The new thing in YA is supposed to be superheros. I did read SHATTER ME by Tahereh Mafi (though I haven't gotten to the second one, yet) and I'm about half way through Brandon Sanderson's STEELHEART. Anyone who has talked books with me knows I'm a HUGE fan of Brandon Sanderson, and STEELHEART is no exception. Sanderson is flat out brilliant, and even with everything else I have on my plate, I'm more than half way done in less than twenty-four hours. I'm still not sure superheros will be as big as the vampire thing, but so far, I'm loving it.
So, the prompt for this week: Write something with superheros.
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My response:
The police radio, sitting prominently on the steel shelves in my secret room, cackled to life. I jotted down the details half-heartedly. At this point, it all seemed so very ... stupid. I mean, how many bank robberies did I have to foil? How many car jackers did I have to stop? When would they figure out that invincible means INVINCIBLE. Is it really that hard to understand?
I smacked the button that opened up the hatch in the ceiling. This one was just two guys at the Quik Mart. No big deal. I didn't even bother to wake up Immensity or Equalizer. This one I could handle on my own, with both hands tied, in the dark ... and while applying mascara.
I zeroed in on the lights of the Quik Mart and circled once to check things out. Super vision is the best part. It's like having an infinite zoom implanted in your head. Two goons behind the counter. I swooped in, knocking them to the ground before the glass of the front doors shattered on the floor.
And then it's all, "Thank you, Justice!" and "I knew you'd save us!" and "Will you sign my picture, Justice?" I cut it all short and take off, flying back to headquarters. Justice is served.
At least, until next time.
This is it. This is how we are all going to die. We all knew that we would probably end up dead eventually. You can’t pretend to be a superhero, taking on the filth in the world, for long before your luck runs out. Especially when you are just a bunch of fitness trainers whose only superpower is a need for adrenaline. Still, it was fun while it lasted.
ReplyDeleteI look across the doorway at Sharon. The makeshift Halloween mask intended to hide her identity is gone. Where did it go? I can see a little blood running down her neck from a gash on her right check. It is staining the collar of the cute yellow cat suit she is wearing. That probably hurts. She really is hot. I should ask her out.
The next instant I instinctively try to get even lower as more bullets come whistling through the doorway. When Mike, Sharon, George and I had decided to get our adrenaline rush by fighting crime, I had never expected to end up trapped in the back room of a dirty bar while a biker gang swore at me and shouted all the terrible things they were going to do to Sharon, and me, when they got their hands on us.
“Where are Mike and George?” Sharon half shouts over the gunfire.
“I think George is dead, he went through a window. I don’t know about Mike.” I shout back, though shouting makes my dry throat burn. I look around again, hoping to find a way out, but there still isn’t any. Again I wonder how long we could last if we locked ourselves in the walk-in fridge, I mean we could huddle for warmth, right? And they wouldn’t stay around all night, would they? I shake my head to clear it. That bump on my forehead I got from the butt of a biker’s steel Colt 1911 is still hurting. I suck in breath as I touch it, but the pain gives me a moment of clarity. Of course we can’t hide in the walk-in. You can’t lock it, and it isn’t bullet proof.
I look across at Sharon again. Her concern for me is plain to see, but there is a little fear for herself there too. I vaguely wonder what my expression is like, and start to stand to find a mirror so I can find out, but suddenly I am woozy and have to sit back down. Oh, right, bump on the head, bad guys shooting at us, probably shouldn’t stand up right now.
Wait, the bikers aren’t shooting at us. The noise is different now. The bikers aren’t taunting us anymore. There aren’t bullets knocking pieces of plaster out of the back wall. There is still a lot of noise though. Suddenly, I realize the bikers are still shouting, but not angry curses. There are cries of surprise, and pain…and fear coming from the dining area. I slowly rise up to my feet an look though the doorway. I can feel Sharon trying to pull me down, and I am dizzy, but I am also transfixed by the yellow glowing blur that is darting about the room, throwing bikers into walls, pool tables, each other. It is like a big angry lighting bug has come to rescue us.
Someone shouts, “Go Lightning Bug!” Then I realize it is me shouting. Then I start to get dizzy and Sharon is there, holding me up. I smile at her, and ask if she can see the lighting bug too, but she is too busy watching the dining room with her mouth hanging open to say anything. I guess that means she can.
I look back to the dining area. I don’t see any bikers anymore. All I see is George, standing in the middle of the room. “Hey, did you see the lightning bug?” I ask him. Nobody responds, so I ask again. Then I realize that nobody is talking because George is dead. That is too bad for George.
But, wait, George is right there, walking toward us. Am I dead too?
I touch my forehead again to clear it, and as the pain brings me back to reality, I realize that George has a slight, yellow glow around him. I also realize I am falling over backwards, and I stiffen for the impact that doesn’t come. George has caught me.
As he lays me gently to the ground and I begin to lose consciousness, I realize that George only ever said that we would get ourselves killed. He never included himself in that statement.