seen. Not even the great Stan Lee. No, this one was unique in its own way. Through his turquoise t-shirt red glowed from underneath. His eyes didn’t glow, his body didn’t glow, no part, except for his heart. It was like being on a thousand energy drink high or insanely in love, comically.

“What the hell?” said the man.

His arms began slowly reversing from Bronson’s neck, and not long after Bronson would give the man a chin check. The man flew right through the entrance they’d come through. The man then pulled a gun from his back. He fired a shot. He’d hit his target.

“No!” yelled the woman.

For the moment Bronson could feel the burn of the bullet just two clicks away from his belly button. His heart now glowed more radiant than ever, sending energy down to the hole in his stomach. It flowed like nothing anyone had ever seen, like a bucket of paint to a wall perhaps.

“What are you freak?” said the man. “Doesn’t matter. A bullet to the head will surely solve the problem. Say cheese,” the man smiled.

He fired another shot but this time missed. He then reached back over and picked up the woman who obviously should have left moments ago, but we all know how these stories go.

“Step back!” yelled the man. “Or I’m gonna send something pretty to the man upstairs..”

Bronson then took a step back. He feared for the woman’s life. He’d never been in this sort of situation before. The sounds of djembe drums pulsated from his chest, something like that of Jumanji, however, know wildlife came through the walls. Anxiety from when he was a kid, he pondered. He hadn’t taken his meds in years that’s for sure.

The man now let the woman go. He took his left hand and then gripped his left pectorial harder than a bald eagle would do a goat. That was real right? Another story to tell perhaps. Moving on.

The man dropped down to the floor, pulling down all the decor to the window next to him. All was history. The woman ran over to the man and then checked his pulse.  Luckily for Bronson that she was a nurse.

“He’s still alive,” said the woman. “But he will need medical attention asap.”

Bronson was still silent. He was in awe. Was it a dreamed? He wondered.

“How did you…” said the Woman.

“Yes!!!” yelled Bronsan. “Yes!!! I mean I knew I had a gift, but holy shit. What am I? How did I get this? I gotta think of a name for myself.”

With her jaw dropped to the ground the woman would slowly pick it back up, backing away from the man like a startled feline. Sirens now echoed from outside. Red and blue pierced through the window glass.

“Did you call the cops already?” asked Bronson.

The woman then raised her cracked iPhone as if she was giving a toast to his heroicness. Nevertheless, someone did. And that’s where I come in.

The room became dark for only a moment. The woman would be removed from the scene as well the horrid stench of the heartfelt man if you catch my drift. And for the first time that was where me and your dad stood, eye to eye.

“Did you guys fight?” asked a young woman. “Was it like Rocky and Apollo? Like David and Goliath? Like Godzilla and whatever he fights all the time?”

Oh, my dear if we did trust me I would not be hear with an angel such as yourself, at least not hear on the ground.

But that was the day me and your dad would work together. I had always searched for someone like him, but in the back of my mind still couldn’t believe how real he was. I taught him everything I know about life, just as I have taught you.

That was the day the Superhero we all know as “Heart Attack” was born. That was the day your dad became a hero. I only tell you this now because you are older and you have a right to use your gift however you’d like. But let this be a warning. Use your gift with good attention. Most importantly, be humble.

Here your father left this for you to have before he disappeared. Maybe you’ll find your as he had once:

To whoever reads this, may your heart fill the emptied

“I have been told I cannot save the world, only myself, but ignoring such in my eyes would have been a bad hand to be dealt. Superhero, me, yeah possibly, however, I feel that in all of us, but can you see?
And It’s a fact. I have a heart too big for this cage that bestows in my chest, but I’d rather be out there fighting then letting thy soul be to rest. Crawl, walk or run, its all the same, I don’t do it for the fame, but only for the peace, we must regain.
They call me Heart Attack, feel my name beat through yours.”

Sincerely, 

Heart Attack 

 

 

 

Once a mighty power

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June 24th, 2018, by Patrick Starks 

A MIGHTY POWER

On those days only leaves complimented my mind, for they had always brought me peace. They were beautiful in every way, they were gracious, and flowed like rivers upon my oval cheeks.  None, not even I expected life to be like this. And still to this day I have no idea of what one would call a man like me or the others for that matter.

Since I was a child, I always believed myself to be a hero of some sort, but nothing like the famous Gandhi or Nelson Mandela. I was something more fictional, yet, real all in one.

Coal flowed and glowed all around my body, along with a visor for my helmet that reflected that I meant business—some would have called it sheer darkness, but this was a power that even the heavens wished they could bear. All that any could envision of nature surrounded me as if I was mother earth, or father earth if such existed.

Never in my life have I felt I was suited to be a leader, yet, like most leaders in the world it would seem it had found me. I had a team, I had a voice, and no matter how much it hurt, I had to make a choice. But if one told me that those choices would bring me nothing but pain, I never would have done so in the first place. I was a captain. However, I was one that did not go down with his ship or his fellow mates. Yeah, I was a hero alright, more so, a failure than anything…

Not long after it happened… I would hang it all up. My boots, my helmet, my suit, even the badge I had gotten when I first became leader—it was smaller in my hand now. Any other would have thought it be just a toy, but no, this was not your ToysRus collectible—not mine. Who’d ever believe a kids childhood show to become a reality? Not I, but the badge, no, the morpher, said it all.

Mike was our leader originally. He was awesome, no one could fight like him. No matter how good I got he woudl always be two steps ahead—he was like Goku and I was like Vegeta, if any get that reference. But it’s been at leats four years since we last saw him, but that is another story to tell, part two maybe.

But what was a hero without a team afterall? What was a hero without courage? These were all the questions I would ask, but nothing from inside ever came—I had no more fight left in me. Although I could still see that little boy inside, the little boy I used to be, before the evils of this world would get a hold of my innocents.

He still wore that same helmet I had not long ago put away. He could still throw a mean roundhouse kick like nobodies business, and at time’s slipped for he hadn’t mastered his balance yet. But as much as I had excelled from that little boy from within, as much as I had perfected more than just a roundhouse kick alone, something about that boy still shined brighter than I—he was stronger, he was better than me, and it was this that I had always known. But how could I get such back? My innocents, my joy, my fearlessness. How could I be like him again? How could I be the real me?  I asked.

It took about two cold and wet nights to get off my rear—laying around in misery was just not standard for a man from the way I was raised. I had to be strong.

On a Sunday afternoon I would eventually leave my hideaway, besides, there wasn’t much left for me there now. Walls crawled with vines as they all became tangled like the shoe strings that sometimes we wish we could cut off when in a hurry. Four more suits lied in glass containers like the Metropolitan Museum, and they were all cold by the touch.

Pink glowed like a million fireflies in the container in front of me. None still glowed or could ever glow like hers, my love. It still had her scent—sweet, and comforting. She was the best of the best. If anyone deserved to be a leader it was her, but she for some reason always had faith in me, and this I still am trying to come to understand. She tried to warn me before, but… that is another story to tell, one I am not sure I could ever tale. But if you can hear me anywhere out there love, just know that I still love you gorgeous. No one could kick like you… No one…

No matter how much it hurt, I had to get it back, even if it meant crying all the way there. I had changed but not too much for I was still big-hearted, and sometimes gullible than ever. I had already purchased my flight ticket across seas—they were hard to come by now. The world had become so chaotic, that crossing any border of the world would mean life or death—a sad story that will be told to our children’s children if we make it this far, and it is this story one day I will tell.

On the mountain, a woman waited—Shontara.

Shontara was like no other. No average woman, no average man even, she was, in fact, something fictional. I was close, and I knew it for Shontara’s aura was as heavenly as the opening of window curtains in the morning. The world was suffering. And even though she was once it’s protector, it was no longer her responsibility. It was now someone else’s turn.

“I knew you would come,” said Shontara. “And I know why you’re here.”

“So… Then you know that the world needs you now,” I said.

Shontara grinned like a happy Panda. “No my child, that is your job now. I, am retired.”

“What? Know, I-I cant… I don’t want to live like this anymore, I’m tired of fighting. I’ve lost too much already,” I said.

Mountains began to move. Trees walked and the oceans talked. It became apparent that my reply wasn’t liked, not in the slightest.

“You made an oath,” said Shontara. “You are a ranger, you are the lone ranger. And you must do what you have to for the peace of this world.”

“No! It’s all a bunch of crap. It’s just a t.v show from the 90’s. This was all a mistake, a fantasy…” said I.

“Oh,” said Shontara. “Than tell me what that mark is on your chest.”

My shirt then ripped from the middle like the mighty Hulk Hogan, and flew off like a tear a way at a bacherlorette party as Shontoras cheeks somewhat became red.  My chest burned and glowed—the emblem of something out of the Jurassic Park.

“I know. The world can be a cruel one at times,” said Shontara. “But don’t forget who you are. Look deeper child for you have a gift far greater than my own.”

“But… I don’t have my suit, “ I said.

“You never needed that silly old thing, that was just for laughs and giggles,” said Shontara. “Look deeper, become one with your inner child. Only then will you know your purpose for that only the child knows what you are capable of.”

I then closed my eyes, and there he was.  He was still throwing roundhouse kicks, still falling. I walked over and rested my hand on his helmet. I tried to pull it off but nothing, but it remained.

From the visor of the helmet revealed my past. my present, my future—all in split screen. I never though I would see her again, but there he was, still might as ever. The main reason to my pain, to my lost of innocents in love. I could still hear him now.

“You are not a child anymore son. The sooner you learn that the better. You will feel pain, you will feel hatred, and only in moments of silence will you ever find happiness. But the world is a playground. Is it not?  It is too loud for such peace. And it is this I will show not only you, but all. You will hate me, you… you will hate me but, I will not run, I will be waiting my son.” 

And that was the last thing he said to me before he slaughtered my whole entire team, before he took love from my soul. I was luckily, throughout the trials and tribulations I did not become like him, but I was always a stubborn one by heart—the little boy from within.

Tears then kayaked down my face like rivers. My body became weak, but I had forgotten about the one in front of me. His small fragile palms rubbed into my scalp like a dog—it was comforting for he knew the right spot. But of course he was me after all. His helmet disinegrated and within seconds eyes of an angel were revealed. I now understood it all, we were becoming one again. Shontara was right. Ink flowed all around again but this time was a feeling of being reborn. It was time. I had now broken from the cocoon into something not even my father felt was possible.

—Pop’s, i’m coming for you.

TO BE CONTINUED 

 

Half an Hour Haze

May 31, 2017 by Patrick Starks

43589229 - elf woman in a magical forest

The room was cold, dark, smelly. The woman stayed hidden for that she knew she was being watched. Tear drops of H20 dripped into the cold snow as they instantaneously became frozen by the touch. Her dress was slightly ripped as were the pants she’d worn under them. Her lips were dry, yet, were remarkably still sensational to the average man. Her breath was heavy, subtle, hot—as nothing, but mist surrounded her face.

She looked for openings, but none of which she could find. Heavy footsteps announced their presence as they slowly tip toed around the corner that she hidden. What became revealed was a creature non-like any witnessed in the real-life, although, who was to say that this was not the real-life either. Continue reading