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"Super Power" (the sixty-seventh ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Super Power" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), March 15, 2007 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Super Power By lee10@host365.com (Entry #1) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| During my growing up years, the map of the world was mostly pink. And in the surge of post war confidence, I never really stopped to think what this might mean for those peoples occupied. In my teens, on black and white TV, The Queen gave back their lands to black people, lining the route of her passing. They had smiling faces and in their hands they waved small Union Flags. Black Africa steadily blinked to colour, with green and gold flags of significance, each telling a tale of a nation’s struggle; but I wasn’t encouraged to study the provenance of an Empire,“on which the sun never set.” We were not taught at school that the pink of our maps was scorched by flames and stained by blood. I didn’t question why Grandfather fought with Fuzzie-Wuzzies, then the Boers. Maybe I should have been less provincial? It all happened, I thought, so far away, and was lost in the boredom of double history. It was only when I grew and wandered the world that I woke to the tales of the misery of 500 million occupied peoples, who saw me as their enemy. The sins of my fathers are heaped on my head; I’ve skirmished with the Scots and the Irish. In language sometimes quite violent they taught me what they think of the English. But I can’t apologise for a past I didn’t create The present though, is a different matter. Like a prostitute following a lover, my nation’s fighting in foreign lands again hanging on the coat-tails of another; and for this, one day, I’ll be deemed guilty. My future’s being risked by the antics of an ageing, painted whore, desperate to recapture the days of her power trying to regain the heights of before. My protests matter for nothing. Turning back the warmongering tide is like trying to empty a lake with a sieve. Lives are lost daily to bombs and to mines and there’s no reason why, in a future explosive, mine should not be one of them. |
| Super Power By Kimber Lee Cole Morgana260@aol.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| I have a name. I do. It’s . . .
just not that important right now, for you to know it, for me to tell it.
There’s big juju in the naming of things and people. You name a thing and
you can call it . . . or kill it. So, my name is . . . secret—for now.
I was raised Catholic. If you’re Catholic, well, that’s enough said right there. If you’re not, suffice to say it’s a trip and a half. It’s a lot like the Mafia, or Hotel California. ‘You can check out but you can never leave . . .’ I love that lyric. And once you start to dig into the reality of your religion—well it’s so pagan! Which, for me, is cool. I grew up and became a pagan, for real. I’m a witch. Not the wicked kind with warts, and not the twitchy nosed kind either. I’m the kind that believes in the Circle of Life. In all living things dying, and feeding the newborn things that will go on to die and feed the new batch of newborn things. It’s a circle. Its very peaceful. A little smarmy but as religions go, its not a bad philosophy. I’m a Catholic too though, so there’s prayers and Saints and Days and such that need to be celebrated and recognized. Sometimes it gets weird. I married a Lutheran. The priest said I couldn’t be married in the church because my husband-to-be had been married, (to a Lutheran) divorced, and annulled in the Lutheran Church. Which was all good but his marriage hadn’t been annulled in the Catholic Church and there’s the rub. An annulment can take years, lots of money and the willing participation of both parties of the previous marriage as well as the party to the new marriage (me) so I told the priest to go screw (twenty Hail Mary’s and two Our Father’s for that one). And I got married in the Lutheran Church. Gramma boycotted the whole thing and ignored the fact of it too! Then I had my baby. She recognized him all right, just not his legitimacy. And not my marriage. And, of course, I was instantly excommunicated—can’t take communion or receive any of the sacraments. Okay so no big deal ‘cause I’m a witch anyway right? Wrong. My grandmother paid (still pays) monks and priests and friars, nuns and cathedrals and prayer groups, to pray for my soul ‘cause I’m goin’ to hell if I die. She hounded me. I had another baby. She hounded me more. I got a divorce. She stopped hounding me. Hallelujah! Then I got married again. This one was an Eastern Orthodox Catholic. He’d been married before too. In fact he married the same woman twice. That should have been my tip off, but it went right by me. I had another baby. Gramma pitched several fits and then there were people all over the world praying for my poor damned soul. She recognized the baby . . . you know the drill by now. I got divorced. Then I met a guy. I fell head over heels and married him two weeks later. Gramma just about went over the edge (not such a long trip at this point). No more babies. Her Christmas cards were addressed to me . . . first name, maiden name and then his first name sort of scrawled at the edge of the envelope. In every card there were dire predictions and loud exhortations—oh, and phone calls . . . I got so tired of hearing the ‘get an annulment so you can take the sacraments’ speech that I told a fib. Well, a lie actually—a whopper of a lie to be honest. I told her that I found a local priest (thank God (ess) that I live like 200 miles away from her and she hopefully can’t check my story) who promised to talk to the local Bishop (whoever he may be) and ask for special dispensation on the grounds that my two ex-husbands refused to cooperate in an annulment proceeding. I think she bought it. But . . . she’s nobody’s fool--my gramma . . . the prayers continue. So, I had three babies. All boys. All healthy, beautiful, smart and well adjusted. I lived my life like I had nine or ten of them lined up in reserve. Like a cat. Like a fool. I, like most humans, didn’t—couldn’t imagine my own death. Whatever it was, I could beat it. I did drugs and had fun. I stopped and had fun. I smoked most of my life. I ate what I wanted, when I wanted and never gained a pound. I got cancer. Well, that was a shock, and there I was, with no super powers close to hand. The witchcraft thing only went so far. It was Lymphoma, unheard of (mostly) at my age. I was 44. I did Chemo, shaved my head and played Egyptian Princess and Red Headed Beauty and Blond Bombshell. It was fun. The wigs (and lack thereof I mean)—not the chemo. The chemo was not fun. Do you have any idea how weird you look with no eyebrows and no eyelashes? Losing the hair on my legs was great though. So the chemo wasn’t a horror either and I was such a cheerful patient. The nurses loved me. My gramma stepped up the prayers. My mother came to my house—if you know my mother you’d know what a big deal that is! I did radiation. 40 days, very biblical. Every day we trekked an hour to the hospital, waited, got irradiated, drove an hour home. The chemo was every other week with check-ups in the middle. You’d think that a person with cancer would get to rest, but no, they keep you running. Lemme tell ya, they keep you running! My middle boy was nineteen, he cried. My oldest at twenty-one didn’t, at least not where I could see him. My youngest was with his father—he was scared. I was scared too but I decided it wouldn’t be fair to be scared when everyone around me was freaking out and worrying and praying and pushing health food, supplements, herbs from the Rain Forest, cures from doctors with questionable credentials and hope. They pushed hope like a pusher pushes dope, with as much success too. Hope is as addictive as crack if you hold on to it like they did—like I did. It’s a real bitch when the hope gets yanked and there isn’t a methadone clinic within a hundred miles. You have to go cold turkey. It sucks. I remember when I saw the hope die in their eyes. They hung on to faith. They refused to admit defeat. But refusing to admit defeat, and not being defeated are two different things. We got beat. I got beat. I lived my life the way I wanted to. I smoked—I love to smoke. I got a kind of cancer that has absolutely nothing to do with smoking, lifestyle, cholesterol, blood pressure, heart disease or anything else I could’ve done to myself. God (ess) is a hoot! He/She’s got some sense of humor. I loved life. Death? Not so much. Its not bad, it’s just not great. And there’s no smoking, which is so unfair. I’m looking into coming back, but there’s a list and an application for qualification and a bunch of red tape. Maybe in a couple hundred years. The kids get to go to the head of the line. Not me though. Oh, and St. Peter? He’s not guarding any pearly gates. There are no pearly gates. So much for being Catholic. You can, however, take the sacraments even if you didn’t get an official annulment (I can have the wafer but not a cigarette—go figure). Gramma would be happy. She might even let up on the prayers. I can hear them now and Christ they’re annoying. He/She has super powers. I could come back in an instant. He/She could let me turn back time and do it again or pick up right before the cancer—and not get it. He/She won’t though. Its not ‘fair’ to the others. Kindergarten! That’s what its like--‘You can’t have a candy because then everyone will want one . . . blah blah blah.” Silly. I wish I hadn’t died. I miss . . . I miss everything. Everything. I miss it all so much. I miss touching. And laughing. I miss smelling . . . even the nasty smells. I miss it. I miss you. I miss you . . . and now I can’t tell you and I don’t know if you know . . . that I died with your face in my mind and your voice in my ears and the feel of your hand on my face. It wasn’t peaceful, it was scary. ‘Do not stand at my grave and weep . . .’ Oh hell. Go ahead and weep, I do. I weep. I forgot to tell you. My name. My name is . . . wow—that’s so funny! I can’t think of it right now. I’m not sure what my name is—was. I know who I am . . . just not . . . what I was called. I know I weep. I know that. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #1 Second place: #3 Third place: #4 Fourth place: #2 Others receiving votes: #5, #6 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Super Power lee10@host365.com |
#1 of 8 Winner |
| 307 words | |
| During my growing up years, the map of the world was mostly pink. And in the surge of post war confidence, I never really stopped to think what this might mean for those peoples occupied. In my teens, on black and white TV, The Queen gave back their lands to black people, lining the route of her passing. They had smiling faces and in their hands they waved small Union Flags. Black Africa steadily blinked to colour, with green and gold flags of significance, each telling a tale of a nation’s struggle; but I wasn’t encouraged to study the provenance of an Empire,“on which the sun never set.” We were not taught at school that the pink of our maps was scorched by flames and stained by blood. I didn’t question why Grandfather fought with Fuzzie-Wuzzies, then the Boers. Maybe I should have been less provincial? It all happened, I thought, so far away, and was lost in the boredom of double history. It was only when I grew and wandered the world that I woke to the tales of the misery of 500 million occupied peoples, who saw me as their enemy. The sins of my fathers are heaped on my head; I’ve skirmished with the Scots and the Irish. In language sometimes quite violent they taught me what they think of the English. But I can’t apologise for a past I didn’t create The present though, is a different matter. Like a prostitute following a lover, my nation’s fighting in foreign lands again hanging on the coat-tails of another; and for this, one day, I’ll be deemed guilty. My future’s being risked by the antics of an ageing, painted whore, desperate to recapture the days of her power trying to regain the heights of before. My protests matter for nothing. Turning back the warmongering tide is like trying to empty a lake with a sieve. Lives are lost daily to bombs and to mines and there’s no reason why, in a future explosive, mine should not be one of them. |
|
| Super Power Roger Haller roger@cowboylogic.net |
#2 of 8 |
| 1539 words | |
| Who would have thought he could survive such an
afternoon. It was a Saturday, eighteen months ago. It started quite innocent with a quiet game of golf under a leaky sky. That goddamn slice had Max digging for his Spalding Tru-Fly 3. His life was changed forever by what happened next. His smiling ball was nestled against a glowing green rock and when Max picked the rock up to investigate, a tiny red spider crawled around onto his hand and bit him. At that very moment, a flash of lightning ran down a knarly Pine tree he was kneeling under, jumped to the handle of his “tree iron”, evaporated the spider and blew the rock to smithereens. Luckily the lightning scared the rest of the golfers off the course because when he awoke, his shoes had blown apart and his pants and shirt were in useless, smoking tatters so they didn’t cover much. There was little hope in hiding the little red train tracks down the top of his penis caused by the red hot zipper explosion. Max was some kind of sight skirting the golf course roughs that day. He streaked in search of a back yard clothes line with something to cover himself in the increasing rain. He finally made it home wearing a pair of extra large overalls in heavy duty denim and a topaz tube top. Thank god his wife was doing her weekly Wal-Mart crawl because he never could have explained himself. I remember his shock when he tried to apply some Aloe Vera salve to his wound while changing out of the circus wardrobe and it was gone. Not his penis, but the red train tracks tattoo braised on by his zipper. Gone. Poor Max thought he would have to explain for the rest of his life. There was no trace of his afternoon adventure but for a small red welt on his right hand, some weird clothes in the trash and a smoky blue three iron engraved roughly with the title of “Tree Iron”. It no longer had a grip. Thinking back, the next week was the hardest to figure out. Every time he got pissed he’d go into a green daze and his shirt and pants would turn to shreds while his body grew. Max had to wear baggy spandex. Try explaining that to your wife. Next, every time Max got curious about a cross-your-heart or Victoria’s Secret, he found himself staring at someone’s breasts. Nice bare breasts. This he didn’t mind so much but for when he accidentally got curious about the wrong people. Yikes! Then he had to deal with his uncontrollable urge to climb the outside walls of sky scrapers. That first stunt almost killed him, but instead showed Max his newest skill. He could fly. Damned if he didn’t fall of this concrete building, slippery with pigeon shit, pull out of a nose dive and land feet first on the dental building next door, smooth as Bill Cosbey’s pudding. He has been secretly flying every where since. Of course only when no one was looking. In short order, Max had seen quick glimpses of the world. He could be back from Russia in two minutes without even breathing hard. Just last month Max found out what kind of strength he had. This jerk in a Hummer cut him off in the car pool lane and the ass didn’t even have a passenger. Max flipped him the bird and the Napoleon Complex tracked him to the bowling ally parking lot. Before Max could get out the Snarl Master was at his window. Beatrice was screaming for Max to lock the doors and leave the window up. She wanted him to just burn out over his toes. Instead Max opened the window and caught the fist directed at his left cheek bone with one speedy left hand. Before you could whistle Mississippi, Max had crushed his hand in an Anaconda grip and the poor sucker went weeping back to his military shipping crate shaped car. Seeing the look in Bea’s eyes Max knew he had to think fast.” He was such a pussy,” Max smiled. Bea looked at him a lot different that night. Almost making up for the repulsion she felt toward his new dress code. Damned if he didn’t have to throw the game to keep from getting a 300. Even with three beers, his head was clear and he could do no wrong. Suddenly life was good. So was Bea, Whoot Whoot! Max had to re-think a lot of things. Work sucked and he wanted to quit and just fly around. Besides they teased the shit out of him because he always wore spandex nowadays. Do you know how hard it is to find a tie, belt and brown shoes that match a spandex suit? Nobody seems to be making spandex clothes for the business guy. Max thought they were missing a big market. It was so much more comfortable sitting at the desk all day. A new line of stretchable office garments became his secondary passion now. Max lived and breathed ways of merging stretchy comfort with business dress code. The tie and belt were easy; socks and underwear were a snap because they were hidden. Now, slacks were a problem. How the hell do you apply a crease to a rubber pant leg? He had to invent a mold to pour these things in so as to come out with a permanent crease and pleats. He was getting there, but had a way to go. The shirt was probably the biggest issue because try after try resolved into something the Village People would wear for their closing number. Sure there was a market, but he needed business wear. The beauty of this project was, he could obtain the material, design, cut and sew in the time it would take anyone else to go window shopping for the stuff. Finally he had a workable wardrobe that almost fit the business culture, but even the gays in the office thought he was light in the loafers. His wife wondered aloud when he spent so much time designing clothes. Type casting or not, he fit the profile. This, reader was about the time he started saving people. To be sure he worked his way up from migrating spiders from his door sill to the juniper shrub in his front lawn, then a few cats from trees and power poles. His closet issues under control, he had time to play with his internal toys. Soon he had control of his X-ray vision so as to keep from turning red as he talked to an attractive lady. An interesting side effect was that if he powered it right up, it worked better than an acetylene torch. Once he had enough control for precision he saved a woman and baby from a sinking car by cutting the roof off and depositing them neatly on the shore so quick they couldn’t figure out how he did it. Max had taken to a mask and spandex costume to keep the hordes of reporters away from his home life. He figured the comic book heroes were now his mentors. It wasn’t three months and he had the Taliban and Al Quada sewed up, Israel and Palestine were at the table, Iran and North Korea lost all hope of pulling off a reactor that could fulfill a military need and the various Mafioso groups around the world were finding it hard to make money. News shows and papers around the world were singing the praises of Spandex max. Office geeks were comfortable in their cubes and hydrocarbons were waning in the atmosphere. Life was good. I figured it was about my time. Patience is not my best virtue and Max was overdue. I lifted my blade and Max fell ill. A series of doctor visits identified a severe reaction to spandex. Max had it bad and there was no cure. It was now my turn. I had been sent to do a job and Max was beginning to piss me off. The memory of Max laying pale in the sterile bed comes back now as I remember the details of the last few hours. Starting with the bugger coming out of a coma to see me, his eyes popping open and an explanation that I looked like shit was about all I could stand. “Jeen mn, youm neem sme newm treans,” he blurted through his oxygen mask. “What?” He took off the oxygen mask and repeated, “Jeez man, you need some new threads!” I looked down at my robe and back at him in amazement as he hopped out of bed, pulled open a drawer in the room cabinet and laid a bundle of rubberized clothes in my hand. The Son-Of-A-Bitch was well again and concerned over my appearance. He wouldn’t let me go until I changed. Now I sit here with everyone around snickering like school children at my chartreuse jump suit with white elastic belt and rubber shoes. I’d slice those gigglers all to hell with my scythe but I’m too damn comfortable to care. I’ll have to get Max when I don’t feel so good. |
|
| Super Power Kimber Lee Cole Morgana260@aol.com |
#3 of 8 Runner-up |
| 1593 words | |
| I have a name. I do. It’s . . . just not that
important right now, for you to know it, for me to tell it. There’s big
juju in the naming of things and people. You name a thing and you can call it .
. . or kill it. So, my name is . . . secret—for now. I was raised Catholic. If you’re Catholic, well, that’s enough said right there. If you’re not, suffice to say it’s a trip and a half. It’s a lot like the Mafia, or Hotel California. ‘You can check out but you can never leave . . .’ I love that lyric. And once you start to dig into the reality of your religion—well it’s so pagan! Which, for me, is cool. I grew up and became a pagan, for real. I’m a witch. Not the wicked kind with warts, and not the twitchy nosed kind either. I’m the kind that believes in the Circle of Life. In all living things dying, and feeding the newborn things that will go on to die and feed the new batch of newborn things. It’s a circle. Its very peaceful. A little smarmy but as religions go, its not a bad philosophy. I’m a Catholic too though, so there’s prayers and Saints and Days and such that need to be celebrated and recognized. Sometimes it gets weird. I married a Lutheran. The priest said I couldn’t be married in the church because my husband-to-be had been married, (to a Lutheran) divorced, and annulled in the Lutheran Church. Which was all good but his marriage hadn’t been annulled in the Catholic Church and there’s the rub. An annulment can take years, lots of money and the willing participation of both parties of the previous marriage as well as the party to the new marriage (me) so I told the priest to go screw (twenty Hail Mary’s and two Our Father’s for that one). And I got married in the Lutheran Church. Gramma boycotted the whole thing and ignored the fact of it too! Then I had my baby. She recognized him all right, just not his legitimacy. And not my marriage. And, of course, I was instantly excommunicated—can’t take communion or receive any of the sacraments. Okay so no big deal ‘cause I’m a witch anyway right? Wrong. My grandmother paid (still pays) monks and priests and friars, nuns and cathedrals and prayer groups, to pray for my soul ‘cause I’m goin’ to hell if I die. She hounded me. I had another baby. She hounded me more. I got a divorce. She stopped hounding me. Hallelujah! Then I got married again. This one was an Eastern Orthodox Catholic. He’d been married before too. In fact he married the same woman twice. That should have been my tip off, but it went right by me. I had another baby. Gramma pitched several fits and then there were people all over the world praying for my poor damned soul. She recognized the baby . . . you know the drill by now. I got divorced. Then I met a guy. I fell head over heels and married him two weeks later. Gramma just about went over the edge (not such a long trip at this point). No more babies. Her Christmas cards were addressed to me . . . first name, maiden name and then his first name sort of scrawled at the edge of the envelope. In every card there were dire predictions and loud exhortations—oh, and phone calls . . . I got so tired of hearing the ‘get an annulment so you can take the sacraments’ speech that I told a fib. Well, a lie actually—a whopper of a lie to be honest. I told her that I found a local priest (thank God (ess) that I live like 200 miles away from her and she hopefully can’t check my story) who promised to talk to the local Bishop (whoever he may be) and ask for special dispensation on the grounds that my two ex-husbands refused to cooperate in an annulment proceeding. I think she bought it. But . . . she’s nobody’s fool--my gramma . . . the prayers continue. So, I had three babies. All boys. All healthy, beautiful, smart and well adjusted. I lived my life like I had nine or ten of them lined up in reserve. Like a cat. Like a fool. I, like most humans, didn’t—couldn’t imagine my own death. Whatever it was, I could beat it. I did drugs and had fun. I stopped and had fun. I smoked most of my life. I ate what I wanted, when I wanted and never gained a pound. I got cancer. Well, that was a shock, and there I was, with no super powers close to hand. The witchcraft thing only went so far. It was Lymphoma, unheard of (mostly) at my age. I was 44. I did Chemo, shaved my head and played Egyptian Princess and Red Headed Beauty and Blond Bombshell. It was fun. The wigs (and lack thereof I mean)—not the chemo. The chemo was not fun. Do you have any idea how weird you look with no eyebrows and no eyelashes? Losing the hair on my legs was great though. So the chemo wasn’t a horror either and I was such a cheerful patient. The nurses loved me. My gramma stepped up the prayers. My mother came to my house—if you know my mother you’d know what a big deal that is! I did radiation. 40 days, very biblical. Every day we trekked an hour to the hospital, waited, got irradiated, drove an hour home. The chemo was every other week with check-ups in the middle. You’d think that a person with cancer would get to rest, but no, they keep you running. Lemme tell ya, they keep you running! My middle boy was nineteen, he cried. My oldest at twenty-one didn’t, at least not where I could see him. My youngest was with his father—he was scared. I was scared too but I decided it wouldn’t be fair to be scared when everyone around me was freaking out and worrying and praying and pushing health food, supplements, herbs from the Rain Forest, cures from doctors with questionable credentials and hope. They pushed hope like a pusher pushes dope, with as much success too. Hope is as addictive as crack if you hold on to it like they did—like I did. It’s a real bitch when the hope gets yanked and there isn’t a methadone clinic within a hundred miles. You have to go cold turkey. It sucks. I remember when I saw the hope die in their eyes. They hung on to faith. They refused to admit defeat. But refusing to admit defeat, and not being defeated are two different things. We got beat. I got beat. I lived my life the way I wanted to. I smoked—I love to smoke. I got a kind of cancer that has absolutely nothing to do with smoking, lifestyle, cholesterol, blood pressure, heart disease or anything else I could’ve done to myself. God (ess) is a hoot! He/She’s got some sense of humor. I loved life. Death? Not so much. Its not bad, it’s just not great. And there’s no smoking, which is so unfair. I’m looking into coming back, but there’s a list and an application for qualification and a bunch of red tape. Maybe in a couple hundred years. The kids get to go to the head of the line. Not me though. Oh, and St. Peter? He’s not guarding any pearly gates. There are no pearly gates. So much for being Catholic. You can, however, take the sacraments even if you didn’t get an official annulment (I can have the wafer but not a cigarette—go figure). Gramma would be happy. She might even let up on the prayers. I can hear them now and Christ they’re annoying. He/She has super powers. I could come back in an instant. He/She could let me turn back time and do it again or pick up right before the cancer—and not get it. He/She won’t though. Its not ‘fair’ to the others. Kindergarten! That’s what its like--‘You can’t have a candy because then everyone will want one . . . blah blah blah.” Silly. I wish I hadn’t died. I miss . . . I miss everything. Everything. I miss it all so much. I miss touching. And laughing. I miss smelling . . . even the nasty smells. I miss it. I miss you. I miss you . . . and now I can’t tell you and I don’t know if you know . . . that I died with your face in my mind and your voice in my ears and the feel of your hand on my face. It wasn’t peaceful, it was scary. ‘Do not stand at my grave and weep . . .’ Oh hell. Go ahead and weep, I do. I weep. I forgot to tell you. My name. My name is . . . wow—that’s so funny! I can’t think of it right now. I’m not sure what my name is—was. I know who I am . . . just not . . . what I was called. I know I weep. I know that. |
|
| Super Power Kailash Maharaj undermichealswing@yahoo.co.uk |
#4 of 8 |
| 1477 words | |
| I closed my box hiding away my collection of comic
books. I caught a glimpse of myself in the dusty old mirror as I stood up. I
was blushing. It was as if I was a teenager again, hiding my collection of
pornography from my mother. I smiled just as door handle bent down and Melissa
entered the room. “There you are Michael, what on earth are you up to?” Melissa stood framed in the doorway, the glow from the light in the passage creating an angelic halo around her shapely body. “Hey, Hon’, awake so soon? Did I wake you while scratching around up here?” I towards her and kissed her pampered face. “No, it wasn’t you. There was a phone-call; some fool dialled the wrong number.” She placed her arms on my shoulder and searched my eyes. “What are you doing up here anyway?” The attic was like most attics, a storage space long neglected of tidying and cleaning. A congregation of items long forgotten by their owners, a storehouse of memories, secrets and stories. I scanned the room. “I just came up here to find an old gift that my grandmother gave me, my old journal.” “Did you find it?” “No, I hope that it’s not one of the items I threw away when I moved here from the old apartment.” “Well, is it needed urgently or can we have supper first. I am famished. I will help you find it later.” She headed downstairs without waiting for my answer. I closed the door of the attic and went downstairs. It made no sense to me why I did not want Melissa to know that I was going through my comic collection. I sat at the table as Melissa poured wine into our glasses. I said grace and we began to eat. She spoke of her plans for the next day, shopping, hair, and a few other things that although I smiled and answered, I really did not hear. Why did I suddenly remember my journal? Though the need never existed before, having used it as an excuse I realised I did want to find it. “Michael would you like that?” Melissa held my hand capturing my attention. “What was that dear?” was all I managed in response. “Where were you? Did you hear a word I said?” I smelt it in the air. A sick metallic stench poisoned the air. An argument was in-store. “What’s wrong Michael, you never listen anymore? I give you everything I have and you don’t even care.” She went on ranting, clearing he dishes as I chewed my food. The dishwasher door slammed shut. The tap flowed violently. I just sat there. I had no energy to fight with her anymore. It was impossible for me to blame her though so I stopped arguing. She was who she always was. I had changed. Later that night while I read the newspaper Melissa came down the stairs in a black robe. She was very apologetic. I sat up and folded the newspaper to give her my full attention not wanting a repeat of earlier events. She undid the knot that held her robe closed and exposed her sensuous body gift wrapped in black lingerie. It was not long before the two of us were in my bed naked, fucking like animals and in truth that all that it had become. It was pure carnal pleasure there was no love anymore. Melissa fell asleep. I got out of bed, lit a cigarette, and headed downstairs. I sat at the window and stared at the night sky. Each star was a symbol of a dream as I counted them hoping to fall asleep. I could not sleep no matter how much I tried. I tiptoed into my bedroom, pulled on a pair on a pair of jeans and went back to the attic. I had to find that journal. I searched the whole night until dawn before I found it. It was in an old plastic bag under some old books in an old box that once housed a Pentium two processor. I opened my journal and read the message my grandmother wrote on the inside of the front cover: Dear Michael. May you realise your Super Power like all your comic book heroes. Never stop dreaming. Never stop trying to realise those dreams. And never settle for anything but happiness. Love Gran. I flipped through the pages until I came across one that was highly decorated with my doodles. It read: I want to be a graphic novelist, just like Stan Lee. The entry as dated 02 June 1996. I was fourteen years old. I read a few more pages of the journal but along with the discovery of the journal, I discovered sleep. I slept for about an hour before I had to wake again to the usual routine of shampoo, shower, and shave. I put on my suite and ate my bran. I kissed Melissa goodbye and drove my silver Mercedes C class to work. All through the day, I could only think of the journal, my grandmother's message in it and me wanting to be a graphic novelist. When did I abandon that dream to become an accountant? At lunch, I went for coffee at the Star Bucks across the street from the office. I sat with coffee and doodled on a serviette as I passed the hour. It had been ages since I drew anything. I found that it was also the first time in a long time that I was happy. That evening I went through my old journal again and read the dreams of a child long lost. Sketches and character profiles created long ago. Dreams long forgotten, dreams sacrificed. When I got to the last entry a flood of memories returned. Dad is very sick. He called me into his room today and told me to grow up. He told me to forget all this silly children stuff, that I must grow up and be a man. He told me to forget about Superman and Spiderman. He said they don’t exist and that super powers lie in waking up everyday and working hard for those you loved. The entry was dated 13 January 1997. The next day my father passed away. It occurred to me that the reason I hid my comic books was that I felt guilty about them as if by reading them I was failing my father. Melissa was at her apartment that evening. We spent at least two nights a week apart, supposedly to avoid complacency but we both knew it was because neither of us was truly committed to the relationship. That night I wrote two letters. One was my resignation from the firm of Hoffman and Piers Accountants and the other was for Melissa. The next day, I went into the firm and handed in my resignation. Before I left home, I placed Melissa’s note on the pillow on my bed, for her to read that evening when she got home from work. The letter read: Dear Melissa I have not been there for this relationship for the last few months and for that, I am truly sorry. Mum’s death however made me realise that I was not happy with my life and it made me analyse everything. I am sorry that I hurt you in trying to deal with my own personal turmoil. I have resigned from Hoffman and Piers and have taken a flight to Johannesburg, South Africa to visit some family. I will be gone for an indefinite amount of time. I paid the rent on the house for the next three months and the Merc is in the garage. I am sorry about telling you all of this in a letter but I didn’t want to argue about this. I am leaving to find a dream and wish you all the happiness. Yours no more Michael Journal entry: 14 April 2006 This week I signed my first book deal and opened the doors to my own comic book collectables store. Both, the book and the store are called ‘Super Powers’. My grandmother’s wish for me is fulfilled. Accounting made me wealthy but now I am happy. I have discovered my dreams. I realise that my father was wrong. It is not childish to follow a dream, but in giving up on that dream, a man becomes incomplete. |
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| Super Power RUBY ASTARI author81@gmail.com |
#5 of 8 |
| 1268 words | |
| "Mom, I need a punching bag." "What for?" Mom stared at me with a frown. I was sure she must've thought I was just being ridiculous. "No. What makes you want to do boxing?" "Freak," my fourteen-year-old big sister Andhara mocked. The tall, slim girl with shoulder-length, straight hair smirked. "No wonder guys can't even stand you." "Bitch!" I spat, glaring hard at her. Just as I'd predicted, Andhara just sneered at me. As usual, Mom always stood up for her. She glared back at me. "Rayya!" she warned. I couldn't stand that. Unfortunately, it was no use for me to defend myself. Whatever happened, Mom would always stand up for Andhara. It was all only because she was a fragile brat. Whenever we had a fight, Andhara would always snitch to Mom and hide behind her back. What a sap! That's why I only went to my room and slammed the door shut behind me. I locked it as well. I didn't want Mom or anyone else to come in and start lecturing me. I wanted to be alone. Actually, Andhara had already ruined my days way too often. I don't know why she was always lucky or I was just cursed by her constant fortunes. That was so unfair! Is life only beautiful for a few, while the rest shall suffer? It looked that way to me. Unfortunately, Mom could never really be objective. I don't know what I'd done wrong until Andhara always received special treatments. Crazy! That morning was just one of the many examples. I was late for school because of Andhara. It was my other curse to have to be in the same middle school with her. We'd had to share the family car as well! Every morning, Andhara was always being slow. If I told her to get going faster, she'd only snap at me, "Have patience, will you? Don't be such a jerk!" How selfish! Andhara never wanted to be wrong nor blamed. Thanks to Andhara, I'd showed up late in class for a Math test. Math was my biggest weakness. But, had Andhara ever really cared? No. As long as it hadn't been her loss, she wouldn't have bothered with other people's problems. That's why I ignored Mom when she knocked on my door and called me. I know Andhara wouldn't have ever had the guts to mess with me when she'd known I was angry at her. Like I'd said earlier, she was a coward. "Rayya!" I turned my radio on as loudly as possible. Mom's voice was drowned by my favorite rock track from Pearl Jam called "Alive". When I looked at the door, I suddenly noticed something. A small, brown ceramic had mysteriously glided up from my desk --- and swiftly crashed against the door. Damn it. "Rayya!" That's why I'd badly needed a punching bag. If I'd told this to anyone out there, I doubted that they'd even have bought it. I'd been so happy. Finally, I didn't have to attend the same high school nor college campus with Andhara anymore. I was free to go alone. I knew Andhara would practically hog the family car more to herself, but I didn't care. I'd still have had my perfect escapade if Andhara had started pissing me off again, as always. I also didn't need a punching bag anymore. At home, Andhara had practically ruled everything and everyone. Mom, Dad, the TV in the living room... Well, almost everything, actually. So far, my room had been my only territory left. Too bad, that just didn't last long as well. I'd also actually been quite an idiot myself, letting my door open a bit. That Saturday late afternoon, I was in my room collecting money in my wallet. Suddenly Andhara burst in without knocking the door, as usual. "Ray, I want to borrow your money," she begged with her usual pout expression. Perhaps the guys out there might've always found that cute, but it just irked me even more. "I want to go see a movie with Gerry." "No," I replied. I didn't want to, because she never returned the money she'd borrowed from me. "I need my money too. I'm going to see my friends at Book Cafe." "Only twenty-thousand. Please?" "Just ask Mom." As usual, I added silently, reaching for my black backpack. Boring. "Or ask Gerry to pay for your ticket. He's your boyfriend, right?" Andhara pouted, then stormed out of my room. I sighed as I put my sneakers on. Suddenly Mom came in. From her expression, I could already tell that Andhara must've snitched again and blown the whole thing out of proportion. Bitch! "Rayya, I know that you still have more than enough money to go out," she said. "Loan your sister some. Just thirty thousands." My jaw dropped. Andhara was unbearably cunning! I didn't get it. Why did she always have to win? Why did Mom always defend and protect her? Did Mom only love her? Andhara was always a big spender. But once again, why should I always have to be responsible for all of that? "Rayya, I'll pay you back." It was just the same old sentence. I was sick and tired of it. That was not the point. But, as usual, Mom only cared about Andhara. It was always Andhara. Andhara, Andhara, Andhara. She was a selfish, irresponsible brat. She was Mom's darling daughter. Not me. Mom never cared about me anymore. My feelings didn't matter. Andhara mattered more. I took the thirty out of my wallet and slammed it on the floor. Mom went pale. But I just couldn't take it anymore. "Good. Just keep spoiling her!" I stormed out of my room. I saw Andhara's bedroom door open. Her favorite pale blue cardigan was on her bed. I knew she'd planned to wear that for her date. I heard water running in the bathroom. Andhara must've been in the shower. I saw a pair of scissors her desk. I walked out of the house. In my mind's eye, the scissors in Andhara's room were gliding straight to her cardigan on her bed. Moving further away from that house, I imagined Andhara's cardigan being cut to shreds. I grinned sarcastically. Minutes later, I heard Andhara scream from that house. But of course, I was already too far away. They had no proof to accuse it was me. Take that, bitch. I couldn't take it anymore. I was also scared. I couldn't control it. It was getting stronger. That Monday morning, I woke up in my room to find my open wallet on my desk. When I checked it, my fifty-thousand bill was already gone. Andhara. Bitch! How dare she... "Andhara!" I furiously stormed out of my room. I saw her about to get away. "Give me my money back!" Andhara stopped dead in her tracks and whirled around. Her face went pale. Her lips trembled. Good. She deserved the terror. "S-sorry, Ray," she stammered. "I-I need it to go to work. I-I'll pay you back soon." "Give me that back now!" I yelled. "Thief!" Andhara looked offended. "What did you say?" "Mom and Dad have already gone out today. Nobody's protecting you here now." Suddenly, all properties inside our house were shaking uncontrollably. I glared at Andhara, barely blinking. She was even more terrified now. "Rayya..." When the plates and glasses were flying out of the cupboard, I knew I had to shut my eyes. I had no choice. I couldn't control it anymore. I heard the breaking of the glasses. Andhara was screaming in pure terror. When the noises gradually stopped, I slowly opened my eyes. Andhara was lying on the floor, surrounded by shards of glass and on her own puddle of blood. Her face was slightly covered by her long hair. She should never have pissed me off. |
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| Super Power Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#6 of 8 |
| 1834 words | |
| The weather was unseasonably warm and humid that
spring, more typical of mid-August than late May. What little breeze there was
was blowing on-shore. According to reporters who were assigned to cover the 1957 New Jersey State High School Typing Championships, senior Rosemary van Arsdale, the three-hundred pound, two-time defending champion from St. Bartholomew's Academy for Girls, just north of Trenton, was a lock to make it three in a row. How odd it seems now, in retrospect, that no one had factored in the effect that a Jersey heat wave and a little on-shore breeze might have on the championships. Sixteen identical typewriters had been set up on the floor of the Atlantic City High School gymnasium. Students, parents, faculty members, cheerleaders in uniform and the Atlantic City High School Marching Band waited outside the gym on the black macadam parking lot. Even in the early morning, the heat and humidity were oppressive. Young girls fanned themselves in an unsuccessful effort to remain cool. Mascara began to run, makeup began to cake. Tiny rivers of sweat dripped down the fronts of blouses. Squadrons of black flies and mosquitoes, attracted by the sweet aroma of sweat, added to the misery. At exactly nine o'clock Saturday morning the obsessive-compulsive deputy who had been assigned to guard the typewriters overnight opened the doors. Eager for relief from the heat - though they would find little of that inside - contestants and spectators entered the gym. They staked out sections of the bleachers and hastily erected flags and banners to show support for their school's typist. Finding his place behind typewriter number sixteen, Walter Todzylewski folded himself into his assigned seat. Chants of "Toad. Toad. He's our man. If he can't do it, no one can!" rocked the bleachers under the maroon and gray banner of Hillside High. The Toad, as he was known to his friends, nervously cleaned his glasses with his shirttail. Though he did not mind the heat, he was nonetheless thankful to be inside. The parking lot, as far as The Toad was concerned, was a simmering cauldron of temptation. The Atlantic City High School Marching Band started playing The Washington Post March, and the air inside the gym sparkled with the electricity of anticipation. Those spectators who were not already seated hurriedly clambered over the collapsible wooden bleachers to stake out their vantage point. Contestants felt their pulses quicken. Their throats grew dry. Facial muscles twitched uncontrollably. The championships were about to begin. The Toad wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve and slouched behind his typewriter. His fingers at the ready, he peered out over the top of his glasses and watched the scoreboard clock tick off the final seconds until the start of the competition. Three ... two ... one ... The contestants began typing and the room erupted in an explosion of noise. Typewriter keys clicked and clattered. Cheerleaders squealed. Paper crinkled. Carriage returns dinged. As each page was finished and removed from the typewriter, it was handed to a runner who carried it to the judges' table. Sixteen judges, one for each contestant, read the completed pages and scored them for accuracy. Each judge had a magnet and a large Etch-a-Sketch set up in front of his place at the table. Whenever a judge updated the score on his Etch-a-Sketch, a section of the audience would burst into cheers and applause. The van Arsdale kid built up an early lead. Her short, fat fingers - they looked more like toes than digits - literally tap danced over the keyboard. The St. Bartholomew's Academy for Girls' Choir, neatly attired in their uniform of royal blue blazers and blue and white plaid skirts, sang the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah each time one of her pages landed on the judge's desk. The singing had an unnerving effect on the other competitors. Upon hearing the third rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus a tall skinny girl from Irvington - she couldn't have been much more than a freshman - ran screaming from the building, never to be seen nor heard from again. Two renditions later a red-haired girl from Princeton fainted and had to be carried out on a stretcher by the rescue squad. Rumors quickly spread through the audience that she didn't make it to the hospital alive. Another girl, from Piscataway, showed all the signs of a classic nervous breakdown. Barking like a dog, she began tearing the ribbon from her typewriter and feeding it to her poodle skirt. They say that, to this day, she can still be seen strolling along the boardwalk in Atlantic City late at night, eating salt water taffy and pushing a baby carriage with a little typewriter tucked inside, stopping only to play Ski-Ball, taking on all comers for ten cents a point. Through it all The Toad typed on, his fingers gaining speed as the noon hour approached. Miraculously, he began to narrow the gap between himself and van Arsdale. She was slowing down. The world's great typing wonder whale was beginning to buckle under the heat and the oppressive conditions inside the gym. Her face began to turn crimson, her eyes glazed over, her stubby fingers started to cramp. And still The Toad typed on. His head down, his mind and his eyes focused on nothing but the task at hand, he remained oblivious to the commotion raging about him. Sister Henrietta, the St. Bart's typing coach, paced along the sidelines in front of the bleachers. Her eyes darted feverishly back and forth between her watch and the Etch-a-Sketch scores. That scrawny little kid from Hillside - the one they called The Toad - was making up too much ground. Sister had to do something. The championship - the state high school typing championship - was slipping away. "Timeout!" she screamed. "Timeout! Timeout! Timeout!" Sister Henrietta ran across the basketball court toward the judges. Her arms flapped wildly, her habit billowed out behind her. From the back she took on the unholy appearance of an overgrown deranged bat. Not knowing what to do, the judges looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders. No one had ever asked for a timeout before. Finally, one of them took it upon himself to motion with his finger for Sister Henrietta to come closer. "Sister," he said, "I'm sorry, but there's nothing in the rules about taking a timeout." "But the heat, the heat. You've got to do something about the heat." "I'll ask the janitor to open some windows," said the judge in an effort to be accommodating yet remain within the rules. "Perhaps, if we had a little cross ventilation, that would be helpful." Right at that moment a giant roar went up from the Hillside High cheering section. "Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar. All for The Toad, stand up and holler!" The Toad had just pulled even with van Arsdale! Panic stricken, Sister Henrietta ran back across the floor to the bleachers. "Girls," she said, her voice cracking under the strain as she addressed the students assembled there in their immaculate blue and white uniforms, "let us pray. Let us pray for a miracle." And so it was that the miracle arrived, though no one noticed it at first for the crowd was distracted by yet another cheer from Hillside High. The Toad had pulled ahead. The oppressive heat had reduced the van Arsdale kid to a giant lump of blubber. Her legendary tap-dancing fingers had become useless. The muscles of her once talented hands went into a spasm, her fingers grotesquely curling in upon her palms so severely that the only way she could continue typing was with her elbows. Valiantly, she struggled to maintain consciousness, her head swiveling and bobbing aimlessly. Reacting instinctively to the roars from the crowd, the Toad looked up and stole a glance at the Etch-a-Sketch scoreboards. He was in the lead. The years of practice, the hours of sacrifice, were about to pay off. For The Toad - Walter Todzylewski - was on the verge of greatness, on the threshold of becoming the first ever New Jersey State High School Typing Champion that the little town of Hillside had ever produced, or would ever hope to produce for that matter. He never should have looked up, of course. For if he hadn't looked up, then maybe - just maybe - he wouldn't have noticed the fly. The one that Sister Henrietta had prayed for, that fly. The miracle fly. The fly that had just been blown in through the recently opened window by the on-shore breeze. It was such a small fly, it was doubtful anyone else in the gym had seen it. Not at first, anyway. Yet there it was, buzzing around, flapping its little fruit fly wings. Zooming here and swooping there, it meandered haphazardly among the remaining contestants until it came to rest on the empty desk next to The Toad - the desk where the girl from Piscataway used to be. The Toad hopped on top of his desk. He brought his knees up to his chest and crouched down on his haunches. He placed his hands flat on the surface in front of him and stared that fly straight in the eye. The room grew strangely silent, the only sound a persistent click-click-click as the van Arsdale kid continued to pound on her keys with her elbows. Suddenly, The Toad sprang from his desk, his body stretching out to its full length as he leaped across the aisle and then compacting itself again as he landed. The fly, for its part, stood its ground. They were eyeball to eyeball now, the hunter and his prey. The Toad flicked at the fly with his tongue. The crowd gasped. The fly jumped to the side, narrowly escaping its doom. The Toad flicked at it again, this time unfurling his tongue to its full three foot length. Young, impressionable girls in the audience turned away in disgust at the sight. But, alas, the fly was too quick again. It hopped to another desk where it turned around and faced The Toad as if it were taunting him, egging him on. The Toad took the bait. Again and again he pursued the fly, leaping from desk to desk, snapping his tongue like a whip. But each time the fly was too quick, too crafty. The chase progressed, moving across the judges' table, back across the gym floor and then on up into the bleachers, whereupon the fly was unceremoniously squished under the shiny black shoe of Sister Henrietta. She smiled demurely as The Toad, perched at her feet, looked up at her. And then she cracked him across the knuckles with her ruler. "Young man," she said to him, "get back to your seat and leave my fly alone." "Your fly?" "Yes," said Sister Henrietta, and she picked its flat, lifeless little body off the bottom of her shoe and swallowed it whole right in front of him - just as the buzzer sounded ending the competition. The official records of the 1957 New Jersey State High School Typing Championships mention none of this, of course. But I was there, I tell you, and every word of it is true. Oh, the records list Rosemary van Arsdale as the champion, just as they did in '56 and in '55 before that, and that is technically accurate as far as it goes, but as you can see, there is so much more to the story than that. Perhaps, if you have the time, you would care to join me for dinner, and I could tell you what became of The Toad in his later years if you'd like. What's that? Oh, nothing fancy. Just a little something I cooked up myself. A tasty little spider souffl with homemade black fly pie a la mode for desert. Sound good? |
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| Super Power Ron McCandlish ron.mccandlish@sympatico.ca |
#7 of 8 |
| 83 words | |
| I live in Canada Wake up every day And wonder... Why the World’s this way We’re not a “Super Power” But live next door to one The moon looks down on us each night We share each morning sun We also share a wondrous thing It’s called democracy In many ways it makes us A sort of... Family Why can’t other countries The ones I read about Get along together Then all mankind could shout “We’ve finally learned our lesson Lord, Look down at us and see, The way You’ve always wanted This magic place to be.” |
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| Super Power Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#8 of 8 |
| 839 words | |
| J'appelle Jean D'eax, yclept John Doh - Yes that's been
the family name long before Homer Simpson made it famous. A couple of years ago
I acquired, I suppose you could call it... yes let's call it a super power,
used only for good, of course. It's rather unusual and kind of hard to
describe, well actually it isn't, but let me start from the beginning. I have been working for years as the Third Assistant Temporary Vice-Presidents for Wackies Widgets. I had never considered myself of anything of a higher order than a Pigeon. In fact my profile has been described as a sort of cross between Jay Leno and a Mynah bird. One night, after a double helping of bean burritos with extra cheese, I was trying to change a light bulb when lightning struck my house. I won't go into scientific details, because I don't know them and would never have believed this possible, but that moment on, when my body was electronified ( if that's a word ) my rearward ... emissioms... became powerful and volatile. The next day I was taking a shortcut to work through an alleyway and was cornered by some teenaged thugs who demanded my wallet and watch. I don't even wear a watch but I wasn't about to hand over my wallet to these punks as I previously would have. I turned around, bent over, and sent them a blast that laid them low, gasping for breath. In fact two city blocks had to be cordoned off and the cops had to come in with gas masks to haul off the perps. It was written up in the paper, delicately worded of course, and from that moment on, I was a superhero. I had a t-shirt made ( all I could afford ) emblazoned with a saucy FF - Flatulent Friend, although behind my back I was called the Farting Fool. Whenever I saw injustice I could immobilze the bad guys - at no risk to myself since I was used to the aroma and usually upwind. I can't say as much for my wife who now had the perfect excuse to leave me, taking the family dog with her. I used to blame stuff like that on the dog. "Honey, I seen his butt open up. I thought he was practicing some deep breathing yoga or something. I had no idea it was chemical warfare." No matter, I wasn't getting laid much anyhow and only then after an hour of begging and pleading. I heard that ironically she took up with some insurance adjustor who worked somewhere in the bowels of my company's building. Speaking of bowels, I now carried a pouch on my belt that contained beans, cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage and the like. My power food. Actually, the first time I read the list of the 10 foods most likely to cause flatulence, I thought it was a recipe. I made it into a salad and took it to the church social. Now church is another place I'm not allowed, though it's the freeway ban that really hurts. Oh yes, I went to see a doctor about it. As I got on the elevator there was already a brown stench in it. A liitle boy and his mother got on at the third floor. The kid said "Eeuuw, you stink." I said "It wasn't me, Sonny." On the fifth floor a nurse got on, took one whiff and looked directly at me. "Gastroenterology is on the ninth floor." The doctor had no clue as to my condition but I didn't care - I was happy with my superpower and being Somebody for a change. One time I was flying on an airplane and tried to lift a cheek for a sneak. No go. All the oxygen masks popped down and I was escorted by a couple of burly co-pilots and thrown out of the emergency airlock. They had thoughtlessly forgotten to provide me with a parachute so I was spinning down toward Earth and certain death. I flattened myself out to slow me down and it was really kind of pretty to see the bucolic countryside coming up at me. Then I had an idea. I reached into my pouch and gobbled my power food, hoping it would process fast enough. When I was about 500 feet from the ground, I turned on my back and let out an immense blast. That cushioned me and I floated to the ground as light as a feather. Alas, after all the good I had done, all things must come to and end. During one crime I was trying to thwart, I wasn't fast enough to dodge a hail of bullets. After a proper burial and as the mourners were about to leave, sometimes the dead have a few bodily functions left. My body thrust itself through the coffin and the six feet of dirt with one last cutting of the cheese. Superhero's don't die that placidly. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club