-Ryan J. Hodge

For someone who enjoys a great story, is there anything better than a narrative that engages you from the very start? Imagine a world so rich you can almost smell the scents in the air, a delivery so clever it forces you to think in a way you never thought you would. I’m Ryan J. Hodge, author, and I’d like to talk to you about…Video Games.

Yes, Video Games. Those series of ‘bloops’ and blinking lights that –at least a while ago- society had seemed to convince itself had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. In this article series, I’m going to discuss how Donkey Kong, Grand Theft Auto, Call of Duty and even Candy Crush can change the way we tell stories forever.

What Videogames Teach Us About Writing for Superheroes

Post 2010 has been boom times for superheroes in cinema. Where before a ‘superhero movie’ was synonymous with ‘over-budgeted flop’, it’s now become an expectation for at least two or three to appear per year. From Avengers to Antman, moviegoers everywhere are rejoicing that Hollywood is now doing their favorite childhood heroes justice.

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Afraid of the Rain

“C’mon, sweetie, it’s time.” Parker eyed the escorts at edge of their property, a National Guard duo outfitted in army fatigues; their faces not registering the persistent downpour that pasted their camouflage uniforms to their bulky frames. The presence of the National Guard on the site of his and Sam’s ravaged home accentuated the feeling of a war zone. The combat-ready pair was poised to evacuate Parker, Sam, and baby Bridget to a makeshift helipad, where a Black Hawk helicopter awaited. An airlift evacuation. Parker had never envisioned being airlifted out of anywhere, unless he was clinging to life after a climbing accident. But he was very much alive, as were his wife and baby; god-damned fortunate to be alive, as a matter of fact. They were simultaneously the luckiest and unluckiest people he knew.

A Mexican monsoon had hovered over Boulder, Colorado and the adjacent foothills for days, delivering more precipitation than they usually got in a year. The ground had become so saturated, the water cascading down the mountain carved fault lines beneath their home like the gaping epicenter of an earthquake. Parker had no one to blame, not even God. As an atheist, he was left with science. Water, saturated earth, and gravity had colluded to create a chasm in the foundation of their home that triggered a collapse, emitting a sound like an explosive device. He and Sam had been tucked in their canopy bed, Bridget in her adjacent crib when the house detonated; there were no early warning signs, just the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain on their roof, lulling them to sleep and then: kaboom! He had catapulted out of bed to Bridget’s crib and shouted, “Get the fuck out of the house!” The pajama-clad family narrowly escaped. An exploding house ranked as Parker’s most terrifying life experience, including a near burial in an avalanche and a climbing “tumble.” He wished he had had a god to shake his fist at, but raging against science felt foolish. For the first time, he understood the usefulness of a god, both as a source of hope and as a target of rage. But if he thought about it too much, he’d think his way back to atheism. Why would anyone believe an omnipotent force that caused undue pain could also produce miracles?

Sam was perched on their white staircase, the only part of the house not coated by a dense blanket of sludge, clasping baby Bridget in her arms. The white steps emerged from the mire, an artist’s rendering of a stairway to heaven in Pompeii.

“Bridget and I would like to stay.” Sam glanced from her baby to Parker.

“Stay and do what exactly?” He scanned the wreckage, trying to imagine what she was possibly thinking. Any path forward would require excavation, months of recovery and at least a year of rebuilding.

“We’ll fix it. Patch it back up. Put it back together again.”

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1.    A Lost Poet
.
I stood on my hills
To watch the flow of others.
I see for the blind
But lost vision
To my inner sight.
.
Like soap,
In order to make clean
The dirt of others,
I dwindle in the act.
.
I have lost my voice
In the sacrificial
Struggle
To make theirs sound louder.
.
My identity has been compromised.
My being… theirs.
My fears
Strength, hope
And dreams
Became entangled in theirs.
.
Who’ll sing for me?
Who’ll cry mine tears
While I’m busy crying for others?
Who’ll travel my journeys
And befriend my lone hours?
.
Who’ll cater for my sorrow,
Keep my sadness
And fears company?
Who’ll fight for me
And stand for me
While standing with me?
.
-Siraj A Sabuke
.
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The Wind Storms Outside

Your curtains billow gleaming slightly of gold as we talk of forests and seas, two adventurers laughing at our twists and turns marveling at these gifts we’ve won wrestled from our respective Gorgons both of us rushing to speak of the edge of land and water almost making love to it wild like this wind and then just as quickly, soft and sensuous bejeweled by the stars and moon.Meanwhile the beach lies before us, pregnant, frothed by the ocean’s hiss while the sky begins to shift, letting through the sun’s last strands. Soon the wind subsides as we get up
shake hands and go our separate ways.

Low Tide

If life were simpler

I wouldn’t keep dreaming of you

and how the ocean wind

whipped our ears  and blew our coats

as we searched for shells,

I wouldn’t remember huddling with you

feeling our passions rise

despite the wind, despite the ocean’s hiss.

If life were simpler

I wouldn’t need to imagine you

finding limpets and bleached olive shells

at low tide.

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