When the batteries snapped into his back, Capt. Awesome suddenly became aware of flashing lights and Christmas music in the living room. His tiny AAA heart beat faster.
And then a middle aged woman set him on a coffee table – a COFFEE TABLE! – and took a huge bite from the cookie.
“What the f---,” he thought. “You’re not Santa!”
As the woman stuffed him into a red felt stocking, the reality of Capt. Awesome’s situation set in. He wasn’t built in Santa’s workshop, he was bought in a store. He was a bastard toy. And like all bastard toys, his life expectancy would be that of a house-fly. Even if he didn’t break before his batteries ran out, no self-respecting child was going to choose him over a genuine North Pole toy.
He was doomed to life under the bed.
Eventually, the woman turned off the lights and went to bed. After working for hours to build a bicycle and set up something called a “Barbie Tropical Water Park,” she looked exhausted.
“Why would she go to that much trouble,” Capt. Awesome thought. “He’ll be here any minute.”
***
Capt. Awesome spent a sleepless night peering over the white-furred edge of his stocking, waiting. To pass the time, he counted the presents under the tree. There were thirty-four. Four red boxes had gold bows. Two red boxes had green bows. Three blue boxes had silver ribbons. Eight boxes didn’t have bows or ribbons. Six boxes were wrapped in green, five had paper with pictures on it, and one little box was silver and shiny. Most of the presents were square-ish, but three were strange shapes that crumpled the paper. Tucked in a corner were two gift bags with white tissue paper erupting from their tops.
Shortly before 6:00am, Capt. Awesome heard tiny voices telling sleepy parents it was time to wake up. An old man, probably the grandfather, scooped coffee into a pot and made noises that sounded like they belonged outside. A few minutes later, a little boy ran down the stairs and shouted when he saw a shiny blue bicycle.
Capt. Awesome was exhausted. He stayed awake the whole night. Santa never came.
***
It was the parents. It was the parents the whole time. Every box. Every bow. Every toy and foil wrapped chocolate was a fraud. It was all carried home in a sack. None of it rode in a sleigh.
And the parents let it happen. No, they didn’t just let it happen. They made it happen. Every year they filled their poor, empty-headed children with stories about a fat man – a stranger – who loved them so much and thought they were such good little boys and girls that they deserved presents.
Capt. Awesome was furious. “Wrapping a lie in red velvet,” he thought, “doesn’t make it right.”
Three weeks later, Capt. Awesome sat on the kitchen table while the mother wrote checks to pay credit card companies for the Christmas presents they paid for. Capt. Awesome thought she should forward the bills to the North Pole for reimbursement, but he decided not to mention it. At the moment, the mother looked too fragile to take suggestions, even from a superhero.
Capt. Awesome was sure that before Christmas both the boy and the girl had written letters to the North Pole asking the non-existent Santa for everything they wanted, including a bicycle and a Barbie water park. To their credit, the boy still rode his bicycle and the girl hadn’t yet forgotten about the pink water park in the corner of her room – not that she could. On December 26, however, their markers suddenly went dry. Every day they played, but they never said thank you.
Ungrateful kids.
***
During the months that followed, Capt. Awesome spent most of his time in the van. He went to soccer practices and swim lessons. He waited in the backseat during dance recitals and birthday parties. He endured the agony of family vacations and once almost won his freedom in a Burger King parking lot. He would probably have gotten away – or at least been picked up by a new boy in a new van – if the boy hadn’t shouted for the mother to stop. Apparently, bastard toys aren’t as expendable as Capt. Awesome once thought. Damn.
Capt. Awesome eventually overcame his nausea from the stale french fry smell of the van. He also learned to ignore the endless repetitions of something called “Finding Nemo.” He even taught himself how to mentally dissociate when the boy poked his head through the van’s cracked window as they rushed down the interstate. Capt. Awesome couldn’t tolerate it, however, when he got wedged between the back seats. The horrors he saw in the depths of that dark and sticky hell were more than even the bravest toy could be expected to endure.
Capt. Awesome soon learned that the boy’s name was Daniel. The girl was Kris. The mother was usually called Mom or Mommy, except when one of the men was in the van. Then she was called Susan. Capt. Awesome got nervous when the mother became “Susan,” especially if the boy and the girl were staying with a babysitter or sleeping at their grandparents’ house. On those nights, when the mother was in the van alone with one of the men, he sometimes heard things that made him wonder if Susan might be the reason Santa didn’t stop at the Cooper house.
***
In November, the mood in the van began to change. The boy and the girl, who seldom sang along with the radio, started requesting songs about Frosty the snowman and Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. Finding Nemo was replaced by a movie that referenced a disturbing place called the “Island of Misfit Toys.” The mother also began asking the boy and the girl awkward questions about elves and what kind of cookies Santa likes.
Soon it would be Christmas, the most dishonest time of the year.
***
Early one morning, the family piled into the van already arguing about their day.
“I get to go first,” said the boy. “I’m older so I get to go first.”
“But it’s my turn,” the girl protested. “Daniel got to go first last year. It’s not fair!”
“I told you, it doesn’t matter who goes first. You’ll both get a turn,” said the mother. “Kris, what are you going to ask Santa for?”
The girl didn’t even have to think about her answer. “I want an American Girl doll, a bike like Daniel’s with a pink helmet and a white seat, and a white fairy princess dress.”
The boy also had his list memorized. He wanted a chemistry set and a microscope like Brendon’s “so we can do experiments together.” He also said he was going to ask Santa for a remote controlled car and something called a DM3.
The rest of the way to the mall, the mother was obviously working to keep her lips from moving while she rehearsed their lists. Capt. Awesome couldn’t believe the boy and the girl didn’t see it. Sure, they were only kids, but how weak did your batteries have to be not to see the mother memorizing every word they said?
American Girl. Pink Helmet. White seat. Princess dress. Chemistry set. Microscope. Car. DMSomething.
A week later, the mother drove back to the mall without the boy and the girl. She stayed inside for several hours. When she came back to the van, Capt. Awesome could see a chemistry set in one of her bags and the white sequence of a fairy princess dress in another.
“Christmas,” he thought, “when deception disguises itself as goodwill.”
After last Christmas – his first Christmas - Capt. Awesome was convinced that Santa was a great manipulation, and nothing more. He was a fraud built by the collective imaginations of adults who regularly spanked their children for lying. Capt. Awesome was sure that by perpetuating the Santa story, the parents were digging their own graves.
Did parents really think the world leaders they were raising would find solutions for the fossil fuel crisis when they honestly believed magic elves spent twelve months a year making everything people asked for?
Had the parents actually convinced themselves that the global economy would be stabilized by a generation who thought an overweight saint slid down their chimneys to make midnight deliveries?
And who did the parents think would care for them in their old age? What possible motivation would their children have for giving selflessly to another person when they believed a 1400 year-old fat man existed for no other reason than to give them presents?
It was all so absurd.
***
After the kids sat on Santa’s lap, the van was filled and emptied four different times. The mother brought home rolls of paper and hid department store bags under her bed. At the grocery store, she bought two bags of the candy she always used to help fill the kids’ stockings. Capt. Awesome remembered it from the year before when he stood on it through that horrible sleepless night. At the toy store, the mother asked a handsome young man wearing a blue vest to help her load a bike-sized box into the van. The young man smiled weakly when the mother handed him a dollar and wished him Merry Christmas.
Long before Christmas morning, Capt. Awesome knew that not only was the boy getting a chemistry set and a microscope from “Santa,” he was also getting a basketball and two new shirts.
The girl would love her fairy dress and would probably spend most of Christmas afternoon riding her new bicycle. But Capt. Awesome knew that “Santa” was also going to surprise her with a shiny chrome bell for her handlebars.
The kids had no idea what was happening behind the Christmas scenes. Every afternoon they rode home in the backseat of a grey Astro-Van that secretly doubled as Santa’s sleigh. If they knew that Santa poured their cereal and drove them to school every morning, they would go absolutely mental.
***
On the Saturday night before Christmas, the mother dropped the kids off at their grandparents’ house and picked up the man that was her current favorite. On their way to dinner, the mother and the man talked about Christmas and which child would like which present the best. “Susan,” the man said, “You’ve kinda gone overboard this year, haven’t you? Can you afford all this?”
“Not really,” said the mother.
And then she started to cry.
***
After Christmas, the man helped the mother tie a brittled Christmas tree onto the top of the van. After they dumped the tree in a pile near the playground in their favorite park, the man announced he was taking everyone out for pizza to celebrate the new year.
On the way, he turned to ask the boy and the girl if they had a good Christmas.
“Sure did,” said the boy. “Santa got me a microscope and a cool chemistry set and a DM3!”
“I got a silver princess dress and a pink bicycle with a bell on the handles,” said the girl.
“That’s great,” said the man. “What did your mom get you?”
The boy and the girl looked at each other blankly.
“I don’t remember,” the boy answered. “Mom, what did you get me?”
Capt. Awesome couldn’t believe his ears. If he had any muscle control – if he had any muscles at all – he would kick the boy in the lap.
“Santa,” he fumed, “is just a front man the parents use to launder their own generosity. He’s a puppet crafted to give kids the clothes they need and the toys they want and let somebody else get the credit. I can’t believe your mom sits in the shadows while an overstuffed fairy tale steals her glory.”
Ungrateful kids.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Super? Human. (Martin)
Martin’s story is part five of a five part series. Read part one, part two, part three, and part four to catch up.
Martin
Martin sat in his favorite coffee shop, bemoaning his fate.
He had been fired earlier that day after an unfortunate incident at school. Martin (or Mr. Smithson as he was known to his students), was walking down the hall just outside the girl’s bathroom, when a kid pushed past him in a rush to get to class. Martin stumbled and tried to catch himself, but with no luck. He fell through the wall and straight into the girl’s bathroom.
Since he was a child, Martin had been able to pass through things. He could reach his hand through ceramic cookie jars and walk through solid walls. Unfortunately, none of his wardrobe shared his super-ability. Just because Martin could walk through walls didn’t mean his clothes could come with him.
When Martin fell (literally) through the solid wall outside the girl’s bathroom, he landed on the other side unscathed, uninjured… and unclothed. Now, thanks to the several shrieking sophomores who saw his “biology lesson,” he was also unemployed.
The school board said Martin was a danger to the kids. They claimed he was a liability. They paid no attention to his defensive argument. "At least I'm not turning invisible and intentionally stalking through the locker rooms," he said. "This was just an honest mistake." Twenty minutes later, they fired him.
Martin hated his super dis-ability.
Superman. Wonder-Woman. The Green Lantern. They all did what came naturally and the world embraced them for it.
“For the rest of us,” Martin thought, “life’s a little more complicated.”
The End.
Martin
Martin sat in his favorite coffee shop, bemoaning his fate.
He had been fired earlier that day after an unfortunate incident at school. Martin (or Mr. Smithson as he was known to his students), was walking down the hall just outside the girl’s bathroom, when a kid pushed past him in a rush to get to class. Martin stumbled and tried to catch himself, but with no luck. He fell through the wall and straight into the girl’s bathroom.
Since he was a child, Martin had been able to pass through things. He could reach his hand through ceramic cookie jars and walk through solid walls. Unfortunately, none of his wardrobe shared his super-ability. Just because Martin could walk through walls didn’t mean his clothes could come with him.
When Martin fell (literally) through the solid wall outside the girl’s bathroom, he landed on the other side unscathed, uninjured… and unclothed. Now, thanks to the several shrieking sophomores who saw his “biology lesson,” he was also unemployed.
The school board said Martin was a danger to the kids. They claimed he was a liability. They paid no attention to his defensive argument. "At least I'm not turning invisible and intentionally stalking through the locker rooms," he said. "This was just an honest mistake." Twenty minutes later, they fired him.
Martin hated his super dis-ability.
Superman. Wonder-Woman. The Green Lantern. They all did what came naturally and the world embraced them for it.
“For the rest of us,” Martin thought, “life’s a little more complicated.”
The End.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Super? Human. (Heather)
This is part 4 of the Super? Human. series. Why start with 4 when you can begin with part 1, continue with part 2, and then enjoy part 3?
Heather
Heather spent her life as a quiet prisoner to her inside voice.
Heather’s “inside voice” wasn’t anything like her “inner voice,” that whispering conscience that gives paranoid advice and warns people of impending doom. Heather’s “inside voice” was the contrast to her “outside voice,” a sound that froze everything that moves.
Every time Heather shouted or screamed, her raised voice pressed a pause button that stopped time.
Usually when a woman shouts, one of several things happen: 1) people run to her aid, 2) a child is sent to its room, or 3) everyone rolls their eyes and wonders why that horrible woman is being so mean to that poor waiter. These things happen because a shout is meant to be heard. A shout, by nature, is meant to be responded to.
Heather’s shout, however, was terribly counter-productive. People who heard it, strictly speaking, couldn’t respond to it. They were too busy being immobilized. Frozen. Instead of turning in alarm, people who heard Heather shout were temporarily petrified, stuck in an involuntary game of freeze tag.
Because Heather had colic as a baby, her father was constantly late for work. Several times a week, he woke up early, sat down for breakfast, and was then turned to a statue while his carpool left without him.
“Shit,” he thought. “If that kid doesn’t stop crying, I’m going to loose my job.”
Heather was six months old when her unemployed parents sent her to live with a deaf couple.
In the 8th grade, all the girls in Heather’s class were required to take woodshop with the boys. The school said it taught them to be well-rounded. One day Heather told the shop teacher that “the needless butchering of trees for poorly made book cases and bird houses violates my principals as a vegetarian.”
Mr. Reinheart explained to Heather that she apparently misunderstood what “vegetarian” meant. When Heather yelled a defiant “BUT…,” all the drills stopped drilling, all the saws stopped sawing, and everyone in the woodshop froze. It was SO embarrassing.
By the time she got to high school, Heather was already one of the prettiest girl in her class. When she tried out for the cheerleading squad, her gymnastic routine was great, but her cheers left the judges silent and still. She didn’t make the squad.
Her sophomore year, Heather dated a boy that, like every other boy at school, was completely infuriating. But every time Heather reached her emotional limit and yelled about his stupid clothes and his stupid car and his stupid friends, the boy just stood there, still as a stone. Frozen, he even missed her dramatic exits, which made Heather even angrier.
The time Heather rode a roller coaster at Six Flags was an absolute disaster.
Heather hated being quiet while her friends were being crazy. She hated using her “inside voice” when her inner bitch wanted out. Most afternoons, when she got home from school, Heather was so frustrated that she slammed the door and shouted as loud as she could.
When her deaf foster parents saw the cat frozen with one leg in the air, wishing its bath hadn’t been so rudely interrupted, they signaled each other and spoke in their sign-language shorthand, “Heather must be home.”
To Be Continued...
Heather
Heather spent her life as a quiet prisoner to her inside voice.
Heather’s “inside voice” wasn’t anything like her “inner voice,” that whispering conscience that gives paranoid advice and warns people of impending doom. Heather’s “inside voice” was the contrast to her “outside voice,” a sound that froze everything that moves.
Every time Heather shouted or screamed, her raised voice pressed a pause button that stopped time.
Usually when a woman shouts, one of several things happen: 1) people run to her aid, 2) a child is sent to its room, or 3) everyone rolls their eyes and wonders why that horrible woman is being so mean to that poor waiter. These things happen because a shout is meant to be heard. A shout, by nature, is meant to be responded to.
Heather’s shout, however, was terribly counter-productive. People who heard it, strictly speaking, couldn’t respond to it. They were too busy being immobilized. Frozen. Instead of turning in alarm, people who heard Heather shout were temporarily petrified, stuck in an involuntary game of freeze tag.
Because Heather had colic as a baby, her father was constantly late for work. Several times a week, he woke up early, sat down for breakfast, and was then turned to a statue while his carpool left without him.
“Shit,” he thought. “If that kid doesn’t stop crying, I’m going to loose my job.”
Heather was six months old when her unemployed parents sent her to live with a deaf couple.
In the 8th grade, all the girls in Heather’s class were required to take woodshop with the boys. The school said it taught them to be well-rounded. One day Heather told the shop teacher that “the needless butchering of trees for poorly made book cases and bird houses violates my principals as a vegetarian.”
Mr. Reinheart explained to Heather that she apparently misunderstood what “vegetarian” meant. When Heather yelled a defiant “BUT…,” all the drills stopped drilling, all the saws stopped sawing, and everyone in the woodshop froze. It was SO embarrassing.
By the time she got to high school, Heather was already one of the prettiest girl in her class. When she tried out for the cheerleading squad, her gymnastic routine was great, but her cheers left the judges silent and still. She didn’t make the squad.
Her sophomore year, Heather dated a boy that, like every other boy at school, was completely infuriating. But every time Heather reached her emotional limit and yelled about his stupid clothes and his stupid car and his stupid friends, the boy just stood there, still as a stone. Frozen, he even missed her dramatic exits, which made Heather even angrier.
The time Heather rode a roller coaster at Six Flags was an absolute disaster.
Heather hated being quiet while her friends were being crazy. She hated using her “inside voice” when her inner bitch wanted out. Most afternoons, when she got home from school, Heather was so frustrated that she slammed the door and shouted as loud as she could.
When her deaf foster parents saw the cat frozen with one leg in the air, wishing its bath hadn’t been so rudely interrupted, they signaled each other and spoke in their sign-language shorthand, “Heather must be home.”
To Be Continued...
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Super? Human. (Paul)
This is part 3 of the Super? Human. series. To catch up, start by reading part 1 and part 2.
Paul
Like a Bible character he barely remembered, Paul got his strength form his hair.
In 1967 he and his flower children friends – his botanical brothers and sisters – all grew their hair long in protest of a war they didn’t believe in. But as his friends grew shaggy, Paul grew strong. Very Strong.
The first time his mother hinted that he needed a haircut, Paul already knew to be careful when he tied his sneakers before a protest. Sometimes he got excited and bruised his feet before the laces broke.
When his bangs had to be parted to keep them out of his eyes, Paul was regularly entertaining his friends at sit-ins by bending gun barrels into balloon animals while singing “Give Peace a Chance.”
By the time Paul’s muddy locks covered the tour dates on the backs of his tee-shirts, he spent every fourth Saturday holding his family’s El Camino in the air while his dad changed the oil. His dad wanted him to get a job that “took full advantage of his talent.” Unfortunately, when you’re a super-strong hippie pacifist, there’s not much work that fits your skill set.
When the boys in Washington heard about his extraordinary strength, they drew Paul’s draft number. Like it or not, they said, he was going to Vietnam.
“Don’t you want to be a star soldier,” they asked. “Don’t you want to serve your country?”
He didn’t.
The first day of boot camp, the Army shaved Paul’s head and gave him a pair of green pants. His commanding officers wouldn’t listen when Paul told them not to cut his hair. They said it was “regulation.”
Nine months later, Paul ran through the jungle with a new haircut, sweating under the weight of his backpack. Unable to keep up with his company, Paul never saw his home again.
To Be Continued...
Paul
Like a Bible character he barely remembered, Paul got his strength form his hair.
In 1967 he and his flower children friends – his botanical brothers and sisters – all grew their hair long in protest of a war they didn’t believe in. But as his friends grew shaggy, Paul grew strong. Very Strong.
The first time his mother hinted that he needed a haircut, Paul already knew to be careful when he tied his sneakers before a protest. Sometimes he got excited and bruised his feet before the laces broke.
When his bangs had to be parted to keep them out of his eyes, Paul was regularly entertaining his friends at sit-ins by bending gun barrels into balloon animals while singing “Give Peace a Chance.”
By the time Paul’s muddy locks covered the tour dates on the backs of his tee-shirts, he spent every fourth Saturday holding his family’s El Camino in the air while his dad changed the oil. His dad wanted him to get a job that “took full advantage of his talent.” Unfortunately, when you’re a super-strong hippie pacifist, there’s not much work that fits your skill set.
When the boys in Washington heard about his extraordinary strength, they drew Paul’s draft number. Like it or not, they said, he was going to Vietnam.
“Don’t you want to be a star soldier,” they asked. “Don’t you want to serve your country?”
He didn’t.
The first day of boot camp, the Army shaved Paul’s head and gave him a pair of green pants. His commanding officers wouldn’t listen when Paul told them not to cut his hair. They said it was “regulation.”
Nine months later, Paul ran through the jungle with a new haircut, sweating under the weight of his backpack. Unable to keep up with his company, Paul never saw his home again.
To Be Continued...
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Super? Human. (Oscar)
What follows is part 2 of the Super? Human. series. If you haven't already, I suggest you click here to read part 1.
Oscar
When Susan won $500 in the lottery, she wasn’t even excited. Oscar could fly, and that was so much better.
If she could fly, she wouldn’t need the lottery. She wouldn’t have a car payment, or auto insurance, or rising gas prices to worry about. She could even earn extra money as one of those traffic reporters on the radio that tells everybody where all the wrecks are on the highway.
Her stupid brother had the power to fly, and he never used it – not even if he woke up late and there wasn’t any coffee and rush-hour traffic was a mess. He said it was too slow. He said he could spit faster than he could fly.
He was right. Oscar flew slower than a small child tiptoes past his parent’s room in the night.
When they were kids, Oscar occasionally took off in the front yard to show off for his friends. But when his friends started crawling under him to untie his shoes and tickle his feet while he lifted off, Oscar had an important revelation. Unless a neighbor’s cat was stuck in a tree and they weren’t in a hurry to get it down, his power was neither very useful nor very impressive.
What’s the point of flying, Oscar thought, if it’s not fast?
As he got older, his opinion didn’t change. Recently, when he got caught in traffic on the way to an emergency surgery, Oscar took his chances and took off. Four blocks later, he was passed by a butterfly.
Now, unless the puddles were unbearably deep, Oscar usually walked. And Susan hated him for it.
Oscar knew his sister was jealous of his ability, but he was thankful Susan couldn’t fly. His logic? There’s a reason animals in the wild walk on all fours, hiding their underparts. There’s a reason birds, who fly so unashamedly, don’t have external genitals. It’s the same reason women who only wear short skirts, women like his sister, shouldn’t have the power of flight:
Decency.
Nobody wants to look up and see that, especially in slow motion.
To Be Continued...
Oscar
When Susan won $500 in the lottery, she wasn’t even excited. Oscar could fly, and that was so much better.
If she could fly, she wouldn’t need the lottery. She wouldn’t have a car payment, or auto insurance, or rising gas prices to worry about. She could even earn extra money as one of those traffic reporters on the radio that tells everybody where all the wrecks are on the highway.
Her stupid brother had the power to fly, and he never used it – not even if he woke up late and there wasn’t any coffee and rush-hour traffic was a mess. He said it was too slow. He said he could spit faster than he could fly.
He was right. Oscar flew slower than a small child tiptoes past his parent’s room in the night.
When they were kids, Oscar occasionally took off in the front yard to show off for his friends. But when his friends started crawling under him to untie his shoes and tickle his feet while he lifted off, Oscar had an important revelation. Unless a neighbor’s cat was stuck in a tree and they weren’t in a hurry to get it down, his power was neither very useful nor very impressive.
What’s the point of flying, Oscar thought, if it’s not fast?
As he got older, his opinion didn’t change. Recently, when he got caught in traffic on the way to an emergency surgery, Oscar took his chances and took off. Four blocks later, he was passed by a butterfly.
Now, unless the puddles were unbearably deep, Oscar usually walked. And Susan hated him for it.
Oscar knew his sister was jealous of his ability, but he was thankful Susan couldn’t fly. His logic? There’s a reason animals in the wild walk on all fours, hiding their underparts. There’s a reason birds, who fly so unashamedly, don’t have external genitals. It’s the same reason women who only wear short skirts, women like his sister, shouldn’t have the power of flight:
Decency.
Nobody wants to look up and see that, especially in slow motion.
To Be Continued...
Monday, November 16, 2009
Super? Human. (Michael)
Michael
Michael discovered he could become invisible when he was a teenager – that glandular time when the other boys were also discovering their own secret and hidden abilities. When he realized he could become invisible, Michael dreamed of using his power for the ultimate good: surveillance missions… gaining important intelligence… and infiltrating the girls’ locker room.
Visibility happens when light bounces off an object and gets caught in the camera of an animal’s eye, making a picture in the brain and immortalizing the object as “visible.” Invisibility happens when light doesn’t bounce – when it passes through an object, frictionless. Clean glass. Clear air. Calm water. These things are “invisible” because light shines through them in a straight line, never bounced back to report the shapes and colors of where it’s been.
Michael could turn invisible. He could allow light to pass straight through his body, keeping him a secret. But becoming invisible meant light passed through his body. All of it. It didn’t bounce off his shoulders, stomach, and feet, showing his size, shape, and location to everyone around him. But it also didn’t get caught in his eyes.
Instead, when he was invisible, light passed through his lenses, ignored his retinas, and shot straight out the back of his head, never telling his brain anything about where it had been.
Michael could turn invisible. But when he was invisible, he was also blind… which made the girl’s locker room much less interesting.
To Be Continued...
Michael discovered he could become invisible when he was a teenager – that glandular time when the other boys were also discovering their own secret and hidden abilities. When he realized he could become invisible, Michael dreamed of using his power for the ultimate good: surveillance missions… gaining important intelligence… and infiltrating the girls’ locker room.
Visibility happens when light bounces off an object and gets caught in the camera of an animal’s eye, making a picture in the brain and immortalizing the object as “visible.” Invisibility happens when light doesn’t bounce – when it passes through an object, frictionless. Clean glass. Clear air. Calm water. These things are “invisible” because light shines through them in a straight line, never bounced back to report the shapes and colors of where it’s been.
Michael could turn invisible. He could allow light to pass straight through his body, keeping him a secret. But becoming invisible meant light passed through his body. All of it. It didn’t bounce off his shoulders, stomach, and feet, showing his size, shape, and location to everyone around him. But it also didn’t get caught in his eyes.
Instead, when he was invisible, light passed through his lenses, ignored his retinas, and shot straight out the back of his head, never telling his brain anything about where it had been.
Michael could turn invisible. But when he was invisible, he was also blind… which made the girl’s locker room much less interesting.
To Be Continued...
Sunday, October 18, 2009
What It's Like (part 1)
If you follow my blog, you know that I usually write essays – creative non-fiction stories inspired by actual events. “What It’s Like” is a new experiment for me.
What follows is one of my first attempts at writing fiction. Because blogs are short by definition, I’ve broken this story into 6 small parts. This is Part 1…
What It’s Like
The Earth took his training wheels off only a short few billion years ago. Before then, he followed the other planets through their frenzied orbits, barely keeping out from under their feet. He wasn't the typical middle child, quiet and demure. The Earth was curious and inquisitive, constantly asking questions like:
Why do I have to wear sunscreen?
What if I don't want to eat my vegetables?
and
Are we there yet?
Despite the endless questions, the other planets liked the Earth. He was innocent and green. He seldom whined or complained about his cold, wet bottom. Plus, he never made fun of Uranus... and that was hard to do.
There were a few years during puberty, when his face erupted in a volcanic mess, that the Earth was unbearable. But that was all behind him now. The Earth had learned to accept that as you grow older, things change. Everything shifts. Pangaea gives way to urban expansion. And no matter how hard you diet and exercise, your doctor is going to continually nag that your rising sea levels "might be cause for concern."
Mid-life was comfortable for the Earth. Covered with a shadow of rain-forest whiskers, he looked rugged and distinguished. He had established a routine, but predictability made the Earth restless. He worried his life was going around in circles, never really getting anywhere. Parts of him felt like the days went on forever and the night would never end, like there was nothing new under the sun.
Then, two days after giving Asia an extraordinary sunset, the Earth heard some unsettling news. He wasn't eavesdropping, of course, but it's hard to ignore a billion voices whispering in your ear. That's why he loved text messages and Twitter. They did wonders for his migraines.
But since terror really is expressed best through the spoken word, the news that a meteor was headed toward Earth was bigger than text messages could accommodate. As soon as the meteor was sighted, television reporters across the world began talking about "the catastrophic event," "our pending extinction," and "the violent end of life as we know it."
And the Earth was listening.
The Earth noticed long ago that the people were always panicking about something. Fortunately, their hysteria seldom lasted long. Before he turned around twice, the drama usually died down. Most of their problems ended as little more than forgotten headlines in a landfill.
The news that a meteor was headed toward the Earth, however, rocked the Earth to his core. The dinosaurs hadn't done a very good job of warning him about the last meteor, a surprise from the black that hit him like a cosmic car accident. One day he just turned around, saw it swerve into his orbit, and thought, "shit, this is going to hurt." And it did. Bad.
And now, according to the people, another meteor was on its way. "Whoever's out there throwing rocks needs to stop," he thought. "I'm too old for this."
Unfortunately, the coming meteor wasn't just a rock, a hardened teenager who had run away from home with plans of crashing on another planet's couch. It was bigger. Much bigger. It was so big that the popular media was at a loss for how to report its true size. Most people had seen enough disaster movies that they were desensitized to phrases like "rock the size of Texas."
In truth, the meteor had quite a bit in common with Texas, an ambitious - and egotistic - American state who dreamed of breaking free to become its own country. But the meteor, a rock several times the size of Earth, had done what Texas never would. It had succeeded in breaking free from its own solar system and had achieved geologic independence. Practically its own planet, the meteor went wherever it wanted, unencumbered by curfews and gravity. And since the its equator was wider than everyone else's, most planets knew not to get in its way.
The idea of a bully pushing its way through the cosmos was understandably stressful for the Earth. He didn’t like conflict. He didn’t enjoy being pushed around and bumped into. He was already self-conscious about his receding rainforests. The last thing he wanted was a new unsightly crater on his southern hemisphere.
Unfortunately, the Earth worrying about a new crater before being hit by the meteor was like a child worrying about a loose tooth before being hit by a train. The meteor wasn’t going to dent the Earth, it was going to destroy the Earth.
Within a few weeks, the meteor would become visible as a small speck in the Milky Way. The speck would grow as the meteor approached, slowing filling the night sky. First the North Star would disappear. Then the big dipper would loose its handle. Within a few months, Orion, Scorpio, and all their twinkling friends would be hidden from view, eclipsed by the meteor’s huge girth.
Several weeks before the big event, when the meteor was finally close enough, its gravity would pull the Earth’s oceans from their beds, gathering them together until they looked like a giant raindrop falling up into the sky.
Then, at the moment of impact, the Earth would shatter like a snowball, barely feeling a thing.
To Be Continued...
To read part 2, click here.
What follows is one of my first attempts at writing fiction. Because blogs are short by definition, I’ve broken this story into 6 small parts. This is Part 1…
What It’s Like
The Earth took his training wheels off only a short few billion years ago. Before then, he followed the other planets through their frenzied orbits, barely keeping out from under their feet. He wasn't the typical middle child, quiet and demure. The Earth was curious and inquisitive, constantly asking questions like:
Why do I have to wear sunscreen?
What if I don't want to eat my vegetables?
and
Are we there yet?
Despite the endless questions, the other planets liked the Earth. He was innocent and green. He seldom whined or complained about his cold, wet bottom. Plus, he never made fun of Uranus... and that was hard to do.
There were a few years during puberty, when his face erupted in a volcanic mess, that the Earth was unbearable. But that was all behind him now. The Earth had learned to accept that as you grow older, things change. Everything shifts. Pangaea gives way to urban expansion. And no matter how hard you diet and exercise, your doctor is going to continually nag that your rising sea levels "might be cause for concern."
Mid-life was comfortable for the Earth. Covered with a shadow of rain-forest whiskers, he looked rugged and distinguished. He had established a routine, but predictability made the Earth restless. He worried his life was going around in circles, never really getting anywhere. Parts of him felt like the days went on forever and the night would never end, like there was nothing new under the sun.
Then, two days after giving Asia an extraordinary sunset, the Earth heard some unsettling news. He wasn't eavesdropping, of course, but it's hard to ignore a billion voices whispering in your ear. That's why he loved text messages and Twitter. They did wonders for his migraines.
But since terror really is expressed best through the spoken word, the news that a meteor was headed toward Earth was bigger than text messages could accommodate. As soon as the meteor was sighted, television reporters across the world began talking about "the catastrophic event," "our pending extinction," and "the violent end of life as we know it."
And the Earth was listening.
The Earth noticed long ago that the people were always panicking about something. Fortunately, their hysteria seldom lasted long. Before he turned around twice, the drama usually died down. Most of their problems ended as little more than forgotten headlines in a landfill.
The news that a meteor was headed toward the Earth, however, rocked the Earth to his core. The dinosaurs hadn't done a very good job of warning him about the last meteor, a surprise from the black that hit him like a cosmic car accident. One day he just turned around, saw it swerve into his orbit, and thought, "shit, this is going to hurt." And it did. Bad.
And now, according to the people, another meteor was on its way. "Whoever's out there throwing rocks needs to stop," he thought. "I'm too old for this."
Unfortunately, the coming meteor wasn't just a rock, a hardened teenager who had run away from home with plans of crashing on another planet's couch. It was bigger. Much bigger. It was so big that the popular media was at a loss for how to report its true size. Most people had seen enough disaster movies that they were desensitized to phrases like "rock the size of Texas."
In truth, the meteor had quite a bit in common with Texas, an ambitious - and egotistic - American state who dreamed of breaking free to become its own country. But the meteor, a rock several times the size of Earth, had done what Texas never would. It had succeeded in breaking free from its own solar system and had achieved geologic independence. Practically its own planet, the meteor went wherever it wanted, unencumbered by curfews and gravity. And since the its equator was wider than everyone else's, most planets knew not to get in its way.
The idea of a bully pushing its way through the cosmos was understandably stressful for the Earth. He didn’t like conflict. He didn’t enjoy being pushed around and bumped into. He was already self-conscious about his receding rainforests. The last thing he wanted was a new unsightly crater on his southern hemisphere.
Unfortunately, the Earth worrying about a new crater before being hit by the meteor was like a child worrying about a loose tooth before being hit by a train. The meteor wasn’t going to dent the Earth, it was going to destroy the Earth.
Within a few weeks, the meteor would become visible as a small speck in the Milky Way. The speck would grow as the meteor approached, slowing filling the night sky. First the North Star would disappear. Then the big dipper would loose its handle. Within a few months, Orion, Scorpio, and all their twinkling friends would be hidden from view, eclipsed by the meteor’s huge girth.
Several weeks before the big event, when the meteor was finally close enough, its gravity would pull the Earth’s oceans from their beds, gathering them together until they looked like a giant raindrop falling up into the sky.
Then, at the moment of impact, the Earth would shatter like a snowball, barely feeling a thing.
To Be Continued...
To read part 2, click here.
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