Girl Superhero Project Prompt 3: The Praying Mantis

Girl Superhero Project Prompt 3: The Praying Mantis
When I think of kick ass women in nature, I think of The Praying Mantis. Create a super hero or super villain around this idea. What superpowers would she have? If you don't particularly like the praying mantis, pick a different insect that does something that could turn into a super hero/villain power.

Being that the impetus for this project was children’s storybooks about superheroes, I tried my darndest to keep this one PG13-rated. So, so difficult.  Nature is totally rated R. 

Enjoy,

LLH

Character Overview

Name: The Praying Mantis (Penelope Moore)

Alignment: Villain/Totally Evil

Superpowers:  Using razor-sharp talons embedded in her arms, the Praying Mantis leaps on her prey, capturing them with her hooks, and then devouring them with her sharp teeth and massive jaw.  While the mantis will capture and eat anything, she prefers to eat men

Modus operandi: Naturally greedy, and a thief, the Mantis steals whatever she can. She began her life of crime with smaller jobs like strip mall boutiques and jewelry stores, then moved up to more elaborate robbery schemes, including major banks and high-stakes casinos.  To keep from being caught or identified, the Praying Mantis is known to kill her associates, right in the middle of the robbery.

Costume: A modified nun’s habit

Motivation:  Pride, avarice, rage, revenge, glory-seeking, daddy-issues

Goal:  To rob even bigger targets, killing even bigger prey

Backstory: It began when Penelope Moore was ten, and her daddy stole her ice cream cone. That bastard! She WANTED that ice cream cone. In a fit of rage, Penelope murdered him.  No one was ever going to take anything from her, ever again! 

Over the years, Penelope found her ruthlessness meant she could take whatever she wanted, and she became an expert thief. When a close associate threatened to turn her in, she killed him, earning Penelope the moniker The Praying Mantis. Like any good super villain, Penelope decided to go with it. 

Through a series of surgeries and body modifications, the Praying Mantis had razor-sharp talons embedded in her forearms. Hidden from view, these talons can latch onto and stab anyone she lays hands on. More razors replaced her teeth, and then another surgery allowed her jaw to come unhinge, expanding large enough for her to bite right through a human neck. 

While the Praying Mantis won’t actually devour people, she has been known to leave a bloody mess in her wake. 

Quotes:  “Hello, boys. It’s time to say your prayers.” 

“You wouldn’t want to betray me, Ralph. I ate the last guy who tried to turn me in.” 

“Don’t lose your head.” 

“Pardon me while I take a bite out of crime.”

“Does this clown taste funny to you?”

Girl Super Hero Project Prompt 2: Power of Pause

Girl Super Hero Project Prompt 2:
Power of Pause
This super hero or super villain has a pause button she can use to her advantage. Tell us how she got it and harnessed its power.

 

Who’s Got The Button

By L.L. Heberlein

(850 words)

He brought the button to my house one gray, gloomy afternoon. The drizzling rain clung in sparkly droplets to his over-sized wool coat and wide-brimmed felt fedora. He looked suspicious, but then anyone in a fedora looks suspicious to me. Who wears fedoras, anyways? Only gangsters in old movies and people trying to look like something they aren’t. What was he, then? Who was he? And what was he doing standing in my doorway?

“You’ll be needing this,” the man said, shoving a box into my hands. It was the same size and shape they used to hold one of those fancy cupcakes. I grabbed the box before it dropped, doing a little foot-shuffle maneuver to keep the door behind me propped open.  It was one of those doors that would lock behind you if you shut it.  I kept the door open with one foot so that it blocked the apartment from his view. Call me paranoid, but I wasn’t inviting Mr. Fedora inside. 

“Sure,” I said, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. Like this sort of thing happened to me every day. It did. Well, maybe not exactly like this, but when you live life as an actual, open, out-of-the-closet superhero, strange things show up on your door step.  It happens. “So, what does it do?”

“It’s...” He drew the sentence out, like he needed more time to figure out what he was going to say. “… A pause button.” 

“Pause button? Appropriate,” I said.  I offered him a little smirk, but the guy didn’t crack a grin. No sense of humor, apparently. No, no. Big pause button. Serious business.  “And what am I supposed to do with it?” 

He cocked his head to one side and stared at me with a blank expression. Everything about him was a blank expression, come to think of it. His face was very neutral, unremarkable. His eyes were a grayish color and gloomy like the sky.  There was nothing overly interesting or notable about his appearance at all. Well, except for the damn stupid hat. There, I said it. The thing looked stupid on him. 

“Miss…”

“Please, let’s not kid ourselves with formalities,” I said. “It’s Hyper Girl. Just Hyper Girl.” 

“Fine,” he said. “Hyper Girl, this is a pause button. It is very powerful, but can be used only once. As soon as you press it, everything around you will stop. The movement of people, the ticking of time, traffic…”

“Ooooh, traffic!” I said, prying the lid off the button box. “Gimme, gimme! I’ve gotta be across town by six.”

Fedora guy yanked the box out of my hands. “Did you miss the part where I said it could be used only once?” 

“Sure, sure,” I said. “Only, when is it going to come in handy for me, right? I mean, I’m Hyper Girl! That’s what I do. I move super, super fast! And a lot. How is a pause button going to help me in any way?” 

Fedora guy shook his head. “If you have to ask that, maybe you aren’t the right person for the box.” He took one step back from the door. It looked like he was ready to leave. 

“Don’t!” I cried. I grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “I’ll take it, I’ll take it! Cheese and Rice!!” I opened the lid again. The red button was the size of a softball. “So, I just push this thing, and time and all that other stuff just stop?  For how long?” 

“Until you push the button again,” he said. “Once that is done, the button will become useless to you. It will only regenerate once it is passed on, once you  give the button to someone else.” 

A strange feeling rose in my gut.  “Is that why you’re giving this to me?” I asked. “Did you already use it?” 

The right corner of his mouth curled upwards. He lifted his hand to his hat, dipped his head toward me, and headed down the step. “Have fun,” he said, not bothering to turn back around to look at me.  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

My eyes shot wide. My superhero senses were really tingling now. “What did you do?” I yelled after him. “WHAT DID YOU DO?” 

A vicious laugh echoed off the wet pavement as he walked across the parking lot. I wanted to run after him, but the door would lock, and I didn’t have my key. You try hiding a key in all this Lycra. What I had, however, was the box with the button, and the ability to stop him. To stop everything. 

I bolted across the living room, grabbed up the remote and turned on the TV. The story was everywhere, splashed across all the news channels. 

CITY BANKS ROBBED. VAULTS EMPTIED. POLICE BAFFLED AS PERPATRATOR GOES UNSEEN. 

Ah, horse feathers. 

I opened the box all the way. The big red button seemed even bigger and redder with my hand hovering over it. 

“Well,” I said, addressing myself to my fat orange cat, Professor Purry Pants. “Here goes nothing!”

Girl Superhero Project Prompt #1 -- Photosynthesis

 Hey, all!

My women writers group -- excuse me, that is my KICK ASS women writers group -- is doing a writing challenge. Thirty days, thirty prompts, to create new superheros. Female superheros, dammit! Ones that kick ASS! Or villains. Villains kick ass, too. 

Here's prompt No. 1. It's short, but that's how much time I had yesterday. 

Enjoy,

LLH

Girl Superhero Project Prompt #1
Superpower: Photosynthesis
Create a female super hero or super villain around idea of photosynthesis

The Leaf

By  L.L. Heberlein

Without realizing what she was doing, Melanie reached out and grabbed the sunlight. 

She’d never seen it done before. No one she’d ever known had grabbed a beam of light like this. But there she was, holding it in her hand, wrapping her fingers around the tiniest of particles—or were they waves—and bending the beam of light, not to shine out, but to flow into her. She wrapped all that light energy around herself and felt her body change. 

Her skin, always olive, turned shiny and iridescent before settling into a deeper, richer shade. 

Something a little greener. Then the blast hit her, like trying to drink from a fire hose of pure heat and light. She harnessed the light of the sun and transformed it into something she could use. She changed it into power. No. Super power. 

She drew the bright light into each tiny cell, raised her dark green arms above her head, and leaped into the sky. Like a leaf on the wind. Like a solar-powered superhero. 

She was twelve when she first learned what she could do. 

It scared her at first. Change is scary. But transforming light energy into a power she could control was second nature to her now. So was waiting. She sat in her windowless office, adjusting the little UV light on her desk to reflect off her face. It always helped to power up before answering a call. She had to be ready.

 And then she heard it. A cry for help resonated through the building, vibrating up from the floor under her feet. Using the light energy that she’d converted into chemical energy and stored in her cells, she became The Leaf. 

“The Earth needs me,” she whispered.

Thoughts Too Long For Twitter -- Nailed It!

Story of my life...

From an actual email to my mother:

I wish I had a crafty streak, you know? I feel like the whole crafty thing was left out of my girl genetics. Maybe it was replaced by my ability to make dick-and-fart jokes with the guys?

The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis -- Part Three

Welcome back. 

Here's the third installment of my Web serial. I'm having so much fun reading over it again; it reminds me of how much fun it was to write.

This past week, I've been reading a lot of literary journals (mostly horror and sci-fi, as that's where my genre seems to fall), and coming up with fun ideas for short stories to submit.

This! Only with, you know, vampires and stuff.

The lit journals are hard on me. Many of the stories I've read are good -- really good. Done by MFAs with lots of experience and publishing cred. It's hard not to be envious of their writing abilities. It's not that I think I can't get there, it's just that I'm not there yet. But those feelings of inadequacey made me start to think that I should write "differently" or adjust my entire writing style to suit something more literary.

What happened? I lost my muse. You know, that voice in your head that tells you the story? My writers brain completely shut down, and I had the damnedest time just trying to describe an abandoned warehouse (which, turns out, is completely cliche and had to be scrapped). The flow was gone, and so was the love.

So now I'm trying to go back and remind myself why I started writing in the first place. Not to impress literary magazines -- I'm not really a literary writer. I am a noir writer, a lover of pulp fiction. Supernatural, weird, creepy, sometimes terrifying pulp fiction. For me, it doesn't have to be good, it just has to be fun.

And that's what Jefferson Davis is. Supernatural noir. Pure fun.

Enjoy,
LLH



Jefferson Davis, Part I
Part II

“The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis”

By L. L. Heberlein

CHAPTER THREE:

So I guess I was committed. I had to take the job now that I’d given Horseface the money.

I watched him walk up the stairs with the cash and almost cried myself. There goes all the money I had in the world, minus the twenty in my pocket, which was going toward coffee, dammit.

It was the right thing to do, though. I couldn’t help but feel John’s money problems were my fault. Well, not all my fault, but I hadn’t helped any. And now he was in debt to Barry, the asshole underworld loan shark. Barry was some kind of flesh-sucking creature out of those nasty old-world legends that no one remembers. And, oh yes, he will take his pound of flesh literally if you don’t pay him back. The fact that John had gone to Barry for a loan really meant things were desperate. Shit was going to hit the fan if I didn’t come through for him.

I picked up the now empty envelope and read the number again. Again, I thought of calling right away, but then decided to wait until morning. The sun would be up soon, and I didn’t want to fall comatose mid-conversation. Besides, vampires probably didn’t answer their phones after a certain hour either, for the same reason.

I settled in on the couch and wished I had my evening cup of hot coffee before bedtime. The demon inside me grumbled, but I settled him down, assuring him that coffee was coming tomorrow. Tomorrow, I would call that dame-vamp, and celebrate with a double-tall Americano and a new bag of fresh-roasted Italian beans. I pulled the blanket up around me and positioned myself to look like I was sleeping. Though when the sun rises, I’m not really asleep. I’m dead.

I closed my eyes and waited for the moment. Thoughts whirled through my brain. Money troubles. Friends in trouble. My own wasted existence. And then the never-fail flash of red hair from this one girl I used to know. She dances through my head, every night, try as I might to forget her.

The thud hit my chest, and my heart stopped. Then nothing.

Then, wham! Awake. Heart racing like someone had shocked me, and I bolted upright, throwing the blanket off. I looked around, expecting to find someone standing there, but I was alone, still in the dark. Coming alive at night never fails to surprise me.

I walked over to the light switch, and was surprised again when everything lit up. Nice. Horseface must have paid the bill.

After showering, shaving one more time with hot water, and choosing the appropriate clothing – dark jeans, tight black shirt, black boots, and a slightly-dressy-but-not-too-dressy shirt buttoned to mid-chest – I headed out in search of sustenance.

Back again with my double Americano in hand and now only $17.50 in my pocket, I ran upstairs to John’s office. The main part of the building is centered around the living room, where there’s a desk with a laptop computer and real actual phone plugged into the wall. No one has landline phones anymore. Everyone has cell phones, except me. It was on the list of things to get once I had some money again.

The stairs came up through the back kitchen area, where there’s a coffee maker which used to have coffee in it when Lucy was making it. It’s been empty lately.

The main room had a little sitting area for clients, plus a few shelves with books that make Horseface look smarter than he is. A few lamps, some pictures of flowers and landscapes. A nice area rug. Lucy had added the decorative touches. Without her, it’d just be the desk and chairs.

John was out, but the lights were on. The sign on the door said “back in twenty.”

I called the number on the envelope, and a woman with a smokey voice answered. She sounded like a dame. I got an address in an older, nicer neighborhood that would take me two buses to reach. I had a car, once. I had a lot of things once. Car, nice place to live, money. A lot of it went away after the red-headed girl left. I try not to think of it much.

It’s hard not to think of what you used to have when you’re walking up the steps of a gorgeous hundred-year-old mansion surrounded by luxury cars and you only have $15.25 left in your pocket. (My bus pass expired and I had to use cash. Yet another thing I needed to get when I came into some money.) Inside the mansion was just as intimidating as the front. The foyer was hard white marble with a crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Off to the right was a sitting room, with thick white carpet so plush it was like walking on marshmallows. A real-live butler offered to hang my leather jacket, but I declined to let him. He offered me a drink, which I also declined. I took a seat on giant white couch and waited.

Then she entered. A dash of red in a sea of white. She practically poured through the room, hips swinging in a tight dress of red satin.  Her skin was as white as the room. Her hair was as red as the dress. I paused for a moment. Not my red head. Still, the memory of her made me worry. Red heads are trouble.

“Mr. Davis, I assume.” Her voice flowed through the room.

I stood as she spoke. “Please, just Davis.”

“Davis.” She extended a long-gloved hand, which I took, offering the expected kiss across the knuckles. Sometimes the old southern gentleman in me kicks in and it’s hard to resist the pleasantries. “Davis, I have a very important job to offer you. It is an easy one, but of vital importance to me. And it requires the utmost secrecy. Are you equal to the task?”

She spoke like butter melting. The accent was American, but her words sounded old-world. She was either an old vampire trying to come across young, or a very young vampire trying to come across old. My guess was the latter. But I gave her all the deference of an old vampire, because that’s what she expected. Must keep the customers happy.

“Of course, my lady,” I said. “I am at your service.”

A smile crept over her lips, revealing a glint of fangs. The formality had been appreciated.

“Very well. Have a seat,” she said, draping herself over a pillowy white lounge. I sat across from her, my butt almost swallowed up by the puffy sofa. “No no,” she said. “Sit over here with me.” She patted the space next to her on the lounge. I hesitated for a moment, then got up and moved next to her. As I sat she draped an arm around my shoulders and spoke into my ear.

“Davis,” she whispered in my ear. “I want you to promise me you’ll keep this all a secret.” She breathed in, like she was sniffing the area behind my ear, then pulled back. “You’re dead.” Her arm dropped to her side.

“Not dead,” I said, spreading my arms as if to say obviously. “Just not exactly living anymore.”

“And yet you are a not a vampire.” She spat the staccato words at me. “You have none of the blood in you.”

“Um, no,” I answered. “Is that a problem?”

She looked at me dead-on for a moment, her blood-red vampire eyes staring into me. Her jaw locked so tight I thought she’d grind down her fangs. She seemed to be sizing me up, really deciding on something. After a moment, she spoke. “No, Davis. Not a problem. Just not at all what I expected.” She sat up straight, business-like. “This is the situation. I have recently been notified that I am the highest acceptable bidder on a certain object de arte, which has been shipped from China and delivered this week. I require someone to go and retrieve it for me. It has already been paid for, so it should be a simple delivery job.”

“And you can’t go pick it up yourself, because…”

Her eyes shot wide. “Because I would be recognized!” Her voice boomed, then dropped to a normal level. “As I said, it is a highly valued object. There are… others… interested in acquiring it through dishonest means. For me to retrieve it would only invite them to attack. There might be… an incident.”

Ah. By incident, I could tell she meant a big-ol’ bloodbath involving powerful supernaturals. And, believe it or not, we actually have laws against that. You’d think it would be a big free-for-all with the supernatural creatures. Big guys beating up on little guys and all that. But it’s not. Oh, it was that way for thousands of years, as I understand it. But the world has turned, and dominion belongs to modern humans, requiring us creepy-crawly things to restrain ourselves so as not to draw too much attention.

There are actual underworld police. Sheriffs, and the like. Councils of creatures who decide laws, mostly concerning killing each other. Go ahead and lie, cheat and steal all you want, but start killing, and the other supernaturals will gather en masse to kick your ass. The law of the council is brutal, and absolute, but it’s designed to keep little guys from getting stepped on and the whole human world from finding out we exist.

Sometimes it even works.

“Where is the object now?” I asked.

“It is being held at a shipping facility at the Port of Tacoma,” she said.

“Tacoma, eh?” I said, rubbing the smooth chin where the beard had been. “That could be a problem. I don’t have a car.”

“One will be provided for you.” She went back to oozing her words, somehow assured that I would come through. “If you leave now, you can retrieve my property from the all-night holding center. Bring it back before daylight, and your fee will be doubled.”

It was my turn to go wide-eyed. I agreed to the deal, kissed her knuckles one more time, and was out the door before she could change her mind. The vehicle provided was a BMW 3 Series, luxury model, black as night and fast as sin. I hit the freeway, pushed the pedal down, and was gone. The demon inside me roared. The only thing we like better than coffee is speed. Speed and loud music. I tuned into a satellite radio station playing nothing but death metal and cranked the sound system to eardrum bursting levels.

The demon and I were in heaven.

(Posts from the Author) And...

*Sigh*

They didn't take my short story submission. 

Of COURSE they didn't take it (please read 5/5/15 blog on how the acceptance rate is 2 percent, they reject good stories, etc. etc.)

Yeah, I know all that... and still it's sorta, well... painful.

It hurts to be rejected. Just flat, plain hurts. It always does, whether rejection comes from an epublisher, a "kick-ass" writing group, a he-man club, or a crying 3-year-old. Anytime someone takes a look at you and says "Nu-uh," you can't help but feel cut up a little. Unless you're a sociopath, in which case, well, you've got that going for you...

So, anyway... yeah, I knew they'd reject it, and it still sucks. But I went into it knowing it was going to hurt, and ready for the pain. Which, honestly, is like a SUPERHERO feat. Seriously. To set yourself up, knowing it's going to hurt... damn. That's strength.

Papercut. Looks prettier than it feels.

 

 

It's not going to ruin my day or anything. 'Tis but a scratch to the soul. A widdle baby paper cut, if you will. Stings. I'll get over it.

One paper cut down, a hundred more to come.

As always, thanks for being here.

Enjoy,
LLH

(Posts from the Author) OMFG I DID IT

Okay, so, it's NBD, really. I just hit "submit" on a short story for an epub horror magazine.

It's just... deep breath... this is my FIRST submission, anywhere, ever, for anything!

Okay, that isn't true. Come to think of it, I've submitted lots of news stories for contests over the course of my carrier (won some, too!).

But, dammit... this is the first time for me submitting a fictional piece for a literary magazine.

And, you know what... they're not going to print it. 

No! It's okay! I'm not trying to be negative. Just truthful. The acceptance rate there is about 2 percent, which means about 98 percent of the time they reject stuff. They reject GOOD stuff, as well as bad. So, chances are, I won't get in.

Go, doggy! Go!

But, it's like the lotto. You can't win if you don't play, right?

I feel like I just bought a Powerball ticket.

Some lucky dog's gonna win, right?

Wish me luck! (Or not. Like I said, it's NBD)

--LLH