In Cumbria, UK having come via NYC, Philadelphia, Manchester, which is my excuse for the quiet around here. I’m missing America dreadfully already, but I’m looking forward to getting back to college if I can find one to take me.
Checked in with hilobrow.com, and found I hadn’t won the troubled superhero short fiction competition (surprise!). So as promised, here’s my entry, slightly edited. The brief was to write about a non-caped type superhero, either troubled or troubling, in 250 words:
At the door surprise registered in her eyes. “A long time,” she said. She kissed him and he was aware of her breast pressing against him. She smelled of woodland flowers and earth.
Not long, though she didn’t know it. The third day in a row.
“A cup of tea,” she said. Tea, not coffee. He’d told her the day before.
“Yes,” he said. “That would be nice.”
The stove flame whooshed blue. A rush of it, like breath. Hot and full.
The first time he’d been too confident. He had touched her. He’d been certain she wanted him. The charge between them had been unmistakable, he thought. But she hit him hard across the face.
The kettle began to steam a little, the first stirrings of the boil, faint still. It would be warm to the touch.
The second time he just told her that he wanted her.
“I don’t have those kind of feelings for you,” she had said.
He’d reset her right then. Drained her memories, and walked out.
This time he would ask her about herself. People love to talk about themselves.
These resets took a toll. There was a sharpness missing from her eyes already he could swear. Another failure and she’d be just another drone after the wipe. He’d order an entertaining suicide, maybe.
The water boiled. He met her eye as she passed the cup down to him. “Lovely,” he said.
