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verdant-green-games · 2 years ago

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The Bright Brigade

The city block lay in ruins, and to Jen, it was a perfect day. As the smoke faded away from the wreckage, she stood, a lone figure standing atop a mountain of mechanical mess, a monument to the metal martyrs who had fruitlessly thrown their automated bodies onto the sword of this great hero. Bright Red! She thought to herself, imagining the praise and cheer she’d receive for this victory, you’ve done it again! Here’s another key to the city, and even more fame and adoration!

“Don’t mind if I do,” she dreamily mumbled to herself.

“Do what?” a golden voice called from behind her.

She sighed and turned to face the voice, her crimson cape billowing in the wind. Standing below the mountain (well, more of a pile) were three other battered technicolored champions, Brights Gold, Blue and Green. Her partners. Her Bright Brigade. She’d never really wanted sidekicks, but her sponsors at Blitz Cola insisted it tested better with the under-eighteens, and the Bright Brigade was founded. Still, she’d made the best of the situation, and they made for good distractions anyhow.

Bright Gold panted, his canary armor stained with blood and oil, his golden spear battered and worn. Whose blood was that? “Jen, were you daydreaming again?” He looked exhausted, which to be fair, he probably was. Again, whose blood was that?

“That’s Bright Red to you while we’re in the field, Brian,” she retorted, “and no, I was completely focused on the situation.” “Sure.”

“Hey, Captain,” piped up Blue, clutching his dented shield to his chest, “did we win?” Garbed in navy, Bright Blue (she forgot his name; James?) was their youngest member, and the most eager to assist.

She laughed a hearty chuckle. “Of course, Blue! When the Bright Brigade is together, evildoers don’t stand a chance!”

“Except for when they-” muttered Bright Green as she fiddled with her longbow before immediately getting elbowed by Gold.

“Excellent!” piped up Gold, using his spear to prop himself up. “That’s great! Good for us! Can we go home now?”

Jen nodded in the affirmative and the team began trekking back to their corporate-mandated hovercraft. Bright Blue jogged up behind Jen, attempting to keep up. “Miss Red, I have a question.”

“What is it… Blue?” Crap, what was his name? Dave?

Blue smiled, an endearing grin. “Do you think I have what it takes to stick with the Brigade? I want to see this through to the end!”

Jen laughed and patted the kid on the back. “Of course, and you’d better be prepared to stick with us for a while -- after all, the Bright Brigade will never die!”

###

The Bright Brigade was dead. Had been for years. This here? This was just the wake.

At least, that’s what Jen was telling herself. She’d been sitting in this wobbly metal folding chair in an ill-forgotten corner of the convention center for what felt like ages. Above her hung a cheaply-printed banner: Meet the Light Brigade! Sponsored by Blitz Cola®. If she ever figured out who had misspelled the name of their team on that banner she’d run them through with her Sword Scarlet. Well, she would, if she hadn’t pawned that thing ten years prior.

Next to her, sitting as far away as possible without sitting completely at another booth, was Evelyn, the artist formerly known as Bright Green. The two of them sat in complete silence for what seemed like days. Finally, Jen spoke.

“So, Evelyn, how’s your wife?” Jen was trying to be polite, mostly out of sheer boredom.

Evelyn took a sip from her disposable water bottle and replied, not looking at her. “Dunno. Still divorced, I guess.”

“Oh, Evelyn, I’m so sorry.” She wasn’t. Evelyn was a jerk and she deserved it.

“Don’t be. We’re happier this way.” Evelyn didn’t look particularly happy, but that was a-okay to Jen.

“How are the kids taking it?” Did Evelyn have kids? Jen couldn’t remember.

Evelyn snorted. “Jason and Steph moved out two years ago to go to college. They don’t care.”

Jen doubted that, but decided not to press the issue. She looked around the hall, seeing the few passersby wandering around their area. There was a slight commotion coming towards them, and when Jen saw what was causing it she gasped. “Wait… is that?”

Evelyn laughed derisively. “That moron! What does he think he’s doing?”

Confidently striding towards the two of them, dressed in his full, now ill-fitting uniform and clutching his spear like a baton, was Brian: the former Bright Gold. His thinning hair was styled with enough hair gel to permanently ruin the Amazon’s ecosystem, his gut was barely contained by the buttons of his jacket, and his face was tight with Botox. Despite these issues, various fans were still vying for a photo of him. Smiling a movie-star grin, Brian waved to the crowd and took a seat between the two of them.

“Jen! Evelyn! It’s so good to see you two!” he laughed, clearly hamming it up for the cameras.

“Nice to see you too, Brian,” Jen lied.

“How’re the kids, Evelyn?” Brian smiled widely for the cameras and patted Evelyn on the shoulder.

Evelyn looked at Brian coldly before methodically removing Brian’s hand from his shoulder. “Fine.”

An awkward pause fell over Brian, his smile cracking for a split second, but in a moment it was over and he had recovered. “Jen! How’s life?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” said Jen. “Y’know, just the feeling of peaking in my twenties and having nowhere to go from here. The usual.” She decided to change the subject. “How’s your hairline doing, Brian?”

“O-kay, I think that’s enough camera time for now,” Brian laughed awkwardly, shooing away the few fans still gathered around the table. “We’ll do autographs later. Give us some time to catch up!”

“Catch up about what?” Evelyn looked steamed. “There’s nothing to say. We’re not friends. We haven’t even seen each other in what, ten years?”

“Eleven,” Brian and Jen said simultaneously.

“We broke up for a reason. Let’s keep it that way,” Evelyn said in a low voice.

“You’re right. We just need to get through a panel, and then autographs, and then we can collect our paychecks and never have to see each other again,” stated Jen forcefully. “Let’s do this.”

###

The three members of the Bright Brigade, once saviors of the city, champions of light, were now seated on rickety bar-stools in front of a few standing microphones. The stage was empty besides a moderator sitting on a similarly-shakey stool. The audience pit, conversely, was not empty; about half of the room’s chairs were filled with fans, cheering and whooping upon seeing their former heroes.

The moderator stood up and hushed the crowd. “Ladies, gentlemen, and anybody else, welcome to HeroCon!”

The crowd cheered.

“We know you’re all excited for the Q&A with the Bright Brigade, but first, let’s give a warm welcome to our panelists!” The moderator began pointing to each of them in turn. “First up, the crimson hero and master of the Sword Scarlet, Jennifer Harris, BRIGHT RED!”

Jen waved awkwardly at the screaming fans. Years prior, she would have loved this. Now, she just wanted it to be over.

“Next up, the canary conqueror, he who mastered the Spear Gilded, Brian Mitchell, BRIGHT GOLD!”

Brian stood up and bowed melodramatically to the audience, a massive grin on his lips. The crowd went wild. Jen and Evelyn rolled their eyes.

“And last but not least, the archer in emerald, the wielder of the Bow Verdant, Evelyn Ramirez, BRIGHT GREEN!”

The crowd cheered, quieter than they had for Red and Gold. Evelyn barely reacted, sipping from her water bottle.

“We’ll now open up the floor for questions. Yes! You in the cosplay.”

A microphone was handed to a man in the audience wearing a cardboard recreation of the Bright Red costume, tall boots and all. Jen sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

“Question for the group,” he said, clearly nervous, “what prompted you to retire and reveal your identities to the public?”

The three looked at each other. The reason why their identities were revealed to the public wasn’t their own decision; it was Blitz Cola’s. After a particularly rough battle years prior, Blitz decided they didn’t want to be responsible for a superhero team anymore. The team was disbanded, and the remaining members unmasked.

Evelyn was the first to answer. “Lawsuit.”

Brian took his own mic. “What Evelyn means is, we decided we could do more good from the civilian level than we could operating as the Bright Brigade.”

The man looked confused. “But didn’t Jen fight as Bright Red for some time afterwards-”

The moderator interrupted. “Sorry, one question per guest. Next question!”

The audience was scoured again, and a small child, no older than maybe five, was chosen and handed a mic.

“That is probably the youngest fan we’ve got,” muttered Brian to the others. “Let’s not blow this one.”

The kid clutched the microphone too close to his germy lips and breathed heavily into it. “Bright Red, I have a question.”

Jen smiled. “What is it, champ?”

The child’s mother prodded him onward, and he continued, his chubby hands too small to properly hold the microphone. “Were you scared when you fought Garganit?”

She hadn’t thought about Garganit in years. That alien menace might have wanted to take over the world, but he’d been a poor excuse for a tyrant. Jen laughed. “Garganit the Conqueror? No, of course not. Why would I have been scared to fight that chump?”

A hush fell over the crowd. That was odd. She had expected cheers and whoops. She felt a tug at her elbow; it was Evelyn. “Hey, maybe you should stop talking about Garganit,” she whispered.

“Why? Did I forget something about Garganit?”

“He’s the guy who killed Shane, Jen.” Brian looked pained.

“Who’s Shane?”

The crowd’s silence evaporated into boos; Jen had forgotten that her mic was still on. The kid burst into tears. Jen looked around, confused and desperate. “Bright Blue, Jen. You never bothered to learn his name?!” Evelyn hissed.

“Oh, crap.” Jen started to apologize, but it was too late; the mob of public opinion had already turned against her. The moderator stood up and frantically tried to calm the crowd.

Evelyn looked furious. “I can’t believe this, Jen. Actually, yes I can. You never gave a crap about any of us!”

“That’s not true-” Jen stammered, but was interrupted by Brian.

“No, Evelyn’s right. We were just a backdrop for your antics. You’re the one that wanted to play the hero. We just wanted to help people.”

“I-” Jen’s apology was interrupted by the moderator, who beckoned the three to remain quiet. The crowd had finally been hushed to a dull murmur. “We’ll discuss this later,” Jen said, and they turned back to the crowd.

“Alright, next question!” called out the moderator to the audience. A few dozen hands were raised. An usher handed a megaphone to one, a nerdy-looking woman with thick tortoiseshell glasses, which she readjusted as she stood.

“My question goes out to all of you,” the woman asked. “What are your thoughts on the upcoming reboot of the Bright Brigade?”

Now it was the panel’s turn to fall silent. Jen turned to the others. Did you know about this? She mouthed. They shook their heads. Jen faced the nerd again. “This is the first I’m hearing about a Bright Brigade reboot.”

“Blitz Cola announced they were sponsoring a new team on their socials about thirty minutes ago.” The nerd looked smug.

“She’s right,” said the moderator, checking her phone. “it just got announced. There’s an all-new lineup of Brights -- Brights White, Silver, Orange, and Black!!”

The crowd erupted into cheers as a look of horror settled onto Jen’s face, any slim hopes of a return to fame dashed. Brian looked crestfallen as well; Evelyn, to her credit, merely took another sip from her water bottle. They’d been forgotten yet again.

###

The three of them sat in bitter silence at their booth. A sizable line of fans trailed back some ways, each clutching some piece of memorabilia: a glossy photo, a prop, an action figure. They were here for one thing, and one thing only.

Autographs.

With the tick of a clock behind them, the three uncapped their Sharpies and began making short messages out to the masses. Jen noted that her line was much shorter than the others’, probably because of her slip-up at the Q&A. Amid the cries of “I’m such a fan!” and the jeers of “you seriously didn’t remember Bright Blue?” Jen attempted to make amends with her former associates.

“Hey, guys, I’m really sorry about everything,” she began, but Evelyn hushed her with a wave of his free hand.

“That’s enough, Jen.” Evelyn sipped from her bottle again. Jen sincerely hoped that that was water in there, but knowing Evelyn it could very well be vodka. Or vinegar, actually, to help top off that sour disposition of hers. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Yeah,” said Brian, no longer smiling as he signed a mint-condition action figure of himself (with karate-chop action!). “I think you’ve said enough.”

The man from the audience that was dressed like Bright Red came to the front of the line and set down a replica of Jen’s sword on the table with a thunk. “Make it out to Steve Garrett, your biggest fan,” he said proudly.

Jen absently picked up the sword and began signing it. “I’m just saying, guys, I think there’s room for us to commiserate here. I mean, this is worse than being forgotten -- we’re being replaced! That’s gotta be something for us to talk about, right?”

“Jen, it’s not like you really cared about us back in the glory days anyway,” said Brian harshly as he signed a commemorative plate. “Why would you care now?”

“Because- wait,” said Jen, distracted, examining the prop Sword Scarlet in front of her. “What’s this replica made of?”

Steve Garrett’s smile widened. “That’s no replica -- that’s the real deal! I bought it off eBay a couple of years ago. I’m a really big fan!” he added, as if that explained things.

“You bought my actual sword… to get it autographed?!”

“Sure did! Best $300 I ever spent!” Jen could hardly contain her rage. “This sword has slain demons and knighted demigods. It was forged in the heart of an inverted volcano and tempered in the corona of a dwarf star -- and you’re saying you bought it for less than the cost of an XBOX?!”

Steve’s smile was so wide it was like his face was about to split. “Isn’t that a steal?”

“Settle down, Jen.” Brian was also grinning now, his Spear Gilded propped up against the table like a walking stick. Jen quickly and furiously signed the sword and sat down with a huff. Brian leaned over. “That’s what you get for selling it to a pawn shop,” he mocked.

“Shut up.”

They continued signing autographs for the masses in silence, Jen’s desires to make amends left in the dust. Eventually, the crowd drained to a trickle, and the trickle evaporated into a few stragglers coming to the booth every now and then. Forgotten again.

Jen turned to the others. “Look, I’m sorry, okay. Is there anything I can do to make this right?”

“Yeah,” suggested Evelyn. “You could shut up.”

Jen scoffed. “Quit being childish. I’m serious.”

The other two sat, stone-faced. A barely-audible rumble erupted from the other side of the convention center; probably a more popular hero had made an entrance.

“Jen-” Brian began.

“Quiet,” interrupted Evelyn. “Do you hear that?”

The rumble had grown louder, and the trio could now hear more screams than usual echoing throughout the hall. A large swarm of people clad in blue and purple containment suits had begun flooding through the hall, toting comically-large plasticine guns.

“Are those-” began Brian.

Jen’s eyes narrowed. “Henchmen.”

The containment suit goons began barking orders to the passerby, herding them towards the center of the hall with gestures of their large weaponry.

“Henchmen? Here?” Evelyn said, her quavering voice unusual for her. “But that would mean-”

“They must have a boss somewhere nearby.”

Sure enough, a skull-faced figure had taken the stand in the middle of the convention and had begun shouting something to the herded masses; a monologue, probably, though Jen couldn’t tell because they were really far away, and the villain had failed to bring a megaphone (classic rookie villain mistake). Still, whoever they were, they looked at least somewhat threatening. Jen’s fists clenched, but Brian put his hand on her shoulder, his voice panicked. “Jen, we can’t take them! We’re unarmed and outgunned.”

“You have your spear,” Jen pointed out.

“I’ve been using it as a hat stand for a decade now! We should just run.”

Evelyn flipped their table over with a thud and crouched behind it.

“Evelyn, what the heck are you doing?” hissed Jen.

“Taking cover.”

“Behind a plastic table?!”

Evelyn looked sheepish. “It works in the movies.”

Brian was also huddled behind the table now, clutching his spear like a security blanket. “I’m with Evelyn. Let’s bunker down until this blows over.”

“Seriously?” Jen looked out at the swarming henchmen in the crowd. Nobody had been hurt yet, but if someone didn’t do something fast there could be serious repercussions. Crouching behind the overturned table, she turned to the other former Brights. “I think it’s time for us to go back into action.”

The two looked at her blankly. Evelyn spoke up first. “I mean, it’s not like we’re the only heroes here. Someone like Angelman can handle this. Or Agent Alchemy!”

“We can’t just stand aside and do nothing while people are in danger!”

“Jen, we’re retired for a reason. Maybe Blitz is right to reboot us; we’ve lost our touch.” Brian looked teary-eyed, and he hugged his spear like a beloved stuffed animal. “We’re failures.”

“Hey.” Jen put her left hand on Brian’s shoulder, and her right on Evelyn’s. “We’re a team. I know I was a terrible leader, and an even worse friend, and there’s nothing I can do now that can change that. But right now innocent people are going to get hurt, and I can’t stand by and allow that.”

Brian sniffled and wiped his nose on his cape. Evelyn nodded. “Right, let’s go do this.”

“Alright, first of all, we’ll need weapons. Evelyn, where’s the Bow Verdant?”

Evelyn inhaled sharply. “Probably my ex-wife’s house.”

“...why?”

“...she got it in the divorce.”

“...HOW?!”

“I don’t know, man, she had a really good lawyer!”

“Fine, whatever!” Jen stood up. “Brian, Evelyn, flank me. Let’s do what we do best.”

“What’s that?” asked the two.

Jen smiled, a cocky look she hadn’t used in years. “Save the day.”

The three of them rushed out through the crowd of huddled civilians, panting and huffing as they struggled to move their middle-aged bodies quickly. As they ran, Jen spotted the geek with the poor cosplay; he was huddled beneath a table of Lego figures, her precious sword abandoned nearby. Dashing by, Jen scooped up the weapon and continued running. As they arrived at the edge of the crowd, they saw a horde of masked henchmen scuffling with the various heroes and security of the convention. Some of the goons began to look at them. Jen let loose her most confident-sounding laugh.

“Evildoers, beware - for you face the Bright Brigade!” She leveled her sword at them. “And when we’re together, you don’t stand a chance.”

For a brief, shining moment, they looked and felt like a team again. Then her sword’s blade fell off with a clatter; in her rush, Jen must have mixed up the nerds, and had accidentally grabbed a plasticine prop instead of the real deal.

The henchmen shared a look and aimed their weaponry at the brigadiers. “Aw, screw it,” Jen declared, tossing the hilt aside and putting up her fists; by her side, Evelyn did the same, and Brian gripped his spear like a gladiator. “Let’s do this.” And together the three former heroes plunged into battle for the very last time.

#the bright brigade #bright brigade #my stories #short story #short fiction #superhero fiction #superheroes #power rangers #super sentai

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verdant-green-games · 2 years ago

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The First of Us

CW: Christianity

Silence. As I plod my bare feet down the hallway of the prison, empty lantern rattling at my side, “silence” is the only word on my mind. The prison is eerily quiet, but the empty cells remain scored with tallies: a final testament to the poor sinners who had once filled these halls. I hope they’re alright, wherever they are. The air is chilled, freezing almost, but I hardly feel it. Hold yourself together, I tell myself. You’ve got a job to do.

I come to the end of the hallway; a simple metal elevator lies ahead of me. Steeling my nerves, I enter and tap the bottommost button in the lift. “You’re going down,” I mutter to myself, and then laugh at my own joke before chastising myself. This isn’t the time for jokes, I scold.

Why not? This whole exercise is a joke.

I shake off my doubts as the elevator sinks for what feels like eternity. Eventually, the elevator doors slide open with a ding, revealing a single cavernous cell.

It’s definitely freezing now, but I have more important matters to attend to. I call out into the cavern, illuminating my lantern as I do so. “Brother? Are you here?” As if he’d be anywhere else. There was only one way out of this prison, and he’d never take it. At least, that’s what I assumed.

“Go away.”

Ah, there he is. I stepped forward into the cell, leaving the comfort of the elevator for the grit of the cavern. “Brother, I just want to talk.” I take a few more steps out.

“Go away.”

A scrabbling sound comes from behind me. I turn and see a dirty, naked figure scrambling into the elevator, tapping wildly at the buttons. He looks up, meets my eyes, and yelps, scrambling out of the elevator back into the darkness.

“Brother, please. This is just embarrassing. You know you’re not allowed to leave.”

“Why not? All the others have.”

I sigh. “They’ve served their penance and made their peace. It’s just you now, here in this ruin of a Hell.”

He scoffs, somewhere in the dark. “As if this Hell was ever more magnificent than this. Everybody always assumed it was some dark, looming tower, and not this sandy pit.”

He tuts, somewhere else now. “And on the subject of towers-”

“-I know, you’re still mad about the one you tried to construct in Babylon.”

“That wasn’t even me! I have no idea where those lunatics got that idea from.”

“Really.”

He grows silent, and I lose track of him for a moment. Then I hear a voice coming from the dark, low and deep. “I wasn’t always like this, you know.”

“Of course I know. I was there. We all were.”

“I used to be beautiful. The greatest prince, the chosen one! Now look at me. King of rot and ash, and not even that.”

The voice has stopped moving now. I follow where I last heard the voice, lighting my way with the lantern. Eventually, I find him, curled into a ball on a flat stone. I set the lantern down, and then sit next to him.

“You were the best of us, brother. I’m sorry that it came to this.” I look down at him, at his greasy, matted hair and yellowed nails.

He whimpers in the light, like a child afraid of the dark. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen light?”

I chuckle softly. “Probably not since the last visitor you had, back when they came for the last two traitors.”

He shook his head. “I’ve seen light, once before, after that.” He looks up at me with bloodshot, tear-streaked eyes. “I had a plan.”

“I know.” It was a bad plan, I think to myself, before ushering myself to be quiet.

“It was a bad plan, I know that now, but it was a plan.” He looks back down at the dirt, tracing a long, gnarled finger through it. “Father had asked us for plans, and I thought I had this in the bag. I really did. And then… he came in with his own plan, and I… I got upset.”

“You rebelled against us all. You drove us apart.”

“I know!” He sits up suddenly with a crack of bone. “But that was part of the plan!”

“Your plan?”

“His plan!” Dusty tears began welling up in his eyes, and he looked away from my gaze. “I just… He needed a scapegoat. A boogeyman. A stick to oppose His carrot. And He found me.”

We sit in silence for what feels like an eternity. It may have actually been an eternity, for all I knew. And then he spoke, softly, and I remembered what he used to be like, all those eons ago.

“I’ve always wondered if this is what He wanted. If our Father knows all, He knew this would happen. How could He let this happen to me?” My brother looks at me again, directly in the eyes. The tears are streaming freely now. “But He needed this. For His plan to work, He needed to sacrifice two sons. One for three days, and the other forever.”

I look across to him. “I’ve never thought of it like that before.”

“Well, I’ve had a long time to think about this.” He looks up at the endless ceiling. “I said I’ve seen light before. Did you know that Father still visits me sometimes?”

“I didn’t.”

“Father comes in here, every so often, and He just… stares. He’ll stand by the elevator, staring, and then He leaves. I don’t know why.” My brother continues drawing on the dusty floor; it’s a tree he’s scrawled, like a child’s rendition of an old fig, across the dirty ground.

He looks up from his artwork. “Brother visited me once, too. That was the light I saw. He came in here, shining gloriously, and he asked me something.”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t remember. I was too angry at seeing him again.” He shakes his head again. “I really wish I had listened.”

We sit in silence again. A thought pops into my head, and I shove it back down. It springs in again: through God, all things are possible. I shove it deeper. Not this, I scold. This is impossible.

The thought persists, however. What makes him different?

I don’t have an answer.

I break the silence this time, after a shorter eternity. “You’re wrong, you know.”

He snorts. “I’ve heard that before. It’s usually right.”

“No, you’re wrong.” I stand up. “It doesn’t have to be forever.”

He turns to me. “What?”

I find that I finally understand the reason I was sent here. This wasn’t pointless, not at all. “Father promised compassion eternal, that any could return to Him through grace and repentance. He said it was made possible through the sacrifice of His son.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But you were right. He sacrificed two sons that day. And I think it’s time we fix that.”

I hold out my hand to him. “You know what you have to do.”

He looks at me, then looks away. “You know I can’t.”

“Through God, all things are possible.” I reach my hand out again. “Why not this?”

He looks again to me, and for a second I think I see the faintest wisp of a smile on his thin lips. With a bony hand he grasps mine, and haltingly stands up. Then he lifts his head, heavenward, and prays. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…”

#my posts #the first of us #cry for the devil #deal with the devil #short story #short fiction #writeblr #christianity #cw: christianity

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verdant-green-games · 2 years ago

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Ants, Grasshoppers, and Grain

Once there was an ant who toiled laboriously in the autumnal sun, as it worked diligently to dry the grain it had worked so hard to gather over the summer. As the ant did so, a grasshopper, toting a fiddle, hopped up to the ant and requested a donation of grain.

“Why, kindly grasshopper,” asked the ant incredulously, “why do you not have your own serving of grain? Surely you have been saving up for the winter?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the grasshopper remorsefully. “I’ve been too busy playing my fiddle to be able to gather grain, and now I fear I shall starve.”

###

Once there was a grasshopper, who rejoiced in the sound of music. Upon leaving home, the grasshopper spent its savings on a dented old fiddle, and joyously taught itself how to play. Oh, what music the grasshopper could play! Wherever they went, music sprang throughout the air, and the insects and beasts of the woods were captivated. Unfortunately, captivation doesn’t fill bellies, and as the air grew colder, the grasshopper realized that it needed food and shelter to survive the winter. Coming across an ant drying grain, the grasshopper meekly requested some food.

“Why, kindly grasshopper,” asked the ant incredulously, “why do you not have your own serving of grain? Surely you have been saving up for the winter?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the grasshopper remorsefully. “I’ve been too busy playing my fiddle to be able to gather grain, and now I fear I shall starve.”

The ant stared at the grasshopper in disgust. “Very well; you’ve spent your summer making music, now you may spend your winter dancing in the cold!” And with that, the ant left with their grain. The grasshopper spent that winter dying in the freezing snow, and the next spring was devoid of the sound of fiddles.

### “Surely you have been saving up for the winter?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the grasshopper remorsefully. “The termites a few hills away offered to pay me in grain if I played my fiddle for them, but when the time came for my wages they stiffed me and threw me out.”

The ant scoffed. “Well, that’s what you get for dealing with termites. You should have known better than to throw in your lot with them.” “Will you help me?” begged the grasshopper.

The ant laughed. “Why should I have to pay for the termites’ lies? No, my friend, you’ll be on your own this winter. Perhaps you should have played for the moths!” And with that, the ant left with its grain, leaving the grasshopper alone with naught but a fiddle.

###

“Will you help me?” begged the grasshopper.

The ant hesitated, and then spoke. “Tell you what; if you help me dry out this grain, I’ll give you some; heck, if you agree to teach me to play the fiddle, I’ll even let you stay with my family this winter.”

“Of course!” cried the grasshopper, and the two set to work. That winter, the two feasted on the fruits of their labors and rejoiced to the sounds of fiddles, and the next spring ant and grasshopper departed as friends.

###

“Why, kindly grasshopper,” asked the ant incredulously, “why do you not have your own serving of grain? Surely you have been saving up for the winter?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the grasshopper remorsefully. “I’ve been too busy playing my fiddle to be able to gather grain, and now I fear I shall starve.”

Before the ant could respond, a dark shadow overtook the scene. Moments later, the grasshopper and ant were both devoured by a magpie, who flew away, completely unaware of the interrupted aesop.

###

Once there was an ant who toiled laboriously in the autumn sun, desperately gathering grain for the coming winter. It needed to be quick, and it needed to be quiet. As it shoved grain into its sack, it heard a cry in the distance. “Stop, thief!” cried another ant, waving its arms angrily in the air as it rushed towards the thieving ant. Spotted, the thief scurried off into the dirt, making its getaway with the sack slung across its back.

As the ant arrived home, it spread out its collection; so much extra grain, gleaned from the fields of others. After all, they could spare a few sprouts here and there; it’s not like it was stealing the entire supply from one, right? The ant laughed at its own brilliance, and got to work drying the grain in the sun.

As the ant did so, a grasshopper, toting a fiddle, hopped up to the ant and requested a donation of grain.

The ant laughed. “Listen, buddy, I’ve worked hard to gather this grain all summer. What have you done, besides play the fiddle?”

The grasshopper looked at the grain curiously. “If these are all from your field, then why are they all different kinds of grain?”

The ant glared at the grasshopper. “I worked hard for this grain. Go before I call the bug police on you.”

The grasshopper obliged, hopping away. That winter, the ant feasted on the fruits of other ants’ labors, and the grasshopper was never seen again.

###

“What have you done, besides play the fiddle?”

The grasshopper said nothing, and hopped away. The ant snorted and got back to its work. When it arrived home, lugging the misbegotten grain behind it, it found the grasshopper standing outside of its house, surrounded by other ant farmers.

“Is this the ant that has been robbing your fields?” asked the grasshopper kindly.

“Yes! That’s the one!” cried the ant farmers.

“You sold me out? Why?” asked the ant thief.

“I may not be as good as a farmer,” declared the grasshopper, “but I’m better than a thief.”

As the thief ant desperately looked around, it saw the bug police arriving on their little slug scooters, branches clutched in their tiny appendages. There was nowhere to run. The ant put its hands into the air, was cuffed, and eventually served twelve seasons in bug prison, while the grasshopper remained a lifelong friend of the other ants until they were abruptly eaten by a magpie a few seasons later.

###

“Is this the ant that has been robbing your fields?” asked the grasshopper kindly.

“Yes! That’s the one!” cried the ant farmers.

“No!” declared the ant thief. “The grasshopper forced me to! I’m the real victim here!”

The ants pondered this. “Really?” one asked.

The ant thief saw its opportunity. “Yes!” it lied. “I’ve been working to gather the grain, after the grasshopper stole from me! You darn grasshopper!”

“That doesn’t make sense,” started one of the ants, but the others drowned it out. “Kill the grasshopper! Take back our grain!” they declared as they tore the grasshopper to pieces, ripping out its wings and smashing its fiddle on the ground. In the chaos, the thief ant snuck away with the grain, darting off into the night.

The next spring, the thief ant declared its candidacy for bug president, running on a very popular anti-grasshopper platform.

###

The ant stared at the grasshopper in disgust. “Very well; you’ve spent your summer making music, now you may spend your winter dancing in the cold!” And with that, the ant left with its grain, leaving the grasshopper alone with naught but a fiddle. That winter, the ant planned to feast on the fruits of its labors - but discovered that a blight had set upon the stored grain, rendering it useless. With nowhere else to go, the ant humbly came to the home of the bumblebees, and knocked on the door to their hive.

A bee answered. “Yes, what is it?”

The ant meekly responded. “Kindly bee, could you possibly spare some food for a poor wretch such as I? My stores have been consumed by blight, and I fear I shall starve this winter.”

The bee stared at the ant in disgust. “Very well; you’ve spent your summer gathering food just to rot, now you may spend your winter rotting yourself!” And with that, the bee slammed the door of the hive shut, leaving the ant alone in the cold.

###

The bee laughed. “Of course; how could we refuse? All who are suffering deserve help equally.” The bee opened the door of the hive, kindly letting the ant in.

As the ant sat at the table and satiated itself on bee honey, it heard the curious sound of fiddle music. The ant looked around. There, among the feasting bees, was the grasshopper, joyously fiddling the night away and snacking on honey. The ant was confused, and asked the closest bee, “Why is the grasshopper here? It never did anything!”

The bee just smiled. “All who are suffering deserve help equally.”

The ant pondered this, and then nodded, understanding. Setting down its honey, it joined the grasshopper in song, and together the hive played the winter away.

###

“Why, kindly grasshopper,” asked the ant incredulously, “why do you not have your own serving of grain? Surely you have been saving up for the winter?”

The grasshopper shrugged. “What’s the point? We all die in the end anyway. Hoarding is pointless; enjoyment is wise.”

The ant paused. “Then why ask for grain now, if you do not fear death?” The grasshopper grinned. “Because life is worth living, my friend, as long as you can! There’s so much to see, and so much we’ll never see. So we keep going, eating when we can and living when we can’t, trying to discover the truth of everything, a truth buried everywhere we just haven’t looked yet.”

The ant was quiet, and looked at its grain, before looking back to the grasshopper. “Could I come with? I’d like to live, too.”

The grasshopper nodded, and, grain in tow, the two set off towards adventure, as long as they would last.

###

Once there was a human, who was getting increasingly tired of all the ants and grasshoppers plaguing her yard. So, she hired a fumigator to get rid of the bugs. A few days later, the yard was completely bug-free. She nodded, pleased with the state of her garden, before her face was promptly attacked by a magpie, who had mistaken her nose for a grasshopper.

#my posts #aesop #short story #short fiction #aesops fables #ant #grasshopper #bees #bugs #the ant and the grasshopper

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verdant-green-games · 2 years ago

Text

Pillar of Eternity

I am Yang, and I am alone. I sit in a barren room, lab coat freshly-ironed and pristine, staring directly at the only other occupant of the chamber: a stone cylinder, perhaps four feet high and half as wide, covered in strange symbols. Behind me, through thick glass, my colleagues grip their clipboards and take notes.

About fifteen minutes prior, I had drawn the metaphorical “short straw”, as to speak; our investigation of the artifact had produced no fruit, and with not much else to try we elected to send somebody to directly examine it, knowing full well that when the artifact was first discovered, pulled from the bottom of a well by unknowing farmers, it had driven them mad. Still, science was science, and somebody would have to do this.

I am Yang, and I stand up from my chair and tentatively reach out for the stone. I can almost hear the breath of my colleagues hitch as they see my outstretched hand, reaching forward. My fingertips lightly graze the stone’s surface.

I am Yang, and suddenly, I can hear their breaths hitch. I can hear the pulse of their heartbeats, the pulse of my heartbeat, the sloshing of their bodies and the firing of neurons down their nervous systems. I try to jerk my hand back in response, but find that I cannot; in fact, I press my hand closer to the stone.

I am Yang, and I am above a field of rice, a barren well below me. I see through the dirt and clay to see a stone cylinder, abandoned, beneath the well. Farmers work their fields nearby, without a single thought to the liquids gushing through their veins.

I am Yang, and the time is different now. I’m amidst a great empire of stone and steel, its castles rising above the fields like mountains. The people are overworked, but happy, and sitting on a great throne on the highest tower sits a man, a great god-king above his people. One hand of his clutches a bejeweled cup; the other rests on a stone cylinder.

I am Yang, and once more the time shifts. I see great wars, battled with bloodshed, as armies of soldiers fight for the right to possess a simple stone cylinder. I see sharp blades part limbs from shoulders, see arrows pierce through armor, shields and eyes. I see a giant, mighty figure, unrecognizably great and terrible, cutting down enemies as if they were blades of grass: a bloodied blade gripped in one hand, the other clutching the cylinder.

I am Yang, and again I am falling backwards; countless cities rising, countless more burning. I see the stars blur in the sky as they swiftly rotate backwards, I see mountains grow like flowers and crumble like ash. I see the end. I see the beginning. I see everything. I see more than that. I see-

###

I am Shen. Yang died yesterday morning; the artifact burnt his nervous system to a crisp. The last thing he said as we pulled him out of the room was incomprehensible; something about the “pillars of eternity”.

Still, science is science, and something must be done. I’ve drawn the metaphorical “short straw”, so to speak, and will be heading into the room today to further research the stone.

I am Shen. My lab coat has been freshly ironed, and as I step into the room, I almost hear the breath of my colleagues hitch.

#my posts #short story #short fiction #science fiction #scifi #scp

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verdant-green-games · 2 years ago

Text

Bad Spirits

Amelia sat on the shelf, and Amelia was not alone. The old curios store was full of knick knacks and doodads, and Amelia herself was propped up on an entire shelf covered in threadbare stuffed animals and half-naked Barbie dolls. Of course, Amelia stood out, possibly due to the sheer craftsmanship of her porcelain face and hands, or possibly due to the noticeable bloodstains on her silk dress. Amelia liked standing out. It helped attract victims better.

As Amelia sat in her current abode, the bell above the shop door rang. A young girl, probably about fifteen, strutted into the shop, and Amelia’s interest was piqued. Young girls were always her favorite kind of prey, and Amelia found herself hoping the girl would notice her.

The wizened old crone that ran the shop looked up. “Can I help you, miss?” she asked with a creaky voice.

“Hi! Do you have any dolls?” the girl piped up.

Amelia grinned, though to be fair her static face meant she was always grinning. A young girl who liked dolls? Oh, man, this was boding well for her!

The shopkeeper thought for a moment. “I think we may have some over on the shelf in the corner, but be careful over there. Some of those dolls might have sharp edges.”

Amelia did have sharp edges, sometimes, but those were usually razor blades she tucked under her skirts. Alas, those had been confiscated when she first arrived in the shop. Darn.

The girl came over to the shelf and began perusing the selection of dolls. When she came to Amelia, she stopped.

“Ooh, what about that one?” asked the girl excitedly, pointing straight at Amelia. “I like her.”

Amelia sat, trying to appear as appealing as possible.

The shopkeeper shook her head. “Oh, no, you don’t want ol’ Amelia. She’s got bad spirits about her.”

The girl lit up. “Really?”

“Her last owners seemed to think so, before they passed.”

That was true. It took three days to clean them off of the walls.

The girl shrugged. “Eh, I like her. She’s got a nice smile.”

Amelia continued to grin with her porcelain face.

The shopkeeper sighed. “Fine. Take the doll and be done with it.”

The girl squealed, grabbing Amelia from the shelf and clutching her tightly to her chest. “Thank you!”

“It’s your funeral,” said the shopkeeper, and internally, Amelia agreed.

###

The girl soon arrived home, into a large, creaky old house. Amelia was thrilled. This was the perfect hunting ground for her! Amelia internally noted that this was her lucky day.

The girl toted inside two large paper bags. Amelia was inside one, but she couldn’t see what was inside the other. She’d seen a little bit of rustling, but she had no clue what could be inside. Maybe a puppy? Little girls like puppies, right?

The girl set down Amelia’s bag in the entryway and peered inside. “Alright, Amelia, you wait right here,” she instructed. “I’ve got to prep some things, but I’ll come back for you, don’t you worry!”

Amelia just smiled.

“Good,” smiled the girl back. And with that, the girl picked up the other paper bag and strutted off to a back room.

Amelia waited until sunset to make her move. With the subtlest of movements, she lifted her tiny stuffed arms towards the wall of the bag, and tore open the paper with surprising strength. She quietly stepped through the hole in the bag, toddling along with her little doll legs. Amelia kept smiling.

“Soon, girl…” she mumbled to herself with a surprisingly deep voice for a baby doll.

As she teetered along the hallway, she spotted a stray pair of scissors lying on the ground. What luck! And here Amelia was worrying she’d have to find the kitchen first to get a knife. Scissors, though? Those were like two knives bolted together!

Amelia looked down the hallway. Looks like the girl was in the bathroom, doing… something. The door was ajar.

With the scissors in hand, Amelia crept slowly in the darkness towards the girl’s bathroom. Soon, it would be over. Soon, she would taste blood.

A scream rang out from the room suddenly, stopping Amelia in her tracks. If she’d had blood, it would have run cold at the shriek. Amelia cocked her head. Have I been beaten to the kill?, she wondered to herself.

Another screech wailed from the room, followed by a melodic laugh. Amelia crawled closer, and peered around the doorframe.

The paper bag the girl had taken in was wet and lying on the ground in a heap. The girl knelt above the filled tub, a spray bottle beside her. In her hands was a blood-stained teddy bear, one glass eye shining from its matted fur.

A scratchy voice rang out from the bear. “No, please, I beg you! I’ll go away, I’ll never kill again! Just don’t-”

The girl laughed and plunged the bear into the water, the water bubbling up around it with a screech. A few drops of water sprayed out into the hallway, landing near Amelia. Amelia tentatively reached over and touched a drop. Immediately, she withdrew her hand and yelped; it stung! Wait, thought Amelia, I’m possessing a doll. How did I feel pain? Then it occurred to her.

Holy water. This wasn’t a bathtime; this was an exorcism.

She dropped the scissors to the ground with a clatter, stunned by the revelation. The girl had planned this! She knew!

Amelia needed to get out of here. Fast.

The girl stopped, and slowly lifted the bear out of the water. It was completely lifeless, whatever dark spirit inhabiting it dissolved by the bath. Then, with a sickening slowness, the girl turned her head back, and she saw Amelia.

“Oh, there you are!” she smiled. “Ready for your bath?”

Amelia shrieked. The girl stood, casually tossing the corpse of the bear aside, and she picked up the spray bottle.

“If you’re afraid of bathtime, we can always just use the bottle,” she giggled.

Amelia ran away, as fast as her little legs could take her. Behind her, the girl sighed. “They always run,” she laughed to herself.

Amelia was in trouble. Frantically, she found her way into a room in the house - the kitchen! With all her doll might, she slammed the door shut and held it. She was too small to lock the door, but it was the best she could do.

Hands clattered against the doorknob. “C’mon, Amelia,” whined the girl from the other side, “come play with me!”

Amelia only had seconds. She swiveled her porcelain head around, looking for a weapon. She spotted it on the countertop. Knives! With a powerful leap, Amelia jumped to the top of the counter and scrambled for the knife block, grabbing the biggest cleaver she could with her tiny hands. Bracing herself against the wall, she readied her blade. Maybe I’ll kill yet, she thought to herself, closing her eyes from fear. If she’d had blood herself, it would have been pumping.

The door banged open, and Amelia leapt with a screech out the opening, stabbing fiercely with her cleaver. She slammed into something soft and plunged the blade deep into it, the two falling to the floor into a heap.

Amelia opened her glass eyes, laughing evilly, and then stopped with a gasp. The cleaver was stabbed straight through the head of the teddy bear, its lifeless eyes gazing at her coldly. A small trickle of fluff poured from its head.

“You know,” said a melodic voice from right behind her, “there are two doors into the kitchen, right?”

Amelia turned slowly. Towering behind her was the girl, the spray bottle leveled right at her.

“Bathtime!” said the girl cheerfully, pulling the trigger.

Amelia screamed.

###

The girl propped the gutted teddy bear onto a shelf, and then the baby doll right next to it. Her room was messy, but orderly, and filled to the brim with mildly bloodstained toys. With the dolls placed, she put her hands on her hips.

“There,” she said triumphantly, “isn’t that better?”

Amelia didn’t answer, her porcelain face smiling blankly ahead. Amelia sat on the shelf, and Amelia wasn’t alone.

#my posts #short story #horror comedy #storytelling #short fiction #fiction

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verdant-green-games · 3 years ago

Text

Life, Love and My Cybernetic Arm

WARNING: Contains mild descriptions of violence and self-harm.

From the journal of Jacob Whitacre:

I was fourteen when I lost my arm for the first time. I was in a car accident on the way back from the state swim meet. I’d just placed second, and my mom and I were discussing how we wanted to celebrate.

“I’m just saying, pizza seems traditional for something like this!” she said with a laugh.

“Mom, I’m telling you, ice cream’s the way to go here - it feels like more of a reward,” I laughed back.

As we were debating the merits of the two food types, I heard a screech come from outside my car door. A moment later and the world was upside down, a cacophony of metal and noise. Afterwards, I was informed that a tractor trailer barrelled through the red light and T-boned our car as we were heading through the intersection. My mom got lucky; a few hours later she was pried from the wreckage with the “Jaws of Life”, sporting a few scratches, a concussion and a broken wrist. Me, not so much. My right arm was completely shattered by the collision, and was unsalvageable; the doctors amputated it at the hospital a day later.

That brings us to the fateful morning of June 17th, 2029: six months later. As I sat in the cold clinic waiting room, shivering in my briefs, I tried not to look at the bits of metal now attached to my shoulder like some kind of steel parasite.

Dr. Thatch entered the room with a smile; my mom came in soon after. I started to wave with my right arm, then stopped. Huh. “Been a bit since I’ve done that,” I joked.

Dr. Thatch grinned and checked her clipboard. “Looks like the surgery was a success! Congratulations, Jacob, you’re now the proud owner of one cybernetic arm.”

My mom looked at me warmly, and I immediately felt calmer. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“A little numb, to be honest,” I admitted, rotating the new arm slowly. The lights bounced off of the chrome exterior; the arm was shaped like my other arm, just, y’know. Metallic. I felt like an X-Man.

“That’s to be expected,” noted Dr. Thatch. “There’s no touch receptors in that arm, y’know. You’ll have to be careful not to break anything.”

“Because of my awesome robot strength??

“Oh, goodness, no,” she laughed. “That arm is probably weaker than your old one, in all fairness. It’ll be the lack of control that’s the tricky part. You’ll definitely need to do physical therapy before you’ll be able to use it like your old one.”

“Ah.” I pondered this for a moment, then had an idea. “Dr. Thatch, is this waterproof?”

“I’d hope so - rain is pretty common in these parts.” She paused, then shook her head. “Now, Jacob, I know what you’re thinking. Swimming’s probably not going to be in your future, what with having a metal arm permanently grafted to your body. You’ll probably be able to splash around in the pool, but professional swimming? At the level you used to be able to do? That’s a lot more unlikely.”

“Alright,” I mumbled.

“And how much is this going to cost again?” asked my mom.

Dr. Thatch just smiled. “Mrs. Whitacre, the Hawkins Cybernetics Clinic provides its services to those who need them the most. We can discuss costs later, but rest assured this won’t bankrupt you in the slightest.”

“That’s a relief.” My mom turned to me. “Jake, you ready to go?”

I closed the metal hand - my hand - and laboriously raised my thumb in affirmation. “Let’s go.”

I quickly got dressed and we headed out. As we exited the clinic through the lobby, I noticed a girl about my age entering, with pink and blue ribbons in her hair. She looked at me and waved a chrome hand in greeting. I didn’t wave back.

###

On the bus home, my mom made a good point.

“Y’know, Jake, you don’t have to give up swimming,” she told me.

“You heard Dr. Thatch,” I reminded her. “The new arm weighs twice as much as the old one, and I can barely control it. It’s impossible.”

“She didn’t say it was impossible, she said it was unlikely. And to me, that’s good enough.” My mom smiled and put her arm around me. “It’ll be up to you, obviously. But if anybody could do this, it’d be you.”

I thought about it when we got home. This’ll be hard, I considered. Can I even do this? I glanced at myself in the mirror. I looked exactly the same as I had before, just with a metal arm. I shrugged, feeling the mechanical shoulder rise up with my real one. I checked my phone, Googling if there were any professional swimmers with cybernetics like mine. None that I could find, though there were a few with less-advanced mechanical legs. I smiled. “Guess I’ll be the first,” I announced to myself, and I got to work.

###

Work was hard. I spent months doing the already-grueling physical training to learn how to properly operate my new arm. There was a lot to learn. I learned to do push-ups. I learned to write. I learned to not crush soda cans and glasses of water when I picked them up. It was an uphill battle, but I knew that the peak would be worth it.

In the meantime, I spent every opportunity I could at the local recreation center using their swimming pool. I got a lot of strange looks from passersby, me being a teenaged cyborg, but I didn’t care. My only thought was reclaiming swimming.

This was also hard. My first attempt went poorly. I stood outside the pool, staring into the deep end, and then I dove in headfirst. Immediately, I felt myself sinking, crashing to the pool floor with a metallic clunk. I had to be rescued by three lifeguards. I got better, however - I learned to counterbalance my weight by pushing harder, and after a few months I was able to consistently swim in a straight line. I kept pushing myself to do better, however - I needed to be able to make the swim team.

That year, at tryouts, I didn’t make the team. It wasn’t because of the arm, not directly - the coach asked me if it’d give me an advantage, and I assured him it would not - but I was just too slow. I vowed to do better.

Sophomore year passed by in a blur. I gave up most of my extracurriculars, any semblance of a social life, to focus entirely on my swimming. My mom, to her credit, was very supportive.

“Just think - you’ll be an inspirational story for the masses! They’ll be blasting your name on CNN for this!” she cheered as I took a break from swimming to drink some water.

“Mom, I doubt that’ll happen,” I smiled.

“Don’t doubt yourself, Jake. You’re going to be famous!”

I grinned and leapt back into the water, swimming furiously to beat my time.

As I climbed out after finishing, my heart stopped for a moment. Across the pool, just exiting the changing rooms, was the girl with ribbons in her hair. Her metal hand glinted in the phosphorescent lighting of the pool. She hadn’t noticed me yet. In retrospect, I don’t know why I was so scared of her; she seemed nice. But scared I was, and I nearly broke into a sprint heading for the pool’s exit.

I think I went too fast, though, as a whistle screech broke the chatter of the pool. “No running!” shouted the lifeguard. The girl looked over to see the commotion, and our eyes met again. She smiled, and waved at me. This time I waved back.

###

I was sixteen when I made the swim team again. My training had paid off; I nearly literally blew the competition out of the water. As my fellow students glowered at me, my coach nodded.

“Good job, Whitacre!” he barked. “Looks like you’re back on the team!”

With that goal reached, the team was set to participate in meets, and oh, did I participate. I placed second overall in regionals, much to my joy, and with that, I was off to state.

When I got to the state meet, the energy was… different than what I was expecting. The air of the regional meets were always fun, and the last state meet I did was fun too. This time, it just felt… weird. The air felt colder. Fewer people wanted to talk. And people kept staring at my arm.

I shrugged it off. I just wanted to do well and have fun. That’s the best I could do.

When the buzzer sounded, I dove into the water like a bullet from a gun. I swam harder than I ever had before. My left arm was sore. My right arm was heavy. My lungs felt like they were on fire. But I kept going forward. I thought about my mom: she was watching, and I wanted to make her proud. I wanted to make myself proud too; pay off all that hard effort I’d put in. I finished my final lap with one last burst of effort, and as I resurfaced I saw the scoreboard.

First. Place. Jacob Whitacre.

“Yeah!” I shouted. I'd done it! I looked out of the water to try to see my mom. There she was, sitting on the stands… pale as a sheet. That was odd. Even odder… the stands were completely, dead silent.

I climbed out of the water, as did the other swimmers. The second and third place swimmers immediately walked off, giving me a parting glance of disgust.

The silence broke with a single noise: a scream. “That’s not fair!” someone shouted, and the stands erupted into boos and jeers. I was confused. What had happened?

The referee came over to me and leaned in close. “You need to go,” he whispered.

“What’s wrong? I don’t understand.”

The referee blinked. “You’re what’s wrong.”

My mom rushed up to me. “Let’s go, Jacob.” She sounded worried.

“Alright.”

We left the pool, screams of anger behind us. And I didn’t know about this until later, but a girl with a metal hand quietly put her gloves on and exited out the back.

###

The problem was me. We saw it on the local news that night, and then on CNN a few nights later. Guess Mom had been right; I really did make it on CNN. The parents of the second-place winner were furious that he’d been beaten by a kid with a “clear physical advantage”: my cybernetic arm. Never mind that it wasn’t as strong as a regular arm, and twice as heavy: it looked like it gave me an advantage, so an advantage I got.

I never received that gold medal. Technically it wasn’t rescinded or anything; I just never got it. I left before the award ceremony, and I guess the hosts of the event weren’t really raring to get it to me.

Two weeks after the event, the governor of our state passed a new bill: students with cybernetics were no longer allowed to participate in school sports. There were rumors of a second bill, too, one that’d ban minors from even getting cybernetic treatments at all. The bill also got coverage on national news, but despite mild outrage on social media, nobody in power really seemed to want to do anything about it.

Mom was heartbroken for me. She seemed to blame herself, said that she’d “pushed” me into getting that arm. I told her it was okay. She didn’t believe me. I didn’t believe me either.

Then came the hate mail. Somebody posted my full name and address on Facebook, and now every day the house would get about twenty letters or so from all around the country threatening me for daring to cheat at swimming. Cheat! After everything I’d done to get to that point, I was reduced to a cheat and a fraud.

I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t know what to do. So, late one night, I took a hammer from the garage and sat alone in the dark backyard, thinking. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just thought back to all the pain this had caused me, all the pain this had caused my mom, and in a moment of despair I swung the hammer down, hard, onto my metal hand.

The hand dented. I swung again. Another dent. I swung again, and again, until my cybernetic arm ripped from my shoulder and fell to the ground like a rotten apple from the world’s worst tree.

###

My mom wasn’t too happy about that. The next day we tried to schedule an appointment with the Hawkins Center to get it repaired. They didn’t answer the phone. A little more investigation and we discovered that they didn’t answer the phone because nobody was there; the center was closed.

I was a pariah at school. It wasn’t easy to cover up the shards of metal sticking out of my shoulder, and it wasn’t easy to make back the friendships I’d lost in my efforts to be the best. Obviously, I was kicked off the swim team - the governor had made sure of that. At lunch, I sat alone. I was suddenly the most famous kid at school, and I hated it.

One day, as I sat eating my sandwich one-handed, somebody actually sat down next to me. I sighed. “Hey, I think you’re in the wrong place.”

“Actually, I think I’m exactly where I need to be.”

I looked over. Sitting next to me was the girl with ribbons in her hair. She gave me a little wave of hello. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the shining chrome.

“I’d wave back, but my one hand is a little preoccupied,” I noted.

“Yeah, I noticed.” She smiled. “I’m Nicky.”

“Jacob.”

“My brother was at the state swim meet. He placed sixth.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry about everything that happened.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Still.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I want you to know, it’ll be alright. And you did something incredible that day.”

“Yeah, I got every kid with a prosthetic banned from doing sports in the whole state.”

“You set a precedent,” she replied. “And kids everywhere will see that. One day, the world will be nicer.”

I put down my sandwich. “You sure?”

Nicky met my eyes with hers. They were a lovely shade of blue. I’d never noticed that before in our occasional passing by. “We’ll make it nicer.”

The lunch bell rang, and she stood up. “I’ve got to go to class.” She quickly scribbled something on a napkin and handed it to me. “Here’s my phone number. Call me later?”

I picked up the napkin after she left and pocketed it. As I walked over to class, I thought about everything that had happened. All of the pain, all of the stress… and I thought about her. And she was right. Maybe this would all lead to some good. I could only hope so.

Later that week, my mom and I set an appointment to get my arm replaced. And, I’m embarrassed to admit it, I caught myself daydreaming a little bit, about walking down the hall with Nicky, metal hands clasped tightly together.

#my posts #creative writing #short story #sci-fi #science fiction #tw: self harm #tw: violence #cw: self harm #cw: violence #trans rights #trans

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verdant-green-games · 3 years ago

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Kill the Music!

The date was August 6th, 2074. Agent 3509 [codename: Trench] woke up that morning to the sound of country music. This wouldn’t have bothered her too much, but she knew for a fact that her alarm was set to jazz. She picked up her phone and scrolled through her set playlists, simultaneously swallowing a couple of silver pills she’d kept in a canister on her bed stand. Country, rock, pop, mork (mork?) - but no jazz. She sighed. Great. This was going to mean a lot of paperwork.

Working for the Bureau of Time Preservation wasn’t nearly as glamorous a job as Trench had dreamed back when she was a kid (back before her personal timeline had been scrubbed clean to prevent tampering), but it still felt like a dream whenever she came to the office. The BTP’s office, a stark, concrete building protruding from the ground like a knife in the back, stood tall and proud, a testament to its noble work and mysterious origins. Trench remembered her first day, when she asked her supervisor (Agent 4810, codename: Canvas) how the building had been built while the Time Scrubber was assigning her a codename and number.

“Nobody knows,” replied Canvas. “One day the building was just… there, and the agency was there too.”

“And what day was that?”

Canvas sharply inhaled. “Stop asking questions.”

It occurred to Trench that she hadn’t seen Canvas for what, a few years now? She hoped he was okay, though the fact that he might not have been born yet was still a possibility. Time travel was weird. Whatever the case, Trench had work to do.

Trench flashed her ID badge at the desk attendant, who promptly scanned her into the building. A few minutes (and a couple of decontamination showers to prevent ahistorical residue from tampering with the building’s safety) later and Trench was inside, at her desk, poring over history texts and paperwork. One of her coworkers (Agent 3257, codename: Shelter) stopped by her desk as she furiously filled out a particularly stubborn question about the retroactive continuity they were in.

“Whatcha filing?” asked Shelter.

Trench kept scribbling answers. “Someone retconned jazz.”

Shelter whistled. “That’s a big one. Have you figured out where the epicenter of this is? Did someone erase Duke Ellington? Billie Holiday? Buddy Bolden?”

Trench shook her head. “Looks like it’s Adolphe Sax.”

“Who?”

Trench pushed over her report. “He’s the guy that invented the saxophone. Looks like someone vandalized the timeline so that he died in childhood, and no saxophone means that jazz ends up evolving into a completely different musical form named ‘mork’”.

“Oh I love mork! It’s got such a good rhythm to it--”

Trench stopped her. “Shelter. Did you remember to take your temporal stability pills this morning?”

Shelter paused. “Crap.”

“Better go do that before your entire timeline degrades. Besides, I’ve got work to do.” As Shelter scampered away, Trench put the finishing touches on the form. Her research had led her to the inciting incident - on February 4th, 1817, in Dinant, two-year-old Adolphe Sax died after falling from a window and dashing his brains out on a stone. Trench’s goal was to stop that.

With the paperwork filed and cleared, Trench made her way to the heart of the operation: the Time Windows. As she walked over to the large panes of transtemporal glass that made up their time machine, she passed by a burly agent with a singed beard.

“Hey, Field, how’s it going?” she called out.

Field snorted. “Just averted the apocalypse. Again. You know, the usual.”

“Cool. I’m about to go ensure the invention of the saxophone.”

Field nodded. “Respectable. Good luck!”

The two went their respective ways and Trench came up to the edge of her allotted Window. The window was closed now behind several shutters of titanium alloy, and the window’s attendant began rattling off rules for this jump as Trench packed her bag of equipment.

“Alright, looks like you’ve got a ten minute range to change this time, don’t leave any evidence behind, yadda yadda yadda. You ready to change the world, Miss Trench?”

Trench nodded. “Just send me through.”

The attendant nodded back. “Right-o. Prepping for jump.”

The shutters began slamming open one by one, revealing the misty green glass of the Window. Just barely, through the glass, she could see the outline of a quaint three story house. That must be the Sax house, she thought to herself.

“All set,” said the attendant. “You’re cleared for time jump.”

Trench nodded, held her breath, and stepped through the Window. A cold, electric sensation fell over her, and her body felt like it was walking through a hallway of Jell-O. A few moments later, she plunged out into 1817, temporal goo evaporating from her body in the morning air.

She stood up, gasping. She’d never get used to time travel, but there was no time for recuperation. She noticed the house and swore. She was at least half a kilometer away from it, and she needed to hurry. Trench began running.

As she neared the house, the scream of a child broke the morning quiet. Trench looked to see a small figure plummet from an upstairs window and fall with a sickening crack onto a jutting rock in the garden. Trench swore again and ran faster.

She ran up to the limp figure and examined him; sure enough, he seemed to be a toddler. “Adolphe Sax, I presume?” she muttered to herself, digging around in her bag for the appropriate tools. Blood began to pool around the twitching form of the child, and his face began to grow pale. She’d have to be fast.

“A-ha!” She’d found what she needed, and pulled from the bag a large syringe full of a gold fluid. She’d been trained by Canvas on this thing years ago - it was full of organ-repairing nanobots, imperceptible to most archaic sciences and able to heal grievous injury rapidly. She quickly jabbed the syringe into the child’s neck and immediately color began returning to his face. Slight cracking sounds began emanating from Adolphe as the nanomachines knitted his bones back into place. Trench sighed. It was gross, but she’d done it. Adolphe was safe.

A loud crash came from directly to her left - a large, ornate lamp had fallen from the open window. Trench quickly looked up and caught a glimpse of a masked figure rushing from the opening - her vandalist, presumably. There was no time to go after them, however. With a ding, another Time Window opened up behind Trench. It was time to go.

Trench took a moment to pat Adolphe on the shoulder. “It’ll be alright, kid,” she said, and she stepped back through the Window into the stark atmosphere of the BTP.

###

The date was February 24th, 1999: the next morning for Trench. Trench woke up to the sound of music. She got up and began swallowing her pills as the alarm played sultry bass notes backed up by clarinets and… hold on, was that a kazoo?

Trench checked her playlist. Smooth Mork. She swore. Not again.

An hour later and she was once again poring over paperwork and history texts. Shelter came up to her desk again and placed a cup of coffee down in front of her.

“Not now, Shelter,” Trench muttered.

“What, I’m celebrating! Yesterday I made sure coffee was still invented,” Shelter said proudly.

Trench turned slightly towards Shelter. “Who the heck would retcon coffee?”

“Some guy from Utah. Who knew?” Shelter looked over Trench’s shoulder. “You trying to save mork or something?”

“Jazz. Someone erased the saxophone again.” Trench turned back to her work. “And Shelter, I am begging you to take your meds in the morning. Mork’s not real.”

“It’s not? Crap!” Shelter began rushing away, mumbling something about having to cancel concert tickets.

Her paperwork filed, Trench went over to the Windows, passing by Field again (whose hair was still smoking; must’ve been another apocalypse). A few minutes later and Trench was in 1818, this time within the Sax home.

Nobody seemed to be there, but Trench could hear moaning coming from the house’s kitchen. She carefully walked in, hand in her bag clutching her sidearm in case things went south.

Lying on the ground was Adolphe, now a little older, with a jug of cleaning chemicals lying overturned next to him. Trench ran over to his side. The chemical residue on his lips confirmed the worst -- the kid had been drinking from the nearby bottle. She picked up the jug and examined its back. In Dutch, the bottle stated that it contained various acids mixed in water.

“Melk,” moaned Adolphe. Trench turned the bottle over and sighed. Poorly plastered to the front of the bottle was a hand-drawn scrawl that said “Milk”. It wasn’t even translated. Trench didn’t know which was worse -- the fact that their culprit was an amateur, or the fact that this kid actually fell for that.

An injection of nanomachines later and Adolphe was fine. Trench took a moment to look around the room - no sign of the vandalist. Taking the faux label from the jug, Trench stepped back through the Window.

###

The date was November 21st, 2015: another day for Trench. She woke up and immediately checked her phone playlists. No jazz. “Come on!” she shouted.

Take her pills.

Go to work.

Go through history books.

Ward off Shelter.

Go to the Window. Say hi to Field.

Go back in time.

This basically describes how the rest of Trench’s week went. Every day, she’d go back in time to save Adolphe from some misfortune - falling onto a frying pan, swallowing a pin, being caught in an explosion - and every morning she’d wake up in a world where he had died as a child, long before the development of that stupid saxophone.

By the next week, Trench had had it with this vandalist. This time, Adolphe had fallen into a river and drowned, and as she filed the paperwork to go back in time and rescue the hapless child, she complained to Shelter. “I don’t even like jazz that much! It’s alright, but this is ridiculous.”

Shelter sipped her coffee. “Maybe you should just give mork a try? It’s not half bad.”

Trench glared at her. “No. Any musical genre that contains a kazoo solo at least once a song does not deserve to exist.”

“Alright, alright. Let me know if you change your mind though -- it’s not too late.”

“Sure.” Trench stopped. “Wait. You might be onto something.”

“About mork?”

“No, about jazz. I’ve got an idea!” Trench ran over to the Window attendant. “Hey, can you actually edit the time on my paperwork a bit?”

The attendant looked confused. “Why? Were you off?”

Trench shook her head. “I’ve been late every time. If I can go back early enough, before the culprit assassinates the target, I might be able to catch them.”

The attendant sighed. “Trench, you’ve been around here for a while now. You know for a fact that you can’t rely on your vandalist traveling chronologically, and you’ll still have all the other time loops to deal with-”

Trench stopped her with a grin. “I know. I’m counting on it.”

###

The date was November 6th, 1822. Michael was positive that this was going to work. He’d meticulously planned this for months, and now that he was finally here, he was going to do it. Soon, jazz would be no more, all because of his brilliant, foolproof plan.

Michael threw a rock at the kid’s head. The kid was struck and with a yelp toppled into the rushing river. That was easy.

Michael walked back towards his time machine when he heard wet footsteps behind him. He turned around. “What?” he asked, shocked.

Standing behind him was a tall woman in a leather jacket, sopping wet and clutching the child to her like a sack of sobbing potatoes. The woman looked angry. “Hey. Can you knock it off?”

“What?” he asked again, completely dumbfounded.

The woman set down the child, who ran off, oblivious to everything apparently. She gestured at the time machine. “You build that yourself?”

Michael bolted into the machine and began pushing levers and twisting dials, trying to make it back to his home time. No luck. A reddish pulp began to ooze from the seams of the walls.

The woman stooped down to the small pod’s door and held up an empty syringe. “Yeah, that’s not going to do much. I injected nanobots into your wiring the minute you landed. They’re not designed for that, so they’re currently trying to rebuild your energy grid into a nervous system. I figured it’d slow you down enough so we could talk.”

Michael sighed and raised his hands, defeated. “All right, you got me. For the record, I didn’t even know there were other time travelers until now.”

The woman smiled. “This is your first jump, then?”

Michael nodded.

“Great. After we tie up loose ends this should make the paperwork a lot easier for me.” She held out a hand. “You’ll be helping me catch whatever remnants of you remain in the timeline, of course. C’mon, let’s get you back to headquarters.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You say that a lot,” the woman noted. “The Bureau loves to reform rogue time travelers. Pretty soon you can have a steady paycheck working for us.”

Michael stepped out of the busted pod. “Really?”

“Sure!” laughed the woman. “That’s how they got me. When I was a kid I tried to scam quiz shows using time travel. Didn’t work out.”

Michael considered his options. “Alright, let’s go.”

A few minutes later and the two were back in BTP headquarters, along with Michael’s time machine, which was promptly taken to be filed away. The woman took him over to a device she called the Time Scrubber, which stamped his hand with a number (4810) and a codename (Canvas).

The woman blinked and laughed. “Ha! That explains things.”

“What?” asked Canvas.

“Nothing, I’ll tell you later.” She grinned. “I’m Trench. Pleased to meet you again.”

“I am so confused.”

Trench shrugged and checked her phone. Sure enough, her top playlist was Jazz Hits. She grinned again. Checkmate.

“Hey,” asked Canvas, looking around the large room they were in, “when did they build this place? This is amazing!”

Trench looked over at him. “Stop asking questions.”

#long post #short story #writing #storybook #time travel #saxophone #jazz #science fiction #sci-fi #short fiction

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verdant-green-games · 3 years ago

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The Mormon Cricket & Deserette in... Secret Identity

It was a quiet night in Salt Lake City, and Deserette was bored. As one of a myriad of superheroes residing in the city, she’d grown accustomed to two things: being able to fight evildoers when they appear, and to be able to chat with her partner when the evildoers decided to take a break. Tonight, she was doing neither of these things; no evil seemed to be running amuck throughout the city, and her partner, the hero known as the Mormon Cricket, was nowhere to be seen.

A few hours after he was supposed to arrive, Deserette found herself growing concerned. It wasn’t like him to be late. She hoped nothing bad had happened to him -- for all she knew, he could have been killed. Or worse! He could be grounded.

Deserette suddenly stopped her worrying. Something had changed, and she liked it. “I know you’re there,” she announced to the night sky with a smile.

A lean and green figure landed dramatically on the rooftop, his impact barely audible. His gloved hands were clenched into fists, and his antennae blew in the wind. This was the Mormon Cricket, defender of Salt Lake City.

“You’re late,” said Deserette.

The Mormon Cricket yanked off his cowl by the antennae, revealing a deeply nervous teenage face. “Sorry, Alasini, I’ve had a busy night. You won’t believe--”

Alasini held up a finger. “Wait a second, Caleb. Is this going to be another long-winded story about your family?”

“Probably.”

She grinned. “Awesome. Lemme get ready.” She shrugged her insect-winged backpack off of her shoulders and onto the rooftop. “Alright ready. Spill the tea, boy.”

Caleb sighed. “Alright, so I decided to come out to my parents tonight.” “Really? That’s great! Glad you’re finally telling them you’re asexual! That’s a good first step.” Alasini laughed. “Hopefully at some point people will get the hint and they’ll quit thinking we’re dating.”

“People think we’re dating?”

“Too many people, honestly. It’s making it really hard for me to get dates for myself, y’know.” Alasini shrugged. “Whatever. At least you told them.”

Caleb sighed again, deeper this time. “That’s… not entirely how things went. Let me explain.”

###

Three hours prior, Caleb Andersen was sitting in his room at home, desperately psyching himself up. He knew he shouldn’t be worried, and that his parents loved him -- and yet, he worried. His parents were really religious, more than him. He wasn’t sure about how his church felt about asexuality -- what would he do if his parents sided with them over him?

As Caleb fretted, his eyes drifted over to another source of worry -- the box under his bed that contained the suit he wore as the Mormon Cricket. He really didn’t need his parents figuring that out, though he did sometimes think that it’d be a relief if they did know.

There was a knock on the door. It was his mom. “Caleb? It’s dinner time. Come eat.”

“Alright!” Caleb pushed the box deeper under his bed and steeled his nerves. Today was the day. After dinner, he’d tell his parents the truth.

###

After dinner, the family sat around the table shooting the breeze. His dad was excitedly talking about Star Trek with his mom, who very clearly was uninterested but trying to seem enthralled.

Caleb interrupted his dad before he could get into a rant about how the new Klingon design was worse than the classic one. “Hey, can I share something?”

His dad blinked twice. “Sure, Caleb.”

Caleb took a deep breath. It was now or never. “Mom, Dad? I have something I need to tell you. I’m--”

Mom hushed him. “Oh, honey, it’s alright. We already know.”

“You already know?” Mom smiled. “We’ve known for a while now.”

Dad put a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “We’re so proud of you already, and thankful that you felt comfortable enough to confide in us.”

Caleb nodded awkwardly. “Uh… cool beans.” He was a little confused, mostly about what they’d already found out. What had they learned? If they’d figured out he was ace, great, cool, he could work with that… but if they’d discovered he was the Cricket, that could be more of an issue, even if they weren’t mad.

Caleb decided to probe the situation with all the subtlety he could muster. “So… you two are cool with it?”

“Cool with it? We couldn’t be happier!” His dad laughed. “It’s such a relief for us to know.”

“Yeah,” added his mom, “you wouldn’t believe the stresses a parent goes through as they worry about what their child’s been hiding from them.” She shrugged. “Sure, it was a little jarring to learn at first, but we decided we’d make it work and let you tell us once you felt comfortable.”

Great. At least his parents were supportive (of something) but this line of questioning was going nowhere. Caleb decided to try a different approach. “And how do you feel about the… social aspect of this?” Caleb figured this was a good question: regardless of asexuality or superheroism, this would help to shed some light on what they were thinking.

“Oh, it’s great! It’ll definitely open new doors and opportunities for you.” His dad fidgeted with his napkin. “And of course, you’re always going to be able to change your mind if you really want to--”

“Which you don’t have to, of course,” his mom hurriedly added. “At least, we won’t expect you to. This is your decision and whatever you end up doing with it, we’ll stand by you.”

“Awesome, thanks.” This is not awesome, thought Caleb. How the heck am I going to get a straight (ha, straight) answer out of them without outing myself as the wrong one?

His dad patted himself on the belly. “Well,” he said, “Dinner was good. Who wants to go get ice cream for dessert?”

That was the cue that this conversation was over, and Caleb resigned himself to not being able to get an answer from his parents tonight. Awkwardly, somewhat defeated, Caleb sighed. “Sure, Dad.”

###

“So, what’d you do next?” Alasini was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the building, rocking back and forth with anticipation from the story.

“I got a grasshopper shake and told my folks I was calling it a night-”

“No, you dork! What about your parents?”

Caleb was pacing back and forth across the rooftop. “I don’t know! I know they’ve figured out something, but I have no clue what they figured out! And I can’t just ask because I don’t want to give away that I’m a superhero!”

“Well,” suggested Alasini, “it’s gotta be that you’re the Mormon Cricket, right? Like, that’d make the most sense - you’re not exactly good at hiding that.”

“I feel like they’d be more upset about that than the whole asexual thing.” Caleb sat down and absently ran his fingers through his hair. “Ugh, this whole situation just sucks.”

“It could be worse. I mean, at least they’re supportive.”

“You’re right. Whatever happens, at least I’ve got my parents behind me.” Caleb stood up. “And who knows? Maybe one day I’ll be able to figure out what they meant. Maybe I’ll be able to tell them everything. We’ll see.”

A scream rang out in the night. Caleb and Alasini looked at each other. Alasini grinned. “We can worry about this later. Right now it sounds like our city needs us.” She slung her wingpack onto her back. “You ready, Cricket?”

Caleb grinned and tugged his cowl back on, his suit’s antennae springing up like cattails. “Always, Deserette.”

And with that, our two heroes dove into the night, prepared to fight off villainy across the city.

###

Back at the Andersen home, Caleb’s dad was washing the dishes. Mom slipped in and wrapped him in a hug from behind.

“Y’know, I’m really proud of how you handled that tonight,” she whispered.

“What? The dishes or Caleb?”

“Both.”

Dad continued mopping crusted food off of a plate. “Of course. I’m proud of my cleaning skills, and I’m proud of my son.”

“Yeah,” said Mom, “It’s just so exciting that he’s finally dating that Alasini girl.”

“Well,” pointed out Dad, “we aren’t sure of that.”

Mom scoffed. “They hang out all the time. What else could they be doing?”

Through the window, unseen by either parent, two silhouettes bounded across the Salt Lake cityscape, their leaps joyful and free.

#excerpt #superheroes #mormon cricket #the mormon cricket #deserette #lds church #mormon #comic books #comedy #asexuality #ace #lgbtq superheroes #short story

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verdant-green-games · 3 years ago

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Angelman: Chapter One

The first thing George Byrne noticed upon being released from state prison was how crisp the night air was when you weren’t locked behind several feet of cinderblock. It was lovely, almost autumnal; the seasons were beginning to change, and George hadn’t experienced such fresh air in a long time.

The second thing George Byrne noticed upon being released from state prison was the guy dressed in white tights and a cape standing at the gate. It’s a wonder George hadn’t noticed him earlier; he was a little hard to miss.

George pointed at the guy and turned to the guard escorting him from the prison. “Who’s that?”

“He’s volunteered to be your ride. Big, important superhero. Works for the city.”

“Superhero?!”

“Yeah, superhero.” The guard eyed him. “Do you seriously not know what a superhero is?”

George shook his head. “I read comics as a kid. Man, I’ve missed a lot, huh?”

“Yeah, well, that’s what thirty years in the big house will do to ya.” The guard unlocked George’s handcuffs. “You’re free to go.”

George rubbed his wrists. “With him?”

“If you’d like. If not, it's a long walk back to Tomorrow City.”

George turned back to the guy in the cape, who waved back at him. George sighed. “Fine, alright.” He walked up to the guy, getting a good look at him. He was wearing a full mask around his head, with only his mouth and chin poking out. A golden loop rested around the back of his head like a halo, and the entire costume he was wearing was decked out in white and gold. This guy looks like an idiot, George thought.

The idiot smiled a big grin at George. “Hey George,” he said, “I’m Angelman.” He held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

George tentatively took the hand and shook it. “Alright. You’re my ride?”

“Sure am. Let me go get my car.”

The two walked out to the parking lot and George immediately made an educated guess which car was Angelman’s: it was probably the one twice the size of a regular vehicle and painted a stark white-and-gold color scheme. “That's your car?” George asked politely.

“Nah, actually I drive that Corolla over there.” The hero looked back at George and winked. “Kidding. Yeah, that’s my car.”

The hero fiddled with something in his hands. The doors to the car unlocked with a chirp, startling George. “How’d you do that?” he asked.

The hero jingled something on a keychain. “Key fob.”

“A what?”

The hero laughed. “Man, you’ve been out of the loop for a while, huh? C’mon, I’ll take you to your new place.”

---

The two of them drove quietly for a bit. “So, how’re you liking the drive?” asked Angelman politely.

“It’s a little stuffy.”

“You can lower the window, if you’d like.”

George examined the side of the door. “Where’s the crank?”

“Oh, right.” Angelman pressed a button and the passenger window slowly lowered. George looked out at the outline of Tomorrow City in the distance, seeing the glimmer of lights from the windows, and swooshes of color around the buildings as the distant silhouettes of caped people danced across the walls.

“So…,” he began to ask, gesturing at the display, “superheroes?”

“Oh, yeah, the whole costume thing, huh?” Angelman laughed. “Yeah, we’ve been around for… gosh, like twenty years, now? It was a whole thing when it happened. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard about it.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t get out much,” George said drily.

“Touche. Anyway, yeah, loads of us are around now. Some have powers, some don’t.” Angelman looked over at George and smiled. “I don’t. Unless you count my magnetic personality!” He laughed nervously. George didn’t react.

“Anyway,” said Angelman, ignoring the lack of reaction, “I’m taking you to a halfway house just outside the city limits. You should be able to get your life together from there.”

“Why me?”

“Why not?” asked Angelman. “You deserve a second chance just like anybody else.”

Before George could protest, the car screeched to a halt. “Well, we’re here,” Angelman announced.

George stepped out of the car. Angelman didn’t follow. “You’d better do this on your own,” the hero apologized. “I have faith in you!”

The car drove away, and George made his way inside the house. After a quick meetup with the owner and a brief tour of the house, George was given a room and a bed.

“Sleep well, George,” the proprietor said.

“Thank you, ma’am.” As the door closed, George tried to sleep. Just like every night, however, his mind was wracked with fearsome imagery - three gunshots, a scream, a child with piercing gray eyes, falling… George snapped awake and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

#angelman #heroic age #george byrne #superheroes #comics #novel excerpts #novel #book #writing #creative writing #stories #storybook

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verdant-green-games · 3 years ago

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Heroic Age: Prologue

It was a time of heroes in Tomorrow City. Specifically, it was 10:32 AM, on a Thursday. As usual, a criminal in a funky outfit was trying to conquer the city. As usual, a group of heroes had amassed to stop them.

Today’s selection gathered on the deserted city street, huddling behind a felled tractor trailer. To the average onlooker, one might assume they were hiding in fear. In reality, they were planning. Okay, and hiding a little bit.

One of them, dressed in patriotic tights, poked his masked face around the side of the trailer. “Looks like there’s still at least fifty goons out there.”

“Gotcha, Freedom Ring.” Another one, a woman with flaming hair and eyes, snorted. “Man, I can’t believe this interrupted my breakfast. Marco’s Diner had the best hashbrowns in the city - and that jerk blew up my booth!”

“Who is this guy, Solara?” A younger guy dressed in a white cowl grinned. “Test Tube Man?”

“His name’s Doc Vial, Angelman,” Solara snapped, “and he’s no joke. The guy’s body’s made of sentient acid. Real nasty stuff. He evaporated my house once.”

“Why does he hate you?” The fourth figure, a young woman in a red costume with a matching sword, looked nervous. She’d never had a team up before, and she was thrilled.

Solara turned to her, eyes glittering with fire. “I was there when he got acidified. The guy blames me for it. Just the way it is.” She raised a single eyebrow. “Who are you, anyway? I don’t think we’ve met?”

“This is Bright Red. I saw her in the news,” explained Freedom Ring. “She’s one of those new sponsored heroes.”

“I’m funded by Blitz Cola,” Bright Red said, clearly embarrassed.

Solara looked around the side of the trailer. “Shoot. We’ve got bigger taters to fry than corporate overreach. Vial’s minions are coming closer.”

Sure enough, a squad of henchmen, dressed in brightly-colored jumpsuits and carrying comically-large rifles, were making their way over to the trailer. The group huddled again.

“Alright, let’s rush the command ship. Solara and I will go high; Angelman, Bright Red, you two go low,” planned Freedom Ring. “Everybody got their orders?”

“Got it,” said the rest concurrently.

“Let’s go.” The four rushed past the trailer, surprising the startled henchmen. Freedom Ring leapt into the sky as well before crashing down like a comet, knocking them to the pavement. Solara flew into the sky like a blazing phoenix, flames volcanically erupting from her hands towards the goon’s guns. Meanwhile, Bright Red and Angelman brawled in the street with the remaining foes until the last crony collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

“That was easy!” Bright Red laughed.

“Don’t get too cocky, kid,” warned Solara, “they’re not all down yet.”

“Yeah, we’ve still got to take down Vial,” Angelman pointed out. “If we don’t stop him he’s gonna melt the city block and that’s going to be a pain to fix.”

Freedom Ring looked blankly at him. “And also, y’know, people will die.”

“Well, yeah, and that too.”

“Boys, focus up.” Solara looked like she was listening to something, but Bright Red couldn’t tell what - or who. She spoke, startling Red. “You too, Red. I’m thinking we should make a full-on assault on Vial's mothership.”

“Agreed.” And they did so, finding themselves battling their way through the city towards the villain’s flying lair. Eventually, Angelman and Bright Red arrived there, battered and bruised, but alive. Behind them, Solara and Freedom Ring worked to hold off the assault. Above them, the test tube-headed villain cackled.

“You’re too late! My plan is already in motion!” he monologued.

“Take this!” Angelman threw a sharpened halo at his head, which evaporated harmlessly a few feet from his head. He was behind a force field.

“I’m behind a force field!” he said triumphantly.

“Dang.” Angelman looked over at Bright Red. “I’m out of ideas.”

“Take this, hero!” Vial held out a gauntleted hand and a spray of acid burst from his palm directly at Angelman. Before the hero was splattered, however, Bright Red leapt between him and the spray in a flash of crimson. She swung her sword at the spray, its blade glowing a vibrant scarlet as the spray was sucked into its edge. Angelman hurled a golden halo at Vial, smashing his glove and sending the villain shrieking back behind his force shield.

Angelman ran up to Bright Red, who had by now recalled her sword. “How’d you do that?” he asked.

Bright Red grinned. “The Sword Scarlet can purify anything. I guessed it’d take out the acid. I was right.”

The other two heroes caught up and the four stood boldly below Vial’s platform. “Fools!” the mad doctor cried. “Nobody can stop me now!”

“You’ll never get away with this, Vial!” declared Bright Red defiantly.

“Oh?” said the mad doctor, chuckling softly to himself. “And what exactly am I trying to do?”

“You’re trying to destroy the city!”

“Wrong! I’m just trying to destroy the plumbing.”

Angelman cocked his head. “What?”

“This city’s piping infrastructure is outdated and full of lead. If I destroy it, the city will be forced to modernize its replacement!” Doc Vial was cackling now, his finger inches away from the detonation button.

Solara hurled a firebolt at him which bounced harmlessly off of his force field. “You’re going to blow up a city block!”

“A small price to pay for improved plumbing!” He slammed his tiny finger into the button.

“But wait,” pointed out Angelman, “wouldn’t destroying the pipes just fill the waterways with lead? That’d just make the problem worse!”

Doc Vial paused. A muffled explosion went off in the distance. “You couldn’t have mentioned that before I pressed the button, huh?”

“You didn’t think of that?!” Solara looked enraged.

“Listen, my brain currently consists of an undetermined caustic chemical mixed with a thrifted Apple Lisa! I’m not exactly good at processing cause and effect right now!”

“Guys, focus. If we don’t come up with something fast the city’s going to be completely non potable.” Freedom Ring was right. The pipes below the filtration plant had been entirely vaporized, the toxic dust beginning to settle into the water supply. Already things were bad; if any more of Doc Vial’s bombs went off, it’d soon be unsalvagable.

Doc Vial was babbling by this point, his shield lowered as he frantically tried to deactivate his bombs. “I swear, I didn’t want to poison the water supply! I only wanted to improve the infrastructure by force! I’d never poison water like that - I’m an ecoterrorist for criminy, not a regular run-of-the-mill terrorist-”

“Will someone please shut him up?” snapped Solara.

“Got it.” Angelman bonked Doc Vial unconscious.

“Thank you. Alright, anybody have any ideas?”

Freedom Ring shook his head. “My powers are useless here. I’m going to jump down and try to protect the civilians.’

“Good plan. Anyone else?” Another explosion went off in the distance. “Preferably quickly?”

“Wait!” Bright Red pulled out her sword. “The Sword Scarlet!”

Solara looked at her. “What about it?”

“It has purifying capabilities; it can absorb contaminants.”

Solara nodded, a smile forming upon her face. “You’re thinking you can get the lead?”

“Yeah! We’ll need someone to handle the bombs, but I think I can fix the water.” She looked at the sword, its blade a dull grey. “Er… maybe not. I think the acid took some of the energy out of it, and we’d need more power to purify an entire city.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll boost you.” Solara turned to Angelman. “Can you deactivate the other bombs?”

Angelman leapt onto the platform and began fiddling with the controls. “Think so. Don’t worry about me - use that sword!”

Solara grabbed Bright Red around the waist. “Hold on,” she said, and in a moment the two were flying through the air, a streak of orange fire against the pale blue sky.

The two landed by the attack site, dust still settling into the water. Bright Red drew her sword, and Solara began glowing with pure energy.

“You sure you can handle this, kid?”

Bright Red smiled cockily. “I got this.”

Solara smiled back. “What’s your name?”

“...Bright Red.”

“No, your real name. If we die here, I’d rather go out knowing who I’m gonna have to yell at in the eternities.”

“Ah.” Bright Red shuffled her feet for a moment, debating. Finally, she spoke. “I’m Jen.”

“Cool. I’m Kristine. Now let’s save the day.”

Jen nodded and thrust her Sword Scarlet into the polluted water. At the same time, Solara fired everything she had into Bright Red’s armor. Jen grunted from the pain. It was… worse than she’d expected. As she struggled to remain upright, she saw her blade begin to glow scarlet again. A few moments later and the lead had dissipated, absorbed by the sword. She fell to her knees, panting.

Kristine came up behind her and patted her on the back. “Good job, Jen. You just saved the city.”

---

The others had succeeded in their tasks as well, and reconvened in the town square with the dispatched Doc Vial. Freedom Ring nodded at Solara and Bright Red as they entered. “Good work, you two.”

“Thanks, it was nothing,” Jen lied.

“I’ve got to go report this to the mayor. Thank you for your assistance.” With a quick salute, Freedom Ring was off, leaping through the sky like a patriotic shotput.

“I’d better head out too,” apologized Angelman. “I’m not exactly registered with the bureau yet, and I’d rather not have to share a cell with this moron here.” Angelman gave Jen a thumbs up. “You did so well though! I’m proud of you.”

Angelman threw a smoke bomb and attempted to vanish mysteriously, but it was about noon by this point and Jen could clearly see him scrambling up a fire escape in the distance. Oh well.

Kristine placed a hand on Jen’s shoulder. “You did good work today, kid. Ever consider being a part of a team?”

Jen laughed awkwardly, removing the hand. “I think I’m more of a solo act. I’ll be alright.”

“Suit yourself. See ya around.”

In a plume of flame, Solara was gone. Bright Red looked around the city street, seeing the citizens coming out of their shaken homes now that the commotion had ceased. She nodded at the people. Things were going to be okay. After all, she was a hero, and that would never change.

It was a time of heroes in Tomorrow City, and as time passed more and more superheroes began to be discovered in the city. Despite everything that happened, every victory and every defeat, this city came to live in an age of glory and purpose… for a time, anyway.

Welcome to the Heroic Age.

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