emilywritesmoreoften

[emilywritesmoreoften]

January 2016

He did it. He’s standing at the window in the office of his dreams. Just like every kid in America, he guesses, but none of those idiots ever made it.

But he did.

It’s no surprise, honestly. The writers on his team came up with excellent one-liners throughout his campaign, and everyone was so fired up that they literally rampaged through the streets. But, you know, he was the one who came up with all the best ones anyways, so fuck them.

He doesn’t care about that, though. No one could ever say that he wasn’t good enough now. He’s the most powerful man in the world. Chicks are totally gonna dig him.

He looks out at the wide green lawn and the slowly setting sun, seeing only his own reflection in the window glass against the darkening sky.

He’s due for another spray tan soon. He should ask them to make it darker this time so he looks younger. Not that he’s old. No, no. He’s in the prime of his life. And he has been for decades. He just keeps getting younger and more handsome. 

Everyone loves him. That’s why he’s standing here. Popular vote bullshit aside. He beat that bitchy housewife fair and square, and it’s because he’s the best. Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic. God, she is so ugly. He would never fuck her. Even when she was 20 years old, she was a dog. He’s seen the photos.

ZAP-pop!

Startled by a noise, he turns to the center of the room and sees a small Asian girl wearing some sort of ninja costume. He’d probably fuck her. He can’t tell what’s behind the face mask she’s got covering the bottom half of her face, but her tits seem fine enough.

Her eyes are red, as if she had been crying, but he doesn’t notice. She raises a handgun to aim it at his face, and his eyes widen. As his hands go up to his chest he opens his mouth as if to speak...

BANG.

.

.

.

ZAP-pop!

.

A tired looking intern knocks on the door. No answer. The intern sighs and walks away, holding a cup of coffee and a folder of papers to sign. He can wait another 10 minutes while the President masturbates for the first time in the Oval Office. He gets the feeling it won’t be the last time.

[emilywritesmoreoften]

Gone

This morning I woke up with dry eyes, and then I remembered that she was gone. I couldn’t swallow, and my mouth had a bad taste in it, like I was about to be sick. I can’t believe it, but the lack of constant humming, almost like a white noise machine, is deafening. I used to think it was annoying, but now I miss it so much. Looking around the room, the emptiness fills my vision, and the very air feels like there’s something missing. I’m like a mummy, emptied from the inside out, and brittle to the touch, like I’m made out of dust and I’ll blow away at the slightest breeze. She left me. She left me and took my damn humidifier. 

Bitch.

[emilywritesmoreoften]

Trevor’s eyes popped open and he sang inwardly, “Good morning!”

He leaped from bed five minutes before his alarm was set to go off and bounded to the bathroom with what can only be called pep in his step.

Tapping his feet with excitement as he brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face, he practiced dialing back his insane grin in the mirror. He didn’t want to freak out the other students, but the excitement was boiling, bubbling, bursting from his body every two seconds, and at ten years old, discipline wasn’t his area of expertise.

Dressing in the outfit he selected with care last night with his mom and dad, he gathered his pre-packed suitcase and backpack to go wait by the door. His alarm went off.

---

A few hours later, Trevor and his parents approached the superhero training school in their blue minivan. The front of the school was packed with students saying goodbye to their parents. Some of the younger kids, like Trevor, looked excited and happy. Some were less so. Trevor dismissed the sight of crying kids clinging to their families as babyish, not noticing that some of these kids were not even close to babies. Most were older. Pre-teens, at least. Trevor’s mom and dad gave each other nervous looks, but Trevor was too busy chattering about his superhero name, and what power he might manifest, and whether his color scheme should be patriotic or not.

After a quick goodbye hug, and reassurances about calling once a week at least, Trevor finally walked into the building. He wanted to run, but that would have been very un-cool. Following a sign that pointed new students through a door to his left, Trevor found himself in a gymnasium with a group of ten-year-old kids sitting on the bleachers and an imposing man in khaki shorts. The man in shorts looked impassively at the group as Trevor sat down quietly in the front row. At promptly half-past the hour, he spoke.

“Welcome to Superhero School. My name is Principle Forsight, and today you will begin the difficult process of becoming a superhero.” Trevor and a few other kids started to cheer, but Principle Forsight’s steady gaze silenced them. “The first step to becoming a superhero is to manifest a superpower. Although you all have the genetic makeup to gain a superpower, your powers only show up after some kind of trauma, so our school was created for two purposes. One, give you powers. Two, teach you how to use them. Now,” he says, pulling out a suitcase full of sharp, gleaming tools, “line up against that wall there and roll up your sleeves.”

[emilywritesmoreoften]

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[emilywritesmoreoften]

This blog is me trying not to be a bear.

hey look it’s me