Just Slide
My friend Cath's shiny website of fan fictionage.
http://www.justslide.com
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My friend Cath's shiny website of fan fictionage.
http://www.justslide.com
It was not until the end of show wrap party that I was finally able to prise Alison Taylor's private phone number from her with a combination of charm, wit, guile, and alcohol. The blow that had finally shattered her defenses was a simple one, but one that I had been saving until the time was right.
“I shall write a play,” I said, “I shall write the most perfect romance ever written, for just the two of us, and then we shall act it out together, scene by scene.” She smiled coyly, in that delightful way that she had, and said that she would take me up on my offer on the condition that her paying for dinner wasn't a part of the story.
“No,” I replied, “you will offer to, as a modern woman who is able to fend for herself, but I shall gallantly refuse your offer, and after much argument shall finally convince you. You will come to consider me intractable on this matter, but shall never cease to make the point of asking. It will become one of the charming little games that we play.”
Naturally I did not have to tell her my name. The words James Roland Tyler were printed on every poster, set in bold type over the front of every showbill. I was the darling of the media, the greatest playwright of the decade, and as my star actress Alison and I had spent more than a little time together. Time enough for me to fall madly in love with her.
Later that evening, upon being delivered back to my house by my chauffeur, I went up to my office and immediately began to write. By morning I had the first scene finished. Not until a courier was winging the printed manuscript away to her house did I finally collapse onto my luxurious couch and pass into a deep slumber. I awoke late in the afternoon to the sound of the telephone ringing. Over the crackling of her cell phone as it strained to hold the signal, Alison laughed, and informed me that we had a date.
Days passed quickly and before long the weekend arrived, bringing with it my first date with Alison. I read through the opening scene again, to be sure that all the details were set into my mind. As ordered my chauffeur brought me to her house exactly 13 minutes past the time I had stated. Stepping out of the car I walked up to her door and rang the bell. She opened it almost immediately, grinned, and said “You're late,” holding up the manuscript of the first chapter, “just like you said you'd be”.
“I'm sorry my dear, but the traffic was just murderous” I replied, reciting my line word perfect, whilst carefully ignoring her blunder in drawing attention to the charade. I carefully plucked the manuscript from her hand and set it on the side, before escorting her to the car, continuing to apologise profusely for my tardiness.
We arrived at the restaurant, where the maitre-di informed us that there had been some kind of mix up, and that our table had been taken. Keeping my cool under fire, I took the man to one side, quietly, although not so much so that Alison would not notice, slipped him a few notes, and asked him to sort the whole thing out for us, whilst even more quietly thanking him for remembering his part. Within moments we had been escorted to an even more impressive table than the one that had I supposedly reserved, and informed that our starters would be on their way. Again I was forced to apologise for how disastrously everything had gone so far. She looked a little incredulous, and said quietly “But you knew that would happen. It was all written out in your script.”
“Of course,” I replied in a whisper, “Every perfect romance must include it's little imperfections.”
“So does that mean you're really going to...?” She began to ask, but was cut off by the arrival of the soup, which I tasted with great care. It was, sadly, excellent, and I reflected that I should probably have been somewhat less discerning in my choice of restaurant. Spitting out the small mouthful with a look of absolute disgust I turned to the waiter with fury in my eyes, but kept my voice in check as I asked him “What kind of vile muck is this? How dare you serve me something so utterly foul. I demand to see the manager at once... no actually, I shan't even bother. It's a waste. Come Alison my dear, we are leaving immediately. It seems these bumbling oafs have completely ruined our evening.” I was standing now, and I offered her my outstretched hand. For a moment she looked a little nervous, but then I could see her mentally collecting herself. Suddenly there was a look of pure outrage on her face, to match my own, and flinging her head back she nodded at me, took my hand and stood to go. I collected my jacket, and we marched out heads held high, whilst those waiting to be seated looked at us with nervous alarm, and began to cast wary glances towards the door as if looking for a chance to likewise evacuate the establishment. Somewhere behind me the maitre-di was yelling something about this 'not being part of the deal', but I wasn't really listening.
We arrived back at my place fifteen minutes later, and headed inside. I went through into the office and called for takeaway. When I came back into the living room I found her gone. For a moment I was worried that my “ruined dinner scene” had been all too convincing, and that she had taken off. Then I noticed that her coat was still hanging by the door, and a sound from the kitchen made me turn. She sashayed into the room holding a bottle of champagne in one hand, and two crystal flutes in the other.
“You know,” she said, opening the bottle, “that was actually a lot of fun. I was kind of nervous at first but, well...” She simply smiled and offered me a glass. Returning the smile I took the proffered glass and drank deeply.
Over the following few months we arranged to meet many times, and each time I sent her a script a few days beforehand. We went for a walk in the park, visited several restaurants, frequented the theater and the opera, and chatted for hours at end in discreet little coffee shops. Finally the time came for us to consummate our love. I had worked on the script endlessly, devoting every spare moment to it's perfection. It was a masterpiece. It was with no small amount of excitement, and even a little nervousness that I sealed the envelope, wrote her address on the front, and handed it to the courier. A few hours later the phone rang, and with trembling hands I answered. “James? Yes, it's Alison. Yes, I got the script. Is tomorrow Ok?”
We met in the park, late in the evening, to watch the sun go down. It was perfect. The last shreds of light made the most beautiful play of colours across the sky. Smiling, she leaned across and kissed me, gently, on the cheek.
“So”, she whispered, “shall we be heading back to my place?”. I glanced nervously at the sky, but made no answer.
“What's wrong?”, she asked.
“I'm waiting for the rain” I replied. “There has to be rain. The weather report said there would be storms tonight”.
“Well never mind that, eh? Let's just head home.”
“No” I snapped, “there has to be rain. It's in the script.”
She looked at me a little funny, but made no reply. So we waited for the rain. Hours passed, and still the clouds did not come, even though it was now pitch black. Finally she said
“James, I'm going home now. You can join me, or you can stay here and wait for your rain”.
As we stepped inside the door I turned to her and said, without thinking “We simply must get our clothes off to dry. I don't suppose you have a bathrobe or something that I could borrow?” She looked a little startled as she said
“There wasn't any rain, James. We're completely dry”
“I know, but it's, well, it's in the script”
“Look, forget the script, ok? We don't need it. We'll just... improvise”
I was about to protest when she pulled me close, and gently placed her soft, warm lips against mine. After that I didn't really think of very much else.
Some time later we lay breathless in each other's arms. Looking up into my eyes she smiled and said
“That was amazing. James, you made me feel like a goddess.” Too caught up in the moment to reply, I managed to summon up a smile. She kissed me once more, and whispered
“I love you”. A warm glow spread through my body. It had worked. Even with a little improvisation, it had worked. It was the perfect romance. And now all it needed was it's conclusion.
“Don't go anywhere” I said, as I climbed out of the bed, pulled on some trousers, and dashed out to the car. A few minutes later I was back, with a satchel and a sheaf of paper. The satchel I threw onto the bed, where she now sat in a silk dressing gown, and passed the sheaf of paper to her.
“What's this?”
“The finale. One last scene” I replied, as she began to leaf through it. Whilst she read the script I turned my attention to emptying out the bag. Wrapped in cloth, a silver knife and a small glass bottle rolled out. I looked up just in time to see her drop the script and jump to her feet, a terrified expression seizing her face.
“James, what the fuck is this? What are you... is that a knife? You can't seriously be planning on...?”
“But Alison”, I pleaded, “don't you see? It has to be the perfect romance. We will live on in history, like every great romance. Though we die our story will be eternal”
“Woah, hold on. You think that a fun couple months and a night of shitty sex are going to make me join you in a suicide pact? You're fucking crazy.”
“But you said it was amazing... that I made you feel like a goddess. You said you loved me.”
“Yeah, because it was in your fucking script. I'm an actress James, this is what I do. I act. I play a part. You think I actually bought into all of this? That I was in love with you? I fall in love with people every day. It's my job. But you... you actually believe in all of this, don't you?” Her face softened a little, and an infuriating note of pity came into her voice.
“You think that somehow putting words down on a page, and then getting people to act those words out somehow makes it real. You don't understand that the world doesn't work like that”
My whole body had gone numb. I felt cold, I even shivered a little. I felt... hurt, betrayed. It was as if she had kicked my legs out from under me, just to stab me in the back. And wasn't in the script, any of it. It had gone wrong.
“No, you don't understand”, I said, reaching out for the knife.
“You're just an actress. I'm the writer. I decide how this story ends”.
Today I went to the shops. I was not supposed to go to the shops, but I went anyway, because I have not been to the shops for a week, and I wanted a bar of chocolate, and a packet of crisps, and some sweeties. Sometimes when I go to the shops, I also go to see a movie. They are a lot of fun, except the really serious ones where there are no jokes and lots of people being unhappy. I do not like people being unhappy. I also do not like the the films where people are killing one another, because as Mrs Bregman keeps telling me killing each other is very bad and people should not do it and if they have done it they should be very sorry. I am very sorry.
But I still go to the shops, and sometimes I go see a movie too, because even though Mrs Bregman is right about lots of stuff, it is still very mean for her not to let me go to the shops.
I am writing this down because Mrs Bregman encourages me to keep a diary. She says it helps me to keep my thoughts straight, which I think is odd because my thoughts are very straight. They go in straight little lines all over the place, just the like the straight lines to the shops. It is easy to get there. First you go out of your room, turn right, and walk straight down the corridor. Then you turn right, then left, then right again, then you keep going straight, and you go past the wall, and you get out onto the road, which is straight. Then you turn left and walk along the road for a very long time, and you get bored, and you sing a little song that goes “I am going to the shops today. Today, to the shops, I am going. Going, I am, to the shops, today. To the shops, today, I am going”. The song continues like this for quite some time. Eventually there are lots of people staring at you, and that means you are in the town. Once you are in the town you go right, straight, left, straight, left, straight, right, straight, lots more straight, and then you are at the shops.
The shop I went to today is called Spar. I went there , and I pushed the the door open and heard a really annoying beeping sound. I hate the beeping sound, so I looked around and found the thing that made the beep. Once I found the thing I reached up and took hold of the thing firmly, and then I pulled it off the wall. This made the shop people very angry, and they shouted things at me. I did not like being shouted at, so I made them stop shouting. Then I went to the sweeties aisle. I got a small bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk Chocolate and a packet of Walker's Salt And Vinegar Crisps and some sweets. I got 2 blue sweet, and 3 green sweets, and 5 orange sweets, and 7 purple sweets, and 11 red sweets, and 13 yellow sweets. In all I had 41 sweets, plus the chocolate bar and the crisps. This is a very nice number. Also I like the taste of the sweets.
The shop people were now all sleeping or gone away, so I decided to leave the money on the counter, but at this point I had a problem, because I had no money. Mrs Bregman does not let me have money. I think this is silly, because if I do not have money how am I supposed to pay for things? Luckily I am very clever, and I soon had an idea. I remembered that when people pay for things in shops the money goes into a machine with a drawer. It is called the Cash Register. In the Spar shop there are 2 Cash Registers. Money goes into them, which means that there must be money inside them that has already gone in. So I looked inside Cash Register number 1, but when I tried to open the drawer it broke and would not open properly. So then I looked in Cash Register number 2, and this time I managed to get the drawer open. I took out just enough money for all the things I was buying, and left it on the counter. Now I could go back home. I opened the door and was very happy, because the beeping thing did not beep this time. Outside the shop there were 4 policemen, and they were shouting at me, and they told me to stay where I am. I did not like being shouted at, so I made them stop shouting. By now there is a lot of noise, and screamings, and shoutings, but I did not have time to stop it all, so instead I decided to go home.
As I walked home I sang my song again, only this time it went “I am coming home from the shops today. Today, from the shops, I am coming home. Coming home, I am, from the shops, today. From the shops, today, I am coming home”. It carried on like this, until I got back to the gates. Then I walked past the gates, and back to my room, to eat my sweets. First I ate the blue ones, then the green ones, then the orange ones, then the purple ones, then the red ones, then the yellow ones. Then I ate the chocolate bar. Then I ate the crisps. Then Mrs Bregman came in and she was very angry. She told me that I have done a lot of naughty things, and that I must not do these things. Then she asked me lots of questions, about how I got to the shops, and I tell her, and what I tell her is exactly what I have just written, so I will not write it again because that would just be repeating myself. This makes her very angry, and very confused, and I think a little bit scared. She asked me a lot of questions, but it was the same questions, so I gave her the same answers. Some other men in long white coats came in, and they asked me the same questions just in different words, and I gave them the same answers. Then they talked a lot and they got very agitated. They ask each other things like “How the hell did he walk out of a high security institute through three locked doors?” and “What I want to to know is, how did Charlie knock out four trained policemen on his own?”, however they were asking each other, not me, so I said nothing.
Finally Mrs Bregman came back, and she took the wrappers from my chocolate bar and my crisps, and some people put me into a straight jacket, and they moved me into a different room. This room has soft walls, and soft floor, and soft ceiling, although the ceiling is very high and I cannot touch it, so it might just look soft and actually be hard. Mrs Bregman also took away my pen and my journal book, which is why I am writing this on the wall using my toe, which I have bitten a little hole in to let the blood come out. The first time I tried to do this it made Mrs Bregman very angry, and she came into the room with some other people and they made me stop. But this time I made them all forget that I am here so that they will leave me alone, and that way I can write my journal just like Mrs Bregman wanted me to, before she started being a hypocrite. Now I am starting to feel tired, so I will go to sleep, and then tomorrow I will not go to the shops, but maybe I will go see a film instead.
Dear Madeline,
did you see the news today? That explosion that destroyed most of Washington? Yeah, that was me. I was doing a test run of the laser cannon and, well, I figured nobody would be upset if I got that idiot Bush out of the way. Boy was I wrong. I've never seen such a fuss. I mean you blow up one city and suddenly people are launching intercontinental ballistic nuclear warheads at your space fortress.
I tried to point out that the force fields I've built can easily stop anything they might throw at me, but there's just no reasoning with some people. Of course I suppose you're wondering why I did it. Well it's all part of a grand plan that I've had for a while now. It was meant to be a surprise, but the workers ran behind schedule, so I had to have them killed as an example, and that just slowed things down even more, and well, yeah... Look, the point is, I was thinking about what would make a good birthday present for you, but I just didn't have any ideas. I mean I thought about diamonds, blue roses, mountains of chocolate, every episode of Friends on DVD, but all of that seemed too cliché. Then I thought to myself “I know, I'll get her the world. I mean how many people can say they got given the world for their birthday?”. See there's a little snag though, which is that I've got to conquer it first. Still, my legion of terror reports that they're ready to make a start on Africa, we've got about 2,000 nukes set aside to carpet bomb most of the USA, and my laser cannon should make short work of Russia. Europe gets messy, but we'll burn that bridge when we come to it. So would you rather be Queen or Empress? Which sounds better to you? I think Empress sounds kinda sexy, but whatever you prefer is fine. Oh, also when you get a chance we'll need to have you fitted for your crown. Anyway, got an invasion to organise, so that's all I'll say for now. I love you loads and look forward to ruling the world with you. It's gonna be great.
Your's forever
Dan
Hi Maddy,
do you remember Mr Byers, our head of form back in secondary school? He was always telling us to be quiet in classes and stuff. Well I saw him again the other day. My storm troopers found his house and brought him in for a chat. It was nice, we had tea and biscuits, and talked about old times. I asked if he remembered telling me that if I didn't pull my act together I'd never amount to anything. He seemed a little confused, said he couldn't recall any such thing. I think the poor man might be going senile in his old age. It's such a shame really. You should come up and visit him some time. He's a little bit lonely in his cell, but I'm trying to round up a few more of our teachers, especially that bitch Mrs Carson from art class, so he'll have some company soon. Of course he's finding it hard to talk after the torturer smashed his jaw, but hey, these things happen. Anyway, the invasion is going well, and it shouldn't take more than another week, then we get to party like royalty. Last night Russia finally surrendered, and already my tanks are rolling across Europe. I tell you what, Napoleon would have been impressed. Hell, even Hitler didn't make it this far. Of course the Swiss are giving me some trouble. Those guys are a lot tougher than they look. Not to worry though my darling, for you anything is possible.
Loads of love,
Dan
Dear Maddy,
you know what, screw it! Here I am busting my ass off trying to one nice thing for you, and you can't even think of one nice thing to say about it. How can you be so ungrateful? It's not every woman who can say “My boyfriend conquered the world for me”. Of course for you that's just not good enough for you is it? Maybe I'll just find someone else to be my Empress. How does that sound?
Dan
My Beloved Madeline,
I'm sorry, so very sorry. I don't how I could ever have written such terrible things, how I could lose my temper like that. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. It was disgusting and I'm so terribly sorry. If I were to apologise a thousand times, a million times, it wouldn't be enough. I can only pray that you will find it in your heart to forgive me, poor stupid idiot that I am. I'm going to make it up to you though. I'll prove my dedication, by finishing what I've started.
With deepest apologies,
Dan
Dear Mads,
damn it all to hell! I'm sorry my love, I meant to have the whole thing boxed and wrapped for you by now, but they're just being so damned stubborn! It's sickening. They bitch and squabble and fight to their dying breath and refuse to just acknowledge me as their almighty emperor. The yanks are the worst, with their cowboy attitude and their big fucking tanks and shit. Why can't they just accept their inevitable defeat? It's not like they're doing anything worthwhile with the planet anyway. I'd be a far better ruler than any of them. I'm sick of it all. Every day I just get more tempted to blow the whole planet to smithereens and laugh at them from space. That'd show them. It's always been like this. Nobody ever takes me seriously. Not Mrs Bell, not Katie Bush, not the job interviewers, not even my parents. Well maybe this will make them think different. All I have to do is press the button on my desk, and their precious little world is history.
Sincerely,
Dan
Dear Maddy,
I think I may have made a terrible, terrible mistake.
I hope you're still out there. Somewhere. It's very lonely here.
WIth love and longing,
Dan
“Look Grace, you can't keep this up. You gotta ask them for shorter hours or something, girl”
“I know Amy, but you know what they're like about shorter hours and stuff. They'll be all 'Oh, so I suppose saving the world isn't as important as your free time now, eh?', and I mean what the hell can ya say to that? It's like, it's people's lives that are in danger, and here's me worried because I can't get to lectures in time. What kinda priorities is that?”
“Dammit Grace, what about saving your life? You never get enough sleep, you're always tired, you look like a wreck, you never come out partying with us, and you're so behind on your schoolwork that half the tutors are calling you a lost cause already, and it's only three weeks into our second year. How the hell are you going to cope when you have dissertations to do?”
“Be fair, it's not as if I have much choice. I'm not snubbing you guys on purpose or anything, and I try to get my schoolwork done when I can.”
“We know that Grace, but we're your friends, and we feel like we deserve a little of your time. I mean hell, did you stop to consider that we like being around you? You're a nice girl, when you're not tired to death and grumpy about Dr Meobius trying to kill you for the 15th time.”
“Oh god Amy, don't even talk about that guy. He gives me the creeps something awfohshit... I'm late for my shift again! Captain Thunder is gonna kill me.”
Grace Carpenter is a superhero. Every day she goes out in her white tights, red boots, red miniskirt, and white crop top, a little red mask carefully concealing her eyes, and she battles evil for two or three hours, before changing back into her normal clothes and desperately trying to get back to college in time for her next lecture.
Fifteen minutes later, she lands in front of the Justice TowerTM (Seattle Branch), skirt fluttering in a manner that she prays to god makes her look like Maralyn Monroe. Her top is squishing her boobs into various unpleasant shapes, her thighs are wobbling in a way that no good super heroine's thighs should wobble, and she's just noticed another ladder in her tights, when Captain Thunder comes booming out towards her, a storm of complaints bursting from his oh-so-chiseled jaw.
“Ten minutes late, ten minutes late again! That's three times this week young lady. Do you think supervillains are just going to catch themselves whilst you're wasting time getting all prettied up? Do you think Gargantus is going to say to himself 'Hey, I was gonna rob this bank, but you know what, I'll just wait until Ultra Girl gets here before I start'?”
“I'll try not to let it happen again sir, I promise.”
“You'd better not. You're not the only girl in this city with the powers of flight and super-strength. There are dozens of people queuing up for a job like yours. Now get your teen trash butt down to the corner of 10th and Jefferson. Mr Bizzaro has created some kind of time portal and velociraptors are tearing up the whole damn street. We've got casualties stacking up, and don't even talk to me about property damage. Do you have any idea what a velociraptor can do to a porsche?”
“Well... no, sir.”
“Exactly. So get the hell down there and find out already!”
Grace Carpenter is six years old. Hidden under the covers with a flashlight and one of her brother's comic books, she dreams of a world where people can fly like planes, run faster than bullets, and save the Earth from destruction again and again and again. A world where no matter how beat up they get, no matter how many problems they face, no matter how dark things look, the heroes always come out on top, and never seem to complain. For six year old Grace Carpenter, that's all she needs.
10th Street is a wreck. Jefferson street is a war zone. It's not just dinosaurs any more. It's British Colonials trading musket fire with what look to Grace for all the world like the Storm Troopers from 'Star Wars'. Laser fire tears through cars and shop fronts, and over it all booms the sound of a cannon. Someone has parked a spaceship in the middle of the street. Cavemen have taken up residence in Starbucks and seem to be discovering fire, or coffee, she can't tell which.
“Halt evildo... oh shit, forgot to turn on my damn mic... where the hell is that button... ahem... testing? Ok. Halt Evildoers! Throw Down Your Weapons And Surrender Immediately. I, Ultra-Girl, Of The Justice Force Demand It... umm... errr... oh, yeah... Your Wicked Ways Shall Not Go Unpunished! Oh, fine, ok then, don't listen, see if I care. I guess I'll just have to do this the hard way.”
She starts with the cannon. A few seconds later it's barrel is little more than a crumpled mass of twisted metal. The crew, quite sensibly, flee. She'll round them up later and have them returned to their own time-zone. Next she grabs a fallen lamp post and hurls it at the 'Battlestar Galactica' mob. It knocks a few down and scatters the rest. Good enough for now. With a little time to spare whilst the guys with the lasers reorganise, she quickly swats aside most of the colonials. Pulls her punches, just enough to put them down. Not so with the dinosaurs. They're tough enough that she can go all out. A Velociraptor flies through a tree with a satisfying crack as she hefts another by the tail and uses it to club the T-Rex across the nose. Somehow the words “Down Boy” find their way out of her mouth as the beast collapses. It's so easy to slip out those one liners. A laser bolt sears it's way across her shoulder, scorching her skin, burning off some of her costume, and rudely returning her attention to the 'Storm Troopers'. It also hurts. Really hurts. Before she started this job Grace had always figured the whole invulnerable skin thing was a hoot. Turned out bullets and stuff still sting, a lot. She's fast though, and before any of them can get off another shot she's right in their midst, throwing punches left right and centre. It's almost too easy. One guy she slams into a car, sending glass flying everywhere. That feels good. Feels good when their armour cracks under her super powered punches. They go down quickly, or else run. They run rather face down the goddess that has descended from heaven to cast these invaders out of her realm, her city. It's times like this she remembers just why she doesn't quit. Lectures, parties, school work, none of it really compares to the feeling of being a goddess in lycra, of being unstoppable, the feeling of a thousand mortal eyes staring up at her, begging for salvation that only she can give.
“So I see you made short work of the rabble. Ah well. They were little more than a distraction to lure you here my dear”
Bizarro stands just metres away, his lime green suit and cloak looking a little tattered. She's seen him before, fought him before, but something is different about him this time. His long hair hangs in thick greasy clumps. His normally cold grey eyes are wild and bloodshot. He's not comical. Not this time. Just scary.
“Oh... urm...Mr Bizarro, I Presume? You May Play With Time, But Now The Time Has Come For Your Wicked Scheme To End.”
“How cute. Did you read that off a cue card darling?”
“Well look, It's not like any of this makes much sense anyway. If you can make time portals why didn't you just go back in time and help Hitler win the war or something? I mean colonial soldiers? They're not really all that good are they? And dinosaurs hardly make very reliable pets. Hell, it's not like you could have done this to lure 'me' here anyway, I only just started my shift 10 minutes ago.”
“And you imagine that a man with power over time couldn't predict when you would arrive at work today? How deliciously appropriate for the costumed blonde to be so stupid. Maybe that's why only the villains ever get called 'Doctor'.”
“Can we just skip to part where I punch you? Please?”
He makes no answer, merely licks his lips. Then he throws up his hand as a strange light glimmers from his palm for the briefest of moments... and Grace Carpenter burns. Fire surges across her body, seeping into her skin, into her thoughts. Blue fire, green fire, spectral, a ghost of fire.
Grace Carpenter is 16. She's sitting in the waiting room at Justice Towers, with 5 minutes to go before her interview. The clock on the wall hammers out each second in heavy pulses of light, each interchanging bar slamming into the back of her skull. She fidgets. She fumbles. She checks through her purse, alternately picking up and examining each item in turn. Bubblegum pink lipstick. Hairbrush. Cigarettes (half empty packet, no smoking allowed in here). Lighter (plastic, disposable). Chewing gum (sugar free). Bric-a-brac. Nick nacks. Assorted odds and ends. It all becomes a blur. She reads a magazine, but doesn't have any idea what it's about. She looks up, startled, to see a stunningly good looking man in a dazzling blue costume with a sky blue cape swirling around him. Hand outstretched, brilliant smile.
“Hi, I'm Captain Thunder, but please call me John.”
“Uh, hi, umm, John, I'm, errr, Grace, Grace Carpenter”
“Delighted to meet you Grace. Please, step into my office. Can we get you a drink?”
“Pleased to meet you too sir, uh John, uh... I'd, um, love a coffee, thanks.”
Grace Carpenter is falling, the ground is like a sledgehammer, Bizarro's laughter like nails on a blackboard. Her mind reels, she's dizzy, she's throwing up. The fire is still there, inside her skin, inside her head. She's weak, so weak, like a frightened child. She can't run, can't fly, can't even feel her legs. Just his hands, his sweaty, greasy hands around her wrists. Somewhere a wounded Velociraptor moans. Her costume tears. His hot foetid breath, like the stink of rotten eggs, on her face, on her neck. His swollen lips, like two fat slugs, and she's not strong enough to stop him.
“Watch you a lot. Watch you from my cell sometimes, up there, flying, skirt rippling. Love your costume. Love the way it fits you so tight. So tight. Love the shape of your body. Love the way you're always in control. You're like a goddess, you know that? Like Aphrodite or some shit. Always wanted to fuck a goddess. Always wanted to make you mine.”
Grace Carpenter is 15. Her father is telling her she can't go out tonight with Ian. She's hurt, and she's crying, and she wants to know how the hell he plans to stop her when she can just fly out the window.
“Honey, we're your parents. We can't force you to do anything, but you gotta trust us when we say this is for your own good.”
“My own good? Locking me up in a goddamn tower is for my own good?”
“Now be fair Grace, we're just looking out for you. We know you like this guy, but how you can be sure he's not going to take it too far?”
“Because I can rip the door off his fucking car if he does!”
“I know that honey, and to tell you the truth it really scares me, but I just don't want you to end up doing something you'll regret later. These kind of mistakes never go away.”
“I... scare you?”
“Well... yeah. You do, Grace. You're strong enough to tear the roof off this whole house. When I was a kid my daddy never had to explain, he was bigger and stronger, and he could make me stay in my room. And when I got older and looked back, I saw that he was right, that he kept me out of a lot of trouble. But I can't do that with you Grace, and it's got me all confused. All I can do is ask you to trust me. We've been there Grace, your mom and I, we've both been teenagers, and we know how you feel. But please, do this for us. Let us be right for once.”
A rush of air, the slamming of a door, and silhouette disappearing on the skyline as mother and father hold each other, tears running down their faces.
Blood splatters across Grace Carpenter's face, across her ripped white costume, as Bizarro's jaw crumples. A dainty black clad foot wheels round and catches him again, in the groin, sends him reeling. Presses down, hard, something bursts. Blood all over the pavement and he's screaming. Grace looks up, sees nothing, opens her eyes and tries again. Girl in black catsuit, perky little black and white ears perched neatly on her head, tail swaying behind her. Katherine Black, The Black Cat. The luckiest girl in the world. It's her power. Great boyfriend, rich parents, great figure, perfect name. Grace knows she should be grateful, but in that moment all she can do is glare at that perfect belly and that perfect ass, and think of her own detestable puppy fat.
“You ok girl?”
“Yeah, yeah, I'm... I'm alright. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“Here, let me help you up. God that guy is a sicko.”
“Did you really... is he... ?”
“He'll live, sadly, but I think I put a curb on that libido of his.”
“Oh God... that's disgusting”
“You don't think he deserved it?!”
“Of course he fucking deserved it! He's an animal... I just... just can't look at it, that's all.”
“Don't worry babe. You need some rest is all. You're gonna be ok. Look, come here. Hey, I've got a tissue somewhere. Come on, clean yourself up. Get back to the Tower and tell Cap you got it all sorted, alright? I won't mention none of this.”
“Ok. Thanks again.”
“Yeah. Lucky thing I was passing by, eh?”
“Yeah. Lucky me.”
Grace Carpenter is 13. It's all over the TV. The rays, the rays are going to change the world. People suddenly getting stronger, faster, tougher. People with laser vision and the power to fly. The whole world watching as the comic book stories finally start to come true. They're saying it's from Mars. They're saying that Martians did this. They're saying they don't know why. Grace isn't listening. She's on the phone to Amy, chatting about boys, and how that bitch Katherine Black spent the whole day bragging about how disgustingly rich she was going to be now that her parents had won the lottery. She's dreaming of Elijah Wood whilst Amy gives a sympathetic sigh, when suddenly she's disconnected. She stares at the shattered pieces of the plastic handset, wires caught between her delicate fingers, and all she can think to do is scream.
“Captain? I'm all done with the Bizarro thing. Cops carted him off, I got all the paperwork signed and stuff. Um... is that ok?”
“Grace, what the hell happened to your uniform?”
“Well, uh, he used some kind of energy beam thingy, and it, uh...”
“Dammit, those things are expensive young lady. That's going to be coming out of your pay. Anyway, we don't have time for this, I've been sending out an all points alert for the last half hour. Didn't you get the message?!”
“Message... uh no. I guess my communicator must've got busted up in the fight.”
“Oh hell... you're gonna be paying for that too missy. Dammit. Look, it's Martians. Millions of them. They're coming down all over the world and we've got to scramble every super to stop them. And here was me thinking this would be a quiet shift. Anyway, you're going to report to The Incredible Kid on top of the Space Needle, he's organising strike teams there. Get your ass over there as fast as you can.”
“You know what, fuck that. I fucking quit.”
“Oh no you fucking don't. We're looking a full scale God damned alien invasion here, you can't fucking quit now.”
“Says you. Find some other idiot blonde to do it.”
“Grace, this is an emergency!”
His closing cries are cut short by a slamming door as Grace Carpenter soars out into the sky, and heads for home. Later that night she turns on the TV and half listens, as she cooks a microwave meal and attempts some kind of repair to her nails. Ignored, the anchorman flusters and blusters his way through the breaking story. As UFO's touch down in Manhattan, Chicago, and Atlanta, disgorging thousands of small bug eyed aliens armed with deadly blaster rays, Grace takes another mouthful of “Kraft” macaroni & cheese, picks up the remote and changes the channel.
The homepage of the Lancaster University Roleplaying Society, who are the people I waste most of my time with.
An online journal written by my friend Richard who is currently studying abroad in Japan. He's an excellent writer, and has a large collection of beautiful photography.
A wonderfully quirky and cute little webcomic created by my somewhat deranged friend Jess.
Umm... yeah... title kinda says it. More content will be getting added soon. In the meantime, the Rant button on the sidebar is acting as a link back to my Live Journal page.
It's only temporary I swear. There's no way I could do something so stupid as to get hooked on the strange drug that is livejournal.
Right?
and another