(This event happened at a time when Amanda, Laila and I were still learning the effects and reaches of our powers, and did not yet know that Becca, Mary, and Willa had accrued some strange abilities as well. We were all studying in Amanda's living room, in front of the fireplace, because even though it was almost summer and there was no fire, the comfort of the sentiment remained.)
Amanda's house has a really long driveway that goes over a creek at one point, surrounded by lots of very tall trees. The water is usually almost nonexistent by this point, and the little fish that spawn and grow in the creek have to ford their way to bigger streams to develop.
Anyways.
Amanda is working on her math homework, and getting very frustrated with a particular problem, which is of course the last one preventing her from finishing so we can commence with our planned Indiana Jones movie marathon. She begins doodling a large and furious cloud looming over the half-written equation.
Laila comes over to check on her, and, fascinated by the drawing, runs her finger over the swirling yet violent lines practically carved into the paper.
'This would be a really pretty storm," she remarks-- and at that moment a crack of thunder shakes the room, knocking us all off our feet.
Caspian starts cawing and shrieking loudly in his cage, as bolts of energy fizz and pop throughout the room.
We all stare, aghast, as a sheer mountain of water rises from the creek and crashes toward the house. Toward the three big, beautiful windows on the second story, which we happen to be standing behind.
"Run!" I yell, trying to offer a useful course of action, but at this point all we can do is leap out of the way as a pine tree, uprooted by the maelstrom, crashes straight into the room and through the brick fireplace, poking into the kitchen on the other side. We, however, are too busy to think about this particular development, as we are currently being swept out to sea...
Later, sopping wet and wrapped in towels on the Coast Guard boat which rescued us, we ponder the reason for our predicament. It was obviously Laila's touching of the drawing which made the storm come to life, as she has shown minor control of weather in earlier instances. However, it is the drawing which created such a powerful storm in the first place, embedding in itself in Amanda's residual frustration against the math problem...and so, the finest word of wisdom we learn from this escapade is:
Don't doodle on your homework.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Spaceship Stealing
We decide to go on what is commonly termed a "Joy Ride" in the cruiser of the space pirates we just captured, on the way to deliver them to the police of their home planet.
Amanda, Laila, Becca and I skip into Dollar Tree and stock up on chocolate, Martinelli's cider, sandwiches, and live ducks (for company). We pack Amanda's concertina, Laila's pennywhistle, and mum's violin, and once the prisoners are tied snugly in traditional rope and placed down in the hold, we set off on our journey.
Growing bored-- it is taking longer than we expected to reach the next populated galaxy-- I start sticking little star and moon glow-in-the-dark stickers to the viewing screen, mimicking the few constellations I know from Earth's night sky. Amanda is painting on the navigation console, a few drops spilling to the carpet and circling the station with colour. Becca is reading in the greenhouse. Laila's in the captain's chair, bare feet on the desk, wheedling out a seafaring tune with her pennywhistle. It's been a few days, but the peace of the voyage is nice.
As I am pondering this new peace, a star whale looms up behind Orion on the viewscreen, and bumps into the ship.
Everything and everyone is sent sprawling like those few dedicated actors who hurl themselves across the set in Star Trek, and when it all settles, we realize that the compartment in which the ducks were staying has completely separated from the ship.
Fortunately, we are all superheroes. We know how to handle this rescuing biz.
Laila and I suit up, while Amanda monitors the exit shafts from the control room, and Becca goes to check on the prisoners. We are shunted out, propelled after the fleeing duck compartment, which has miraculously sustained no damage from being so forcefully ejected. We catch it, attaching cables to draw it back in to the ship, and Amanda starts reeling it in. But then the cables stop, and to our horror, are discharged from the ship-- and the ship itself begins to pulse away from us in the deep emptiness of space...
"What's going on?!" I shout to Amanda over the tiny mic in my space suit.
"Uhhh....technical difficulties," she replies somewhat tersely. "Just who exactly tied the ropes on prisoner number three?"
"OH..." I reply, cheeks reddening. "Sorry about that..."
So, while Laila and I fiddle around and make faces at the ducks through the porthole to calm them down about the whole situation, Amanda re-subdues the burliest four-armed Hydrothican of the pirate group. Thankfully, we have our own piratical experience, and since it's well known that Earth pirates are the best there have ever been at swordsmanship, and Amanda keeps hers at her side at all times, the prisoner eventually re-surrenders, and peace is restored. By this time, however, all the commotion has shaken the fizz out of the Martinelli's.
Sigh...and we were going to have such a great intergalactic picnic/tour in this stolen spaceship...
We drop off the prisoners, spend a day on Hydrothica, and return home via a rather shorter trip in the speed-cruiser of a Hydrothican policewoman.
We take Amanda's car up to Multnomah Falls instead, free the ducks, and watch the sunset while eating the last of the chocolate. Who knew such sparse rations could last five days?
Amanda, Laila, Becca and I skip into Dollar Tree and stock up on chocolate, Martinelli's cider, sandwiches, and live ducks (for company). We pack Amanda's concertina, Laila's pennywhistle, and mum's violin, and once the prisoners are tied snugly in traditional rope and placed down in the hold, we set off on our journey.
Growing bored-- it is taking longer than we expected to reach the next populated galaxy-- I start sticking little star and moon glow-in-the-dark stickers to the viewing screen, mimicking the few constellations I know from Earth's night sky. Amanda is painting on the navigation console, a few drops spilling to the carpet and circling the station with colour. Becca is reading in the greenhouse. Laila's in the captain's chair, bare feet on the desk, wheedling out a seafaring tune with her pennywhistle. It's been a few days, but the peace of the voyage is nice.
As I am pondering this new peace, a star whale looms up behind Orion on the viewscreen, and bumps into the ship.
Everything and everyone is sent sprawling like those few dedicated actors who hurl themselves across the set in Star Trek, and when it all settles, we realize that the compartment in which the ducks were staying has completely separated from the ship.
Fortunately, we are all superheroes. We know how to handle this rescuing biz.
Laila and I suit up, while Amanda monitors the exit shafts from the control room, and Becca goes to check on the prisoners. We are shunted out, propelled after the fleeing duck compartment, which has miraculously sustained no damage from being so forcefully ejected. We catch it, attaching cables to draw it back in to the ship, and Amanda starts reeling it in. But then the cables stop, and to our horror, are discharged from the ship-- and the ship itself begins to pulse away from us in the deep emptiness of space...
"What's going on?!" I shout to Amanda over the tiny mic in my space suit.
"Uhhh....technical difficulties," she replies somewhat tersely. "Just who exactly tied the ropes on prisoner number three?"
"OH..." I reply, cheeks reddening. "Sorry about that..."
So, while Laila and I fiddle around and make faces at the ducks through the porthole to calm them down about the whole situation, Amanda re-subdues the burliest four-armed Hydrothican of the pirate group. Thankfully, we have our own piratical experience, and since it's well known that Earth pirates are the best there have ever been at swordsmanship, and Amanda keeps hers at her side at all times, the prisoner eventually re-surrenders, and peace is restored. By this time, however, all the commotion has shaken the fizz out of the Martinelli's.
Sigh...and we were going to have such a great intergalactic picnic/tour in this stolen spaceship...
We drop off the prisoners, spend a day on Hydrothica, and return home via a rather shorter trip in the speed-cruiser of a Hydrothican policewoman.
We take Amanda's car up to Multnomah Falls instead, free the ducks, and watch the sunset while eating the last of the chocolate. Who knew such sparse rations could last five days?
In the Event of a Crash, Please Put on Your Seatbelts...
I am going somewhere because I feel like it is necessary.
This plane, this time-- it might be Syca, urging me with her special sight, because three hours into the nine hour flight, the plane starts shaking uncontrollably, buffeted by violent streams of wind and lightning.
I leap from my seat, despite the warnings of the stewardess over the intercom, and make my way to the cockpit, phasing through the locked door. "So, what's the problem?" I ask the pilots amiably, leaning over their chairs. This time, to avoid shock, I have taken the form of the stewardess.
"I've no idea how to fix this, Allie! This storm just appeared out of nowhere! The instruments are all going haywire..." cries the man on the right, younger and obviously the junior pilot. His counterpart, giving him a sidelong look, replies,
"We may not know what started it, but we still have a chance." He turns his head slightly in my direction, while maintaining surveillance of the hectically blinking lights and instrument panels around him. "How's the Device coming along?"
"Uh...I'll go check," I reply, and sneak backwards out of the door-- only to bump into the real stewardess on her way to the cockpit. She stares at me, I stare at me, from the nice blue uniform all the way down to the ludicrously pink high heels... crap. I forgot to change back.
She doesn't scream, however. With quick and sensible thinking, she grabs my collar and shoves me into the bathroom, shoving the door shut behind her, before any of the passengers can see the strange sight. Her eyes appraise me coldly, the pupils narrowing in distrust. Her arm is quite strong, and I feel like she could snap my neck easily if she took notion.
"How did you get on this plane? Who-- what are you?" she growls. Quickly, I shift into my normal shape.
"I'm just a passenger, but-- I thought maybe I could find out what was going on and help...and I was just going to talk to you, the older pilot said something about a Device they might need soon..."
She relinquishes her hold in shock, leaning back against the mirror in the cramped space. "Did he really say that? How on earth could it be time already....and how do I know I can trust you? You could be the Cause."
"I assure you, I'm not wittingly the cause of anything bad," I plead, but she does not let me out.
"They never are." she replies sternly.
"I could help you land the plane!" I say earnestly. "I can fly on my own, if you let me out of here I can direct the plane to a safer course."
"Hmm...not so sure I believe that. Can you give me some sign of trust?"
"Um...yes!" I take out a piece of my soul and hand it to her, wrapped in my scarf. "Hold onto this. If I don't come back, you can flush it down the toilet."
She steps aside, and I squeeze past and out of the loo, feeling terribly light with only a tiny particle of my soul missing... Whew. The lengths a hero goes to to get a commission these days...
Still, it enables me to fly faster and actually keep ahead of the plane, sending signals back about how the storm is changing up ahead, where there are breaks that can be used to navigate clearly and regain bearings...
Then, suddenly, the clouds disappear completely.
I fall out of the storm into a strange yellow sky. Below stretches deep blue sand-- NO!! I'm upside down, or the world is... I yell in the radio that they have to pull down hard, bank toward the ground as hard as possible, because things are not the way they seem and they are about to crash....
And as I land on the hot sand and pull off my goggles to watch the skies, the plane emerges out of the line of the horizon, stretching and growing and lifting itself into the night sky.
This plane, this time-- it might be Syca, urging me with her special sight, because three hours into the nine hour flight, the plane starts shaking uncontrollably, buffeted by violent streams of wind and lightning.
I leap from my seat, despite the warnings of the stewardess over the intercom, and make my way to the cockpit, phasing through the locked door. "So, what's the problem?" I ask the pilots amiably, leaning over their chairs. This time, to avoid shock, I have taken the form of the stewardess.
"I've no idea how to fix this, Allie! This storm just appeared out of nowhere! The instruments are all going haywire..." cries the man on the right, younger and obviously the junior pilot. His counterpart, giving him a sidelong look, replies,
"We may not know what started it, but we still have a chance." He turns his head slightly in my direction, while maintaining surveillance of the hectically blinking lights and instrument panels around him. "How's the Device coming along?"
"Uh...I'll go check," I reply, and sneak backwards out of the door-- only to bump into the real stewardess on her way to the cockpit. She stares at me, I stare at me, from the nice blue uniform all the way down to the ludicrously pink high heels... crap. I forgot to change back.
She doesn't scream, however. With quick and sensible thinking, she grabs my collar and shoves me into the bathroom, shoving the door shut behind her, before any of the passengers can see the strange sight. Her eyes appraise me coldly, the pupils narrowing in distrust. Her arm is quite strong, and I feel like she could snap my neck easily if she took notion.
"How did you get on this plane? Who-- what are you?" she growls. Quickly, I shift into my normal shape.
"I'm just a passenger, but-- I thought maybe I could find out what was going on and help...and I was just going to talk to you, the older pilot said something about a Device they might need soon..."
She relinquishes her hold in shock, leaning back against the mirror in the cramped space. "Did he really say that? How on earth could it be time already....and how do I know I can trust you? You could be the Cause."
"I assure you, I'm not wittingly the cause of anything bad," I plead, but she does not let me out.
"They never are." she replies sternly.
"I could help you land the plane!" I say earnestly. "I can fly on my own, if you let me out of here I can direct the plane to a safer course."
"Hmm...not so sure I believe that. Can you give me some sign of trust?"
"Um...yes!" I take out a piece of my soul and hand it to her, wrapped in my scarf. "Hold onto this. If I don't come back, you can flush it down the toilet."
She steps aside, and I squeeze past and out of the loo, feeling terribly light with only a tiny particle of my soul missing... Whew. The lengths a hero goes to to get a commission these days...
Still, it enables me to fly faster and actually keep ahead of the plane, sending signals back about how the storm is changing up ahead, where there are breaks that can be used to navigate clearly and regain bearings...
Then, suddenly, the clouds disappear completely.
I fall out of the storm into a strange yellow sky. Below stretches deep blue sand-- NO!! I'm upside down, or the world is... I yell in the radio that they have to pull down hard, bank toward the ground as hard as possible, because things are not the way they seem and they are about to crash....
And as I land on the hot sand and pull off my goggles to watch the skies, the plane emerges out of the line of the horizon, stretching and growing and lifting itself into the night sky.
Appreciation...
"Dedication to the cause must be renewed."
His first words to me after I emerge from the training room, sweaty but confident. He thinks that the masses don't care anymore about being saved, don't care about heroes and justice, just want to live their lives and take their chances and hope somebody else gets shot instead of them. I can tell this is going to be a long speech, so I hoist myself back up onto the bars and dangle by my feet.
"The people of this world need to be reminded that we are daily sacrificing our lives and the prospect of normal happiness, so that they can continue theirs. They accept our gifts and then shut the door, never asking us in for tea, never acknowledging that we are anything more than street cleaners!" He paces around the room, furiosity growing within his veins.
"But we are not just cleaners! We are people! We demand to be realized for the saviors we are! For generations we have fought, underground and in secret, to keep this world a place of safety and respite. Is it not so? Were we to step aside, the dangers would manifest themselves to the common people in their utmost horror! Is that what they want? They would be destroyed!"
"Now, Jack," I smile, using his code name to help calm him, sliding down from the side of the exercise bar, "You know that's not entirely true." He faces me, eyes glazed, slowly coming out of the fervor that takes hold of him every Saturday morning when the man next door refuses to let him watch his favorite TV show in his house.
"Well, if they don't want to have to look at us, they could at least pay for us to have our own supplies in the base. I mean, superheroes get bored too! Are we all just supposed to sit here like mannikins until a call comes in? A little TV couldn't hurt. Really, I mean, what are we supposed to do? This is inhumane treatment! I mean, I'm missing the game!"
"Jack, Jack, Jack..." I reply, jumping from the bars to the trapeze up above, "You could try reading a book." I toss him down the one I was reading while working out.
"Bleghhhh. Thoreau? Really?"
"Have you ever read him?" I counter, leaping down to the floor and taking a swig from my thermos.
"No, but I've heard he's really boring. Always blathering on about trees and nature and things. What I need is some adventure!"
Hunh. We'll see about that...
So I take him by the hand and run into the lab and plug him into the Imaginator I've just created, a filmy tentacular screen that latches onto the eyes, and all of Thoreau's life is uploaded into Jack's brain.
"Wow..." he mumbles, eyes bugged out. "How did that just happen..." He walks slowly around the room, and concedes that he was perhaps incorrect in his assumptions. "I didn't know he had a family...I thought he was a drifter with no connections...woa...this guy was deep..."
He staggers around a bit more, and I wonder if I've maybe gone overboard in an invention this time...nah.
Jack says, "See you later," and heads toward the door.
"Where are you going?" I call.
"To climb a tree."
His first words to me after I emerge from the training room, sweaty but confident. He thinks that the masses don't care anymore about being saved, don't care about heroes and justice, just want to live their lives and take their chances and hope somebody else gets shot instead of them. I can tell this is going to be a long speech, so I hoist myself back up onto the bars and dangle by my feet.
"The people of this world need to be reminded that we are daily sacrificing our lives and the prospect of normal happiness, so that they can continue theirs. They accept our gifts and then shut the door, never asking us in for tea, never acknowledging that we are anything more than street cleaners!" He paces around the room, furiosity growing within his veins.
"But we are not just cleaners! We are people! We demand to be realized for the saviors we are! For generations we have fought, underground and in secret, to keep this world a place of safety and respite. Is it not so? Were we to step aside, the dangers would manifest themselves to the common people in their utmost horror! Is that what they want? They would be destroyed!"
"Now, Jack," I smile, using his code name to help calm him, sliding down from the side of the exercise bar, "You know that's not entirely true." He faces me, eyes glazed, slowly coming out of the fervor that takes hold of him every Saturday morning when the man next door refuses to let him watch his favorite TV show in his house.
"Well, if they don't want to have to look at us, they could at least pay for us to have our own supplies in the base. I mean, superheroes get bored too! Are we all just supposed to sit here like mannikins until a call comes in? A little TV couldn't hurt. Really, I mean, what are we supposed to do? This is inhumane treatment! I mean, I'm missing the game!"
"Jack, Jack, Jack..." I reply, jumping from the bars to the trapeze up above, "You could try reading a book." I toss him down the one I was reading while working out.
"Bleghhhh. Thoreau? Really?"
"Have you ever read him?" I counter, leaping down to the floor and taking a swig from my thermos.
"No, but I've heard he's really boring. Always blathering on about trees and nature and things. What I need is some adventure!"
Hunh. We'll see about that...
So I take him by the hand and run into the lab and plug him into the Imaginator I've just created, a filmy tentacular screen that latches onto the eyes, and all of Thoreau's life is uploaded into Jack's brain.
"Wow..." he mumbles, eyes bugged out. "How did that just happen..." He walks slowly around the room, and concedes that he was perhaps incorrect in his assumptions. "I didn't know he had a family...I thought he was a drifter with no connections...woa...this guy was deep..."
He staggers around a bit more, and I wonder if I've maybe gone overboard in an invention this time...nah.
Jack says, "See you later," and heads toward the door.
"Where are you going?" I call.
"To climb a tree."
The Superstore Apprentice
I am a vigilante in the city, fighting demons and vampires and politicians, when one day, on an anonymous tip that there is a gigantic underground ring of black market dealing going on---I move to Suburbia.
Business is low, however, and one day I wake up to realize my make-shift shelter has run out of its stock of bread and candy corn.
This is, however, understandable--I haven't had a real job since last summer.
I walk into town, feeling slightly less epic with a rumble in my superheroic belly, and decide to apply for work at the local supermarket-- and maybe sneak out some food in the process.
~ ......~
I shuffle into the interview office, happy and hopeful. The interviewer frowns as I hand him an application filled out mostly with the juice of wild beets I found on the way over. It is a little messy...
"You have very...interesting...credentials, Miss Moone." he frowns, adjusting his spectacles gravely. "You say your greatest talents are flight, telekinetic juggling, and witty one-liners. Is this true?"
"Well..." I fidget uncomfortably in the straight-backed wooden interview chair. "Witty one-liners, maybe not so much. I just put that on there because most superheroes are known for short and powerful comments, but really I'm more of an extended metaphor kind of person--"
"Do you have any actual skills in sales, or accounting, or cleaning? The position you are applying for specified a 'jack of all trades' willing to restock shelves, mop the floors, and take in the numbers when the janitors, movers, and accountants are away taking their many mandated vacations.... In short, you need to be able to manage every aspect of the store but still be subject to the criticisms of higher management. Do you think you can handle this?"
"Well...I really need this job, so of course I can take on a little extra work!"
"Great! Sign here, here, here and here. Just don't read the fine print. It leaves you feeling a little depressed."
I leave the interview with a huge smile on my face, thinking smugly how lucky I was that I actually got a job, and what little effort I had to put into it, too...Strange...
The realization of what I've gotten myself into only hits me later on. Yeah, it's a crapload of work- but what a great place to catch burglars!!!
Three weeks later, I am restocking the shelves at midnight, when the jingle-bells on the back door ring. There are jingle-bells because the supermarket is too cheap to buy locks and security systems. They get robbed quite often, or so the one other fellow on night shift tells me, but it doesn't cost them anything because all the goods are super-crappy anyways. The bells are just to let the workers know to get out of the way, to avoid any lawsuits posed by the obliteration of a worker by a masked bandit with a submachine gun, should the bandit get bored one night and decide to bring one....They pay all the workers off in handsome vacations, which are cleverly balanced to be under the amount it would cost to actually prevent robberies.
Phil (the other guy on night shift) slinks immediately away to his car, but I hunker down in the back amid stacks of Corn Puffins and Slinky Shoes to wait for the intruders...
But there is no bursting of the doors to reveal masked menaces. Instead, in walks a clerk in a grey suit, and several burly men in overalls behind him. The man in front consults a clipboard, then walks over to the Slinky Shoes stacked just to the right of my hiding place. He lifts each box in turn, and appears to be looking for some sort of marking on the sides. Those that have it, he tosses to the men behind him, who immediately start tearing into the boxes. Prying the shoes loose from their casings, they flip hidden catches in the soles, tossing out small grey bags of questionable nature into a larger velvet sack...
The store is in league with the black market dealers! No wonder they can afford to pay off their workers--they don't just sell cheap toys and plastic foods, they hide drugs and secret weapons in the "recall" boxes...serial numbers list the key, and as I sneak closer to peer over the clerk's shoulder, I can see that some of the items are things I didn't even know existed yet-- mind probes, matter replicators, rocket shoes, and more...
And then of course one of the henchmen finally notices my head peeking out from between the crates, and chaos ensues as they leap for me, snarling. I dash up the side of the wall and duck into the delivery van that's just backed up to the door. The driver turns with astonishment but I leap forward and knock him away from the wheel. Then I remember that I don't know how to drive yet and hand it back to him, only to realize that it has come off the steering apparatus...
Men scatter out of the way as the truck careens backward, and to my horror, a giant pile of Rocket Shoes looms in the rear-view mirror. Thinking fast, I grab the driver's waist and break out of the side door, propelling us toward the open sky beyond the warehouse door....
The other henchmen are already running for cover, and I am thankful that the delivery truck was going slowly, since it was in the process of backing carefully in. We all end up diving behind the same van, since it's the only other thing in the parking lot. The villains' back-up vehicle, in case the police ever manage to do something productive about catching the other one. A few more moments of silence ensue.
"Nice van," I say, trying to make small-talk while we wait for the inevitable explosion. The truck is painted like a hippie van to disguise its nefarious intentions, but I have to admit that, though clever, it feels slightly ludicrous to be hiding behind it in this particular situation.
"Thanks," one of the overalled men barks gruffly. "It was Cleo's idea." He thumbs over his shoulder at the thin man in ragged jeans. Cleo grins and says, "I always wanted to be a muralist--"
And then the world tears apart.
The storage warehouse explodes in a ball of pent-up shoe fury, and the superstore, since connected, catches as well, apparently being made out of quite cheap and flammable material. Bits of plastic toys rain to the ground softly, lit by the night lamps on the street.
We all applaud the reaction as well worth the wait, then I offer to take the gentlemen out for ice cream, and we crowd in the van. While I whisper directions into the clerk's ear, the henchmen start up a rousing song, and together we drive out of the story and Suburbia...
Business is low, however, and one day I wake up to realize my make-shift shelter has run out of its stock of bread and candy corn.
This is, however, understandable--I haven't had a real job since last summer.
I walk into town, feeling slightly less epic with a rumble in my superheroic belly, and decide to apply for work at the local supermarket-- and maybe sneak out some food in the process.
~ ......~
I shuffle into the interview office, happy and hopeful. The interviewer frowns as I hand him an application filled out mostly with the juice of wild beets I found on the way over. It is a little messy...
"You have very...interesting...credentials, Miss Moone." he frowns, adjusting his spectacles gravely. "You say your greatest talents are flight, telekinetic juggling, and witty one-liners. Is this true?"
"Well..." I fidget uncomfortably in the straight-backed wooden interview chair. "Witty one-liners, maybe not so much. I just put that on there because most superheroes are known for short and powerful comments, but really I'm more of an extended metaphor kind of person--"
"Do you have any actual skills in sales, or accounting, or cleaning? The position you are applying for specified a 'jack of all trades' willing to restock shelves, mop the floors, and take in the numbers when the janitors, movers, and accountants are away taking their many mandated vacations.... In short, you need to be able to manage every aspect of the store but still be subject to the criticisms of higher management. Do you think you can handle this?"
"Well...I really need this job, so of course I can take on a little extra work!"
"Great! Sign here, here, here and here. Just don't read the fine print. It leaves you feeling a little depressed."
I leave the interview with a huge smile on my face, thinking smugly how lucky I was that I actually got a job, and what little effort I had to put into it, too...Strange...
The realization of what I've gotten myself into only hits me later on. Yeah, it's a crapload of work- but what a great place to catch burglars!!!
Three weeks later, I am restocking the shelves at midnight, when the jingle-bells on the back door ring. There are jingle-bells because the supermarket is too cheap to buy locks and security systems. They get robbed quite often, or so the one other fellow on night shift tells me, but it doesn't cost them anything because all the goods are super-crappy anyways. The bells are just to let the workers know to get out of the way, to avoid any lawsuits posed by the obliteration of a worker by a masked bandit with a submachine gun, should the bandit get bored one night and decide to bring one....They pay all the workers off in handsome vacations, which are cleverly balanced to be under the amount it would cost to actually prevent robberies.
Phil (the other guy on night shift) slinks immediately away to his car, but I hunker down in the back amid stacks of Corn Puffins and Slinky Shoes to wait for the intruders...
But there is no bursting of the doors to reveal masked menaces. Instead, in walks a clerk in a grey suit, and several burly men in overalls behind him. The man in front consults a clipboard, then walks over to the Slinky Shoes stacked just to the right of my hiding place. He lifts each box in turn, and appears to be looking for some sort of marking on the sides. Those that have it, he tosses to the men behind him, who immediately start tearing into the boxes. Prying the shoes loose from their casings, they flip hidden catches in the soles, tossing out small grey bags of questionable nature into a larger velvet sack...
The store is in league with the black market dealers! No wonder they can afford to pay off their workers--they don't just sell cheap toys and plastic foods, they hide drugs and secret weapons in the "recall" boxes...serial numbers list the key, and as I sneak closer to peer over the clerk's shoulder, I can see that some of the items are things I didn't even know existed yet-- mind probes, matter replicators, rocket shoes, and more...
And then of course one of the henchmen finally notices my head peeking out from between the crates, and chaos ensues as they leap for me, snarling. I dash up the side of the wall and duck into the delivery van that's just backed up to the door. The driver turns with astonishment but I leap forward and knock him away from the wheel. Then I remember that I don't know how to drive yet and hand it back to him, only to realize that it has come off the steering apparatus...
Men scatter out of the way as the truck careens backward, and to my horror, a giant pile of Rocket Shoes looms in the rear-view mirror. Thinking fast, I grab the driver's waist and break out of the side door, propelling us toward the open sky beyond the warehouse door....
The other henchmen are already running for cover, and I am thankful that the delivery truck was going slowly, since it was in the process of backing carefully in. We all end up diving behind the same van, since it's the only other thing in the parking lot. The villains' back-up vehicle, in case the police ever manage to do something productive about catching the other one. A few more moments of silence ensue.
"Nice van," I say, trying to make small-talk while we wait for the inevitable explosion. The truck is painted like a hippie van to disguise its nefarious intentions, but I have to admit that, though clever, it feels slightly ludicrous to be hiding behind it in this particular situation.
"Thanks," one of the overalled men barks gruffly. "It was Cleo's idea." He thumbs over his shoulder at the thin man in ragged jeans. Cleo grins and says, "I always wanted to be a muralist--"
And then the world tears apart.
The storage warehouse explodes in a ball of pent-up shoe fury, and the superstore, since connected, catches as well, apparently being made out of quite cheap and flammable material. Bits of plastic toys rain to the ground softly, lit by the night lamps on the street.
We all applaud the reaction as well worth the wait, then I offer to take the gentlemen out for ice cream, and we crowd in the van. While I whisper directions into the clerk's ear, the henchmen start up a rousing song, and together we drive out of the story and Suburbia...
Monday, October 24, 2011
I was a bird.
Free, but caged...
Pulling with my talons, I save an old man who escaped from the dinner party but got caught by his borrowed handkerchief in an invisible net of thorns in the trees behind my house. He was almost forced to distill life in a tricky waterfall, almost shot many times while he ran from the tea and crumpets, ran from doilies and nice summer tablecloths and the fizzy neon drinks that accompany Dinner Parties at rest homes. "Once you attend one 'o them doozies," he informs me gravely, "Ya know yer done fer. That's why I'm shovin' off. Gonna take to the forest again, like when I was young..." He shoulders his ragged pack, following his swooping Mentor through the deep ferns, off to learn the ways of an obscure falcon clan. I follow him there in the forest, pursuing though I know I cannot truly break free of my societal bonds, and ask his falcon mentor to guide me as well. I come back changed.
I wander the streets, telling hungry children the secret of humanity, of its many different shapes, their value and significance. "We are like any other species," I whisper sagely as I watch a beetle climb up a tree. "We just want love and a home. That is all we need- not progress- not glory or splendor either. The world around us already progresses in its natural way. It is already beautiful. We need not bustle endlessly to and fro to change it. Life would be so simple... if we just stopped to enjoy things the way they are."
I create in the middle of the town square a towering chocolate cake, for all to eat and enjoy, because there is no reason why I should not, and every reason why I should.
I realize there is NO reason why I have to have a concrete shape and personality throughout my entire existence, and flee, leaving my body below to disintegrate into tiny pebbles, rolling their way to the seashore, thousands of miles away.
Pulling with my talons, I save an old man who escaped from the dinner party but got caught by his borrowed handkerchief in an invisible net of thorns in the trees behind my house. He was almost forced to distill life in a tricky waterfall, almost shot many times while he ran from the tea and crumpets, ran from doilies and nice summer tablecloths and the fizzy neon drinks that accompany Dinner Parties at rest homes. "Once you attend one 'o them doozies," he informs me gravely, "Ya know yer done fer. That's why I'm shovin' off. Gonna take to the forest again, like when I was young..." He shoulders his ragged pack, following his swooping Mentor through the deep ferns, off to learn the ways of an obscure falcon clan. I follow him there in the forest, pursuing though I know I cannot truly break free of my societal bonds, and ask his falcon mentor to guide me as well. I come back changed.
I wander the streets, telling hungry children the secret of humanity, of its many different shapes, their value and significance. "We are like any other species," I whisper sagely as I watch a beetle climb up a tree. "We just want love and a home. That is all we need- not progress- not glory or splendor either. The world around us already progresses in its natural way. It is already beautiful. We need not bustle endlessly to and fro to change it. Life would be so simple... if we just stopped to enjoy things the way they are."
I create in the middle of the town square a towering chocolate cake, for all to eat and enjoy, because there is no reason why I should not, and every reason why I should.
I realize there is NO reason why I have to have a concrete shape and personality throughout my entire existence, and flee, leaving my body below to disintegrate into tiny pebbles, rolling their way to the seashore, thousands of miles away.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
The Nose
I'm in the library, studying various graphic novel and manga art styles, when out of the blue a boy sits down next to me, leans over, and kisses my nose.
Naturally-- I freak out.
I dash backwards up the bookshelf, cowering at the top with full force-field threat-repulsion engaged, which knocks off some of the sculptures on display, but I reach out and catch them with the back of my heel, before realizing what a stupid position I'm in...
"Interesting," remarks the bespectacled boy, who makes some scratch marks on a yellow legal pad. "Even more of a reaction than I expected."
"Who are you?" I whisper angrily, coming slowly down off of the top shelf, trying to ignore the dragonness incarnate in the nearest librarian which has woken from slumber. "Why would you invade my personal space like that?!"
"I'm doing a research project," the boy sniffs. "On the instinctual reactions of fifth-level dejenerated primate derivative species. Wouldn't expect you to understand. You've only got four dimensions here, poor dear."
You can see why I am in a huff. I realize, though, as you may have, that huffiness merely confirms this know-it-all's suspicions that my species is a coarse, dejenerate lot who is far too easily riled. I shall attempt to prove him wrong...
"You can see, sir, that my initial shock at your actions has subsided, and I am feeling much better and more able to answer any questions you might have about my race or home planet in a...suitable...manner. But first, would you care for some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?" I gesture to the table, and it floats closer, setting itself down between us. The librarian has gotten bored watching and goes to reorganize romantic novels.
"Ah, some perception of class still lingers, I see," the thing I call a boy notes, inclining his head sagely. "Perhaps you aren't all as primitive as I first assumed. Though your traffic courtesies are absolutely atrocious." I glance outside the window at the piles of dead small animals littering the sides of the road. Well, the speed limit is only 150 mph around here. I don't really see much to complain about, it's a small and peaceful town, but...
"The Mayor says that when teleports are invented, then we won't need to use streetcars anymore, and the world will become a whole lot safer."
He laughs outright.
"Do you really think that will stop your people from being violent? Far from it, dear human. Your kind will invent any reason to slaughter more of itself or any other thing that moves and breathes. If it's not traffic, it'll be coffee...a terrible invention, yet it shows up consistently in all lower-level planetary systems."
Drat! He must have heard about the Coffee Wars...not the best part in human history, I'll admit, but far in the past...We've done so much good since then...
We discuss politics and reality TV and hiking for awhile, then I show the alien boy a few "magic tricks," which entice him because he is from a very logical dimension and cannot understand how I contrived them (I do not waste my time letting him know they are actually real), then he says goodbye to go write his paper, jumps into a computer screen, and disappears.
Naturally-- I freak out.
I dash backwards up the bookshelf, cowering at the top with full force-field threat-repulsion engaged, which knocks off some of the sculptures on display, but I reach out and catch them with the back of my heel, before realizing what a stupid position I'm in...
"Interesting," remarks the bespectacled boy, who makes some scratch marks on a yellow legal pad. "Even more of a reaction than I expected."
"Who are you?" I whisper angrily, coming slowly down off of the top shelf, trying to ignore the dragonness incarnate in the nearest librarian which has woken from slumber. "Why would you invade my personal space like that?!"
"I'm doing a research project," the boy sniffs. "On the instinctual reactions of fifth-level dejenerated primate derivative species. Wouldn't expect you to understand. You've only got four dimensions here, poor dear."
You can see why I am in a huff. I realize, though, as you may have, that huffiness merely confirms this know-it-all's suspicions that my species is a coarse, dejenerate lot who is far too easily riled. I shall attempt to prove him wrong...
"You can see, sir, that my initial shock at your actions has subsided, and I am feeling much better and more able to answer any questions you might have about my race or home planet in a...suitable...manner. But first, would you care for some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?" I gesture to the table, and it floats closer, setting itself down between us. The librarian has gotten bored watching and goes to reorganize romantic novels.
"Ah, some perception of class still lingers, I see," the thing I call a boy notes, inclining his head sagely. "Perhaps you aren't all as primitive as I first assumed. Though your traffic courtesies are absolutely atrocious." I glance outside the window at the piles of dead small animals littering the sides of the road. Well, the speed limit is only 150 mph around here. I don't really see much to complain about, it's a small and peaceful town, but...
"The Mayor says that when teleports are invented, then we won't need to use streetcars anymore, and the world will become a whole lot safer."
He laughs outright.
"Do you really think that will stop your people from being violent? Far from it, dear human. Your kind will invent any reason to slaughter more of itself or any other thing that moves and breathes. If it's not traffic, it'll be coffee...a terrible invention, yet it shows up consistently in all lower-level planetary systems."
Drat! He must have heard about the Coffee Wars...not the best part in human history, I'll admit, but far in the past...We've done so much good since then...
We discuss politics and reality TV and hiking for awhile, then I show the alien boy a few "magic tricks," which entice him because he is from a very logical dimension and cannot understand how I contrived them (I do not waste my time letting him know they are actually real), then he says goodbye to go write his paper, jumps into a computer screen, and disappears.
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