Superlucky Part Two

Speedsters are subject to the same barriers as everyone else.

    Rick chanced a glance around the dumpster just in time to see a lime-green blur go by. He wiped away some spittle from the side of his mouth. The Speedster was running in a search pattern, but only through the streets and alleys. Rick needed to get into a building. He started trying all the doors in the alley. Finally, one opened and he disappeared inside.
    It was the fluorescent-lit workshop of a cake decorator. Stainless steel pots hung from the walls and a tower of cake pans had been stacked by the industrial sink. He didn't see anyone, but the cake decorated to be Noah’s Arc was not finished, as one giraffe sat on the starboard deck while the other stood lonely on the flour-dusted countertop. Rick debated with himself. A cake decorator would most likely be a normie, but there was the occasional super who preferred an artisan occupation. A normie would hide him, a super would definitely turn him in. Rick snapped out of it-- he couldn't take any chances.

Superlucky Part One

   "September the 28th. Normie Terrorism Blows Up Cornerstore.
    2 dead, 6 injured. At 2:00PM an explosive device was detonated at the Short Stop convenience store on the corner of Pine and Cedar Ave. A young adult male normie has been taken into custody on suspicion of ties with the terrorist organization NASM. A possible female super accomplice has eluded capture. If confirmed, this will be the fourth case of organized normie terrorism in the last nine months.

Song lyrics (incomplete)

Just because I feel like posting something (and no, this isn't inspired by life, just an idea):

Do you like music? Do you like beauty?
Hate to lose it? Just why is it, you never knew me?

Well, I like music. And I like beauty.
I'd hate to lose it. But I can't lose it, I never had you

I have lost my mind, I have lost my name
Was like a drive by, when you walked by, and didn’t look my way

I wish I were your enemy
Rather hate you than this apathy
for if I were your enemy
finally you would think of me

You are the brightest I have ever seen
See the highest, stars above this, black cloud over me

Am I a shadow, don't I radiate?
You just can't note, that I'm of note, till I black your day

I tell my agents, march against the dawn
war we wage then, feel my rage then, I won’t wait too long

and if I were your enemy
if I made you hate me
and if I were your enemy
would you then remember me

Would you rather

Have you ever played that game, "Would you rather...?" What if you were posed with, would you rather witness the earth at its creation, or destruction?

    For me it's no contest. I'd rather witness the Earth's destruction in all of its fireworks and majesty. Can you picture it? Witnessing the first light and the entire Earth in smoldering majesty? And to see evolution fast-forwarded and see all life snuffed out like so many candles before a tempest. I'm guessing, of course, that somehow humans will end all life, and the earth just then spirals itself into a wasteland. But maybe I'd get to see volcanic activity forming and shaping the earth,  glowing in an unimaginable molten red. Wouldn't that be something? To watch the planet go from red  to blue and all green completely gone, replaced by black ashes and a dry, cracked surface. But what am I saying? It wouldn't be complete without an explosion to start it all.

Hitch Kick

The sand was a yellow-white, combed with more care than a Zen garden. Jogo stared at the long jump pit, unblinking. A gentle breeze brushed the perspiration away from his cheek and brought the scents of autumn past his nose. The metal bleacher was no throne, and he was no king; his once straight back bent forward so his elbows could rest on his thighs. His hands were clasped before his mouth as if to prevent evil from invading, or escaping, his lips.

Run Like Man

Long ago, there was an encampment of hunter gatherers in the African savanna. Among them was a father and son. Every time the men would leave to hunt, the son would ask his father if he could join, but the father had to refuse him. "My son," he would say, "you are not old or strong enough. You can not keep up with us."

One day, after the men had left to find their game, the son sat and cogitated. It occurred to him that if he could learn to run faster, his father would not deny him. All he needed, then, was a teacher. He looked around and saw a gazelle. He said to himself, "A gazelle runs effortlessly and surely faster than any man. He will be my teacher." So the son followed the gazelle, got on all fours and learned his ways.

When the father returned, his son bounded up to him. "See, father," he said. "None of the other children can catch me, I am so fast. May I join the hunt now?"

The father pointed to the gazelle they had killed and brought back. "My son, you must learn to run better than that, for we hunt the gazelle." The son was disheartened and sought after a new teacher.

When the hunters left again, the son set out to learn to run like a predator instead of prey. He finally decided on the cheetah. He crouched low and when the cheetah chased his dinner, the son would splay his arms in front likewise. His father eventually came home, and when the son ran to greet him, he could barely stop his momentum.

"My son, you have become very fast," the father laughed. He then pointed to a cheetah pelt over his shoulder. "But we must also outrun the cheetah. Don't worry, you will come with us when you are ready."

The son was greatly disappointed and would fall asleep every night trying to come up with a new idea. One night, when most of the men were gone from camp, the son noticed a pair of eyes in the darkness. Thinking that the eyes were set on him, and not wanting to endanger his mother by calling for her help, he slipped away from camp and led the owner of the eyes away.

At first the son walked carefully, but he noticed the eyes gradually gained distance on him. He started to jog, and it seemed the owner of the eyes did as well, but just slightly faster. The son utilized the speed he learned from the cheetah and finally put great distance between him and his pursuer. When he grew tired and slowed down, he saw the eyes again and became afraid, but no matter how many times he could muster his cheetah speed, he could not lose his pursuer. Finally, after being chased the entire night, the son was crawling back into camp, lacking the breath to call for help.

His mother came out from their shelter with a smile on her face. She called out his father's name and gave a warm welcome. The son collapsed into the dirt, knowing his father would save him. The son felt a strong hand on his back, and when he was turned over, he realized the one pursuing him was his father.

"My son, you now know what it means to run like a man."

The son nodded and was allowed to chase prey with the other men.

End u ran

Slap slap go the Saltwaters on my eight year old feet against the pavement. The trees shed their leaves, their branches caught in autumn's breath. Two laps around the man made lake is two laps more than my dad thought I would run. My brother only cared because his run was interrupted in order to look for me.
How far did you go, Rachael?
Two laps. I went two whole laps.
That's over a mile. If I had known you would get so far ahead of me, I wouldn't have let you run after your brother. I thought you would get tired sooner.
It was that day, I think, that the idea was planted. Not during Spring, when kids normally run around blissfully barefoot after the months of chill and snow, but during the Fall, when the big kids trained for cross-country, when my brother was training. The idea that I could run longer than others, this endurance, did not take long to sprout, though its vine would first scale around basketball before bursting forth on its own.
Clap clap go the converse against the cement. My bike has a flat and so I must catch the bus everyday to work. 7:00AM. If I miss it, I'm late, so I run to maintain that balance of sleeping as much as I can and getting to work on time. My legs roll downhill. It should be effortless, but I huff and puff and perspire slightly. I certainly got a bang for my buck.
Tap tap goes the metal rod against my fibula. Does that hurt? the trainer asks me. My face contorts. Yes, I answer.
So that's the spot. 2cm. In likelihood you have a stress reaction.
A stress reaction means no running. It means hours of elliptical or biking. Hours of keeping one's heart rate for that singular end. It is not fun. There are no endorphins. There is no banter between comrades. I sit out a race. I run to race, without competition it's a silly pastime indeed.
Pad pad go the Nike Zoom Miler against the red, flat 200m track. It's my third race in two days. I'm just happy that I have the opportunity to keep racing, though the first of my races ended in vomiting and left me stumbling. It's a new day, a new race, same distance. First lap, I'm in last. Second lap, I'm in last. Third lap, some girls are starting to falter, those first two laps were killer. My grandpa's dead? Fourth lap, smooth...relax the face...grandpa...breathe...toe plant below my center of gravity...and push off. A blast off in my mind, but I know it appears to be a typical, dying throw of a stride across the finish line. Seventh. People ask me about my race, I tell them seventh with pride and joy. They're awkward for a second. In the nation, I remind them. In the country. They nod their head, oh, that's good, then. Nice job. Way to go.
Pat pat go the hands on my back.