An instant later, he gives this recognition a name: judging from her posture and the bright glint in her eyes, Bailey has more than a hint of Phoebe Smith in her makeup. Ernest can’t quite recall, but he thinks she’s pre-vet. Or did he say she’s studying to become an actuary? If the former, Ernest guesses she’ll gravitate toward larger animals. Polar bears, perhaps. If the latter, she’s a math major who can probably handle a 12-gauge shotgun.
Ernest kills the engine on the trimmer.
‘Fergus. And you must be Bailey.’
‘Hey, Mr. Smith. Nice to meet you.’ Bailey says.
‘This is a nice surprise. What are you two doing here?’
‘Came to offer help.’
Ernest turns to look down the length of the perfectly manicured sidewalk/lawn divider. The part between sidewalk and sea of green is so Cecil-B.-DeMille cinematic perfect, he half expects to see a miniature Charlton Heston leading a charge of miniature chariots down sidewalk’s center.
‘Well, I’m about finished with the yard work, but that’s nice of you to offer.’
Fergus shakes his head. ‘Lawn’s in better shape than your comedy.’
On cue, Flynn emerges from the garage. She bears a huge pile of clothes. In what lifetime is she planning on wearing all that stuff? Ernest wonders. Did she and Phoebe knock off the entire upper level of a mall?
Flynn’s pile of clothes is stacked atop two large boxes of kitchen supplies—which in turn are stacked atop a small leather reading chair. Ernest has moved that reading chair before. The thing weighs at least 100 pounds.
Lifting that much, Ernest thinks, is a good way for Flynn to throw her back out.
Or at least it would be, were it not for the fact that Flynn Smith, just like her father, has superstrength.
Ernest can’t help the grin creeping up the side of his cheek.
‘Flynn, wait! Let us help.’ Fergus calls to his younger sister.
‘I got it. I’m fine. Just pop the trunk.’ Flynn responds.
Fergus relieves Flynn of the pile of clothes anyway. Bailey, meanwhile, scurries over to Flynn’s Prius and opens the trunk. Fergus waits for his sister to stuff the chair and boxes inside (packing a car so as to maximize every available square inch—another of Flynn’s superpowers) and lays the clothes on top of everything else. The car bounces on its shocks when Flynn squeezes the trunk closed.
‘Be careful. Study hard,’ Fergus tells her sister. ‘And if boys start pestering you for dates, tell me.’
‘Yeah. Then what?’ Flynn says, smiling.
Fergus raises his right hand. Opens the digits of his prosthetic. ‘Anyone pestering you has to deal with what I call the Iron F—’
‘Nope. Don’t even say it,’ Bailey interrupts. ‘Actually, you should just tell me,’ Bailey says to Flynn.
‘Fair point. She’s the badass,’ Fergus says, gesturing to his girlfriend. ‘Smith men. Suckers for strong women.’
By this time, Ernest has set down the weed whacker and has walked over to the Prius. All four—the three superheroes and the significant other—stand in a small circle. After a brief moment of silent awkwardness, Ernest extends a hand to his daughter.
Flynn considers the offered hand for a second
‘I’m grassy,’ Ernest says.
Flynn Smith gives her dad a big bear hug. Ernest Smith’s feet dangle helplessly a few inches above the ground. ‘I don’t care,’ she says.
Flynn sets Ernest on the ground. Father and daughter each wipe moisture from their eyes.
‘Hey. You have your phone? And your charger?’
Flynn reaches into her back pocket and shows her dad that she hasn’t forgotten.
There it is. Ryland’s white iPhone.
Ernest gives Flynn a knowing nod. ‘OK. Well, just remember that phones are a big responsibility. You remember what I told you about responsibility? With great power comes—’
‘Dad. Got it. I’ll call when I arrive.’
‘OK. Yeah. Kind of a worn-out phrase anyway.’ Ernest glances at the impossibly overstuffed hatchback that gets great MPG. ‘So. You sure? Sure you got everything?’
Flynn keeps her eyes on her father. Reaches into the other back pocket of her jeans.
She produces the old, beat-up pocketknife.
Her magic sword.
Ernest’s eyes are big and shiny once more. He might just completely lose his composure any second now and disintegrate into a crying, sappy, embarrassing mess, all in front of his daughter, his son, and his son’s new kickass girlfriend.
Salvation arrives in the nick of time.
As it so often does, it arrives in the form of a human female.
Two, to be precise. One is his wife, who has just opened the front door. The other one peeks out from between Phoebe’s legs. Fisher Lee Smith, age 2 going on 22, gives her dad a salty, mischievous grin that portends both a handful and a heartful for Ernest and Phoebe Smith for many decades to come.
‘Whoa! You looking for trouble there, young lady?’
Ernest strikes a defensive stance.
‘Is that an evil mastermind over there, Fisher Smith?’ Phoebe asks.
The cutest handful in all of God’s creation nods. The nod draws attention to a detail that Ernest, in beholding his wife, had missed until just now.
Fisher has a blue cape around her neck.
She bursts forth from behind the shelter of her mother’s legs and begins the chase.
Ernest makes a run for it, heading toward the row of forsythia bushes lining the Smith residence.
---
So this is it, Ernest thinks as he dashes a zig-zag pattern across the lawn. This is where the story ends. The story of my life as a superhero.
Fisher shrieks when she almost catches her daddy.
Except it doesn’t. Not really, Ernest thinks. He lets the train of thought continue along its current course, which goes something like this:
1) I’ve still got to finish the yard—those golden forsythias badly need a trimming.
2) I’ve got a wife who I recently found out has the superpower of clairvoyance. She’s been keeping that one a secret, except that when I confronted her about it, all she said was, ‘The only superpower I have, honey, is that I know you better than anyone else on earth.’
3) I’ve got a son who’s studying to become a homicide detective, a daughter heading off to university, and a second daughter starting to potty train, and who is also hell-bent on my total annihilation.
4) No fate of any world means as much to me as the fates of the people standing on my front lawn. These people are my world.
Fisher Smith makes a whooshing noise, and then crashes into the back of Ernest’s leg. It’s not total annihilation, but it does the trick. A criminal mastermind is apprehended.
Ernest crumples to the ground theatrically, eventually rolling to his back, staring up at the sky, and also staring up at his youngest daughter, who stands with one foot on his chest, cape billowing.
Clouds that look like scoops of dessert drift overhead.
Father and daughter shake with laughter.
Great, Ernest thinks. Just as my time as a superhero is coming to an end, I have to confront the most fiendish enemy of all time. I mean, against that face? That curly red hair? For the next twenty years or so, I won’t stand a chance.
Ernest inhales the grassy air and considers his plight.
When does this end? he thinks.
And then recalls the words from his wife. Never.
So, this will have to do. My life as superhero ends right here. It ends while I’m doing chores, and sending a daughter to college, and wrestling with another on the perfectly cut grass of my suburban home. It ends as I’ve come to the very hardest part: the middle.
Acknowledgements
Hardly anything in life is less of an individual endeavor than getting a book into print. I owe an immeasurable debt to many, many people who had a hand in shaping this work. I’m grateful for the guidance of Jim Doering, Letitia
Harmon, Gordon Kessler, Tim Anderson, and many others at the Kansas City Writers Group.
Thanks especially to Emily Hemmer, who read an almost-final version of this, and provided invaluable feedback. Then, she spent even more time helping with the physical creation of the book, offered marketing advice, and so on. Her time and expertise will be difficult to repay.
Thanks to Lucy Crabtree for giving the manuscript a final once-over. Any errors that remain are mine. Except for the ones I can blame on her. Seriously, though, if you’re looking for a great editor, google her or email me and I’m happy to pass along the request. Thanks also to Alex Zahara who is up in Vancouver working on the audio version as I write this. It’ll be awesome hearing the characters in the voice of someone who’s a great actor and a great human being.
This is to say nothing of the many teachers who have shaped my life, this despite my ongoing efforts to sabotage all their hard work. And of course, thanks to my folks, who also invested the time and focus in an early version of the manuscript, and who celebrated my acceptance into the Iowa Writers Workshop program by literally jumping for joy.
Thanks to Alex, who helped correct me about what insults teens hurl at each other.
Most of all, thanks to Jen. She’s the reason I write.
About the author
David Atchison is the pseudonym of a technical writer who is responsible for well over 30 titles, accounting for over a million dollars in global sales. He is a 2014 alum of the Iowa Writers Workshop, and has sold several short stories.
This is his debut novel, based on an idea he began outlining shortly after hearing about a bomb threat at his daughter’s high school.
He lives in Kansas City with his family. Other than writing stories, he has no superpowers.
Hey! Want a signed copy? Have a speaking request? Want to point out plot holes or mistakes in superhero references used throughout the book?
If it’s either of the first two, please email David at [email protected]. (And even if it’s the third one, he’d love to hear from readers.)
You can also visit him on the web, at http://david-atchison.com.
Thanks for reading!
A review on Amazon is the best thanks an author can get. Whether you loved it or not, word of mouth from readers like you will determine the fate of this book and its planned sequels.
Thanks in advance for taking a few moments out of your day to write your review. It’s very much appreciated.
Table of Contents
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Part Two
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Part Three
Thirty Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty Six
Thirty Seven
Thirty Eight
Thirty Nine
Forty
Forty One
Forty Two
Forty Three
Forty Four
Forty Five
Forty Six
Forty Seven
Forty Eight
Forty Nine
Fifty
Fifty One
Fifty Two
Fifty Three
Fifty Four
Fifty Five
Fifty Six
Acknowledgements
About the author
Thanks for reading!
I, Superhero Page 30
