Reflections on my Creative Writing Experience

Creative writing is one of those paradoxical things. Anyone can be a writer and anything can be creative. Yet, it is extremely difficult to master creative writing techniques in order to write anything of substance and it can be quite a daunting task when asked to simply ‘be creative’. Most of us have learned techniques and strategies for dealing with more formal styles of writing – essays, formal letters, debate. Coming into this course, I had little to no training in how to write creatively, bar my own personal experience in the field. So one of the questions I found myself asking was ‘Why is this area neglected?’ Students are simply asked to create, without any background knowledge or experience on the matter. When asked to write a piece of fiction for this task, I was keen to contribute, but once I settled down to work, it was clear to me that I didn’t really know what I was doing or needed to do from the outset.  While pinning my first draft, I realised that the topic I had chosen was perhaps too large, broad and unwieldy for a short story and perhaps would be better suited to a long essay or novel. Such was my naivety in understanding the basics of creative writing.  If I were to start all over again, I would ensure to keep it much more simple. Focus on one character and theme.

The hardest part of this process for me was transferring my thoughts from my mind to the paper. So many imaginings, characters and  twists bubbling around in my head that I didn’t know where to start.

When I began to write it down, I suddenly found the story taking shape by itself, being moulded and shaped by the previous words and gaining cohesion from previous statements about the characters, setting etc. Just the act of writing something, anything, helped to get the creative juice flowing. As such, I would be keen to acknowledge this most important stage in the classroom. I am a strong advocate of writing very short fiction – such as writing fake notes from parents as to why the children hadn’t done their homework, with the children allowed to be as creative as they liked, from the mundane ‘He was sick’ to the absurd  ‘Aliens landed and beamed his homework up to space’ I feel it would really help with the confidence of emerging writers and to help them believe that they are writers too by starting with something small like this. With the ever increasing  popularity of instant messaging, and the short comment nature of social media, such as Twitter or Facebook comments, they make an ideal platform for students to engage in creative writing on a small scale, utilising platforms that they are familiar with.

When writing stories in the past, I used to place more emphasis on the how rather than the why. Long descriptive sentences sound nice but ultimately, it wasn’t enough for my story this time.  The story needed more structure. Thus, I was glad to learn about different beginnings, plots and endings to tie my story together, framing it with a set point of view and clear descriptions of items and locations.

I had never done a workshop before and the knowledge gained by peer review was invaluable. It is easy for me to see where my story is going and what is happening but to see how others struggled with it or took different interpretations was truly eye-opening.

However, in order for this to work in the classroom, students need to open up about their work and allow others to view it and to accept input from their peers. A positive atmosphere needs to be present amongst the group. It also seems necessary to teach the groups how to read as a writer, as opposed to a reader. It was fascinating learning about all the different techniques of plot, point of view etc . used by skilled authors in their work. It was helpful both to analyse and read my peers pieces of fiction, but also in improving my own piece, especially when I was stuck and unsure where to go next with it.

Sticking with the theme for my short story was quite difficult. It was so easy to off on a tangent that I often forgot to acknowledge what my story was supposed to be about. Sticking with the story I wanted to tell really helped me to stay grounded in my task. Redrafting was also a relatively new experience for me. Though I often edited and revised my pieces before submitting them, very rarely have I considered making changes afterwards. Rewriting a story or paragraph can really help to define the tale and in this modern age of computer technology, it is far easier to go back and re-draft a story than the labourious pen-written essays of my youth.

One of the concerns brought up by my peers in the workshop was how they didn’t really feel empathy for the main character. They had no one to root for.  Engaging with the character in depth and through point of view really helped to bring them to life.  Particularly with this element of writing I found reading the short stories from famous authors to be most beneficial. The depth at which Cortazar in particular engaged with the main character in ‘Axolotl’  really helped me to see where my characters were lacking.

 “Hopelessly, I wanted to prove to myself that my own sensibility was projecting a nonexistent consciousness upon the axolotls.”

Of course, reading great works by famous authors is a fairly obvious aid to creative writing in the classroom, but finding the right pieces of work that can best help your writing can be more tricky. Perhaps it would be good to have a resource in the classroom, where students could search for books to read not only based on topics, such as sci-fi or thriller, but where students could be inspired by the use of point of view, characters, endings etc. I found it incredibly useful to view examples of such during our course and I’m sure my students would to. Perhaps, they could even add to the list themselves of the information could be gathered together on an  RSS feed.

One of the key things I learnt from my experience is that just because a character or scene isn’t used in the final draft, doesn’t mean it wasn’t useful for the overall storytelling. Having created a whole backstory for a character, and then cutting that character down to a minor role was disheartening but it didn’t limit the character. He is still there and more refined and detailed now because of my efforts

Trying to be overly clever and complicated with the piece just served to confuse the audience. It may seem a perfect vision in your head, but the audience needs to be told exactly what’s going on. During the workshop it was fascinating to see how everybody viewed differently the characters and settings created by each other. Details matter and I made a conscious effort to really nail down the vision I had in my head. Doing the creative writing exercises, such as describing an object without mentioning it by name, or describing a lavish hotel room, really helped in this regard and I think it would be worthwhile to incorporate such activities in the classroom.  Small steps like this can help writers gain confidence in their abilities and not feel overwhelmed by writing a much longer story.

Overall, it was a great insight into the world of writing and how much thought and effort really goes into telling a story. Every word, every phrase, every character is there for a reason and from now on, I will be reading these tales with a view to discovering what the author has laid out for me.

References:

1.       Cortazar, J., 1952 ‘Axolotl’ , Literaria, Beunos Aires. Available at: http://southerncrossreview.org/73/axolotl.html [last viewed 5th April 2016]

2.       Pixar’s 22 rules to phenomenal storytelling. Available at: http://imgur.com/gallery/E8xe0 [last viewed 5th April 2016] 

Unsuperman - 6th Draft

Unsuperman

‘So, what’s in the box?’

Norman tensed and tightened his grip on the small package on his lap, immediately fretting even more that he had damaged the contents by squeezing too tightly. He was forced to remind himself that he wasn’t some lumbering hulk absentmindedly crushing things without realising. The box was perfectly fine.

The interviewer’s sunglasses slipped down from their perch above the ridge of his nose and he casually, but precisely, pushed them back up to their exact resting spot. Norman could make out the vague outline of himself in the reflective lenses. His bright orange tie looked even more crooked in the warped mirrors, though it still felt a tight noose around his neck. A stark contrast to his interrogator, who seemed to breathe easily enough despite the elaborate knot at his throat and a rigid grey pin-stripe suit.

From behind his desk, he looked as if he belonged amongst the furniture of the room - the tall steel filing cabinets, the chrome printer. Even his stapler shared a similar palate and disposition. The only non-metallic item in the room seemed to be the small wooden nameplate at the front of his desk - etched in sunken golden lettering upon it were the words Dr. Charles Lylak. Norman wondered just what kind of doctor he was.

‘What’s in the box, Norman?’ he pressed ‘I’m not psychic, you know’

“I.. well … you see …” spat Norman, choking on his words.

‘Norman, do you know why you’re here?’ The question was asked innocently enough, but the bluntness of the statement made Norman uneasy. There would be no dancing around it today.

‘Because I don’t have a position and a worker needs a position.’ Norman recited.

‘That’s right, Norman. Each cog has its part to play. Your role is just a little more difficult to unmask, given your … shall we say, faculty deficiency.'

‘I have no powers’ said Norman bluntly. ‘It’s okay to say it, you know. It is true.’

‘I’m afraid not’ said Dr. Lylak with a look of genuine sympathy, despite the straight-forward approach. ‘You are a most unique case, I must admit.’ He took off his aviators and rubbed his eyes. They shone a bright purple and Norman was hard pressed not to squint. ‘And how do we fit in someone like you?’

How do I fit in? It was a question Norman had asked himself many times before.

‘Open the box, Norman. Tell me what you see?’ the doctor asked, redirecting the conversation. The violet shine from his eyes saturated his face in an eerie glow.

Norman looked down nervously at the heavy cardboard box on his lap. He gingerly pulled off the lid and peeked inside. He reached in and fished out a small cylindrical object. It fit snugly into the palm of his hand, with a large nozzle protruding from the top of the can like the bill of some strange water bird.

‘What is it?’ asked Dr. Lylak.

Norman twisted the small, steel canister in his fingers, gingerly turning the plastic nozzle away from the pair of them. ‘Pepper spray’ said Norman ‘My mother gave it to me when I moved out’

‘What colour is it Norman?’ probed the doctor.

‘Purple. No, wait .. it’s black. Government issue. My father ordered is specially’ Norman inspected the canister more closely. Though quite sturdy, he was still reluctant to place his fingers near the trigger, afraid of some imaginary scenario where the pin suddenly falls out and it sprays right into his eyes. 

‘Do your parents worry about you, Norman?’

‘Sometimes’ said Norman, glancing down at the pepper spray. It wasn’t much of a deterrent against the super-powered individuals in his midst. His roommate Bill had even gone so far as to spray it into his own mouth, just to see what it tasted like. ‘South of the Border’ he had japed. What use was Norman with a can of pepper spray against someone like that?

Sometimes, I wish they’d just leave me alone.’ lamented Norman.

It was true, Norman’s parents were worrisome, but it had not always been the case. When he was born, they may have shown some slight apprehension about his lack of abilities - no strength, nor speed, nor laser beams. Not even a tail. But the doctors had reassured them that everything was fine and that many children don’t discover their powers until later years. So they brought him home and examined him like a Christmas present, trying to guess what lay beneath the wrapping. Would he be a Hydro like his father, Nathan Neptune, who could summon huge tempests with a flick of the wrist? Maybe more subtle powers like his mother, who could tell when somebody was lying or perhaps that was just a power all mothers have.

They grew concerned once Norman started attending school and was placed in the NVP (No Visible Powers) Class, with all the other children who had yet to find out who they really were. There was Harry Heartbeat whose organs began to function at an extraordinary rate. He was soon moved to a special class for speedsters. He went on to become an Emergency Responder, Norman recalled. Ellen Everlast realised she was immortal when a bookcase collapsed on her in the 3rd Grade. And there was Chloe Contiage, Norman’s childhood crush, who discovered she was a living bio-weapon when she accidentally infected Norman with Cholera through their first kiss. Norman had spent three weeks in the hospital, which he deemed to have been worth it. She too was gone upon his return to school. And so it went on, all the way through middle school, high school and university. His parents tried to mask their feelings, but as Norman aged the more he could see their growing anxiety over when he would develop his powers, until eventually Norman graduated from university with a Degree in Art - NVP. It didn’t bother Norman that much. He had always gotten by without any powers and he was sure he could continue to do so, but he hated seeing that look of disappointment in his mother’s eyes. So much so, he had moved out and found his own apartment, away from Cloud Quarter, the affluent begrudgers and government cronies. Away from all the nagging and pestering and disappointment. Somewhere where he was free to do what he wanted and not as he was told.

‘So you made your way out into the world on your own’ spoke Dr. Lylak, snapping Norman back to reality ‘How did you find it?’

‘Cold’ said Norman ‘And dark’

‘Mmmhmm’ agreed Dr. Lylak ‘Not everywhere is Cloud Quarter, you know’

‘Nowhere was like Cloud Quarter’ thought Norman, a vibrant mix of buzzing technology and staunch traditionalism. A blend of age-old culture and the dawn of a new millennium. Hover rails carried people through the cobbled streets and brick walls to museums, galleries and trendy bars.

It was a far cry from his new home. The run-down neighbourhood full of dilapidated buildings and foreclosed factories was like a beehive of illegal activity –drugs, theft, power battles, you name it. The area wasn’t safe but it was cheap and, for Norman, it was all he could afford without an official government occupation. A worker needs a position.

A glimmer of lavender shone out from behind Dr. Lylak’s sunglasses and a glass of water bobbed its way across the room. Norman pressed his precious box first to the side and then behind his back, away from the ebbing water as it traversed around his seat to the man in the grey suit, who caught it nonchalantly and took a small sip. ‘Here, have some water’ said the doctor. Norman turned to see another glass was resting by his shoulder, bobbing up and down like a piece of flotsam. Norman took the glass and drank deeply. He was quite parched.

‘Norman, do you know what my powers are?’ spoke Dr. Lylak before Norman had finished swallowing.

“You can tell when people are thirsty?’

‘Not quite’ he chuckled. Norman didn’t realise that men in suits could laugh. They always seemed so dreary. Well, those from the government anyways.

‘Norman, I can sense a person’s needs, their … desires, for want of a better word. I help them discover who they are and how they can be a benefit to our society. How can you benefit our society Norman?’

‘Well .. I’m a pretty good swimmer.’ offered Norman weakly.

“Hahum. I’m sure you are’ the doctor said gently ‘but unless you can swim faster than a man with a dorsal fin, then I’m not sure that Lifeguard is the best fit for you. No, no, no. Tell me Norman. Who are the people in your life? How are you of benefit to them?’

The room started to darken and take on a violet hue. Purple light shone off the chrome surfaces and refracted around the walls, covering everything in a plum haze. Norman pondered for a while. The people in his life? He had only ever seemed to disappoint his parents. He couldn’t even play underwater sports with his dad. Instead, he liked to sit in his room and read books or draw pictures. He remembered seeing the pain in his dad’s eyes as they were forced to move away from their house at the Lagoon and into a more suitable apartment in Starlight City. A swamp was no place for a growing boy with no powers. Was he really of benefit to anyone at all?

‘Look into the box again’ commanded the Doctor.

Norman again reached into the small cardboard box on his lap. He took out another shiny metal object and held it flat in the palm of his hand. The shining silver badge matched well with the metallic theme of the room, and it too reflected that same purple hue in the doctor’s office. Loyalty and Servitude was embossed upon the badge, the words bisected by a glimmering sword with a hilt shaped into a star.

‘That’s a Badge of Enforcement’ croaked the doctor, a little uneasily.

‘It’s my roommate’s’ Norman replied, a little sheepishly.

Norman remembered his first encounter with Bill, moving into his apartment down by the hover rail to the Quays. These weren’t the same glamourous golden hover rails of Cloud Quarter. No. They were the harsh, unyielding iron of the industrial rails, made for practicality, not aesthetics. Norman had found the apartment in a real estate app. The only match in his price range in the whole of Starlight City. He had followed the garbled description and directions to the apartment with great difficulty. There were numerous mistakes in the text and was quite out of breath when he finally arrived on Bill’s doorstep.

‘Welcome’ said Bill, with a big broad grin, ushering Norman into the apartment with firm hand on his shoulder.  ‘You’re a little late. I was just brushing up on my Spanish’ A daytime soap opera blared high pitched Spanish and dramatic background music echoed around the four walls of the room. Norman re-adjusted his eyes and scanned the living room as if it were a potential home. Like most apartments in the city, it was fairly sparse. Not many people in the area opted for well-furnished living quarters, where at a moment’s notice a neighbour’s sneeze could blow a hole in your bedroom. His eyes peeled over the cracking plastic veneer of the living room floor, failing poorly in masquerading as genuine wood, past the TV, with all its tangled wires and even more tangled Spanish love triangles, to a small desk in the far corner. On the desk lay a single object shimming in the sunlight shining through the window. Bill’s badge.

‘Oh, I see you’re an Enforcer’ said Norman. ‘That will come in handy when talking to the landlord.’

‘Yep’ said Bill, grinning ‘I like to be where the action is. Youngest Enforcer of Justice in twenty years. Younger than my Dad was even. You look beat. Here take a rest.’

Norman thanked him and sat down on the cream-coloured couch. It looked surprisingly clean and unused amidst the backdrop of the rickety apartment. Only the off-colouring from the sun’s rays as the shone through the window hinted that the couch had lain there for quite some time. Norman gazed out the large rectangular window. The view of the docks from this vantage was quite good and Norman could make out the silhouettes of the giant shipping containers, setting off into the sunset. It would make a fine painting and Norman envisaged himself standing there in the evening with his easel by his side, looking out into the expanse of the sea and forgetting about all the troubles in life.  It was a nice thought as Norman eased himself onto the couch. It was quite comfortable as he sank into it.

‘There were some mistakes in the directions’ wheezed Norman.

‘Really?’ said Bill ‘Sorry about that. Dyslexia. My only weakness!’ he chuckled’ Also, the keys on them damn phones are so small you just wanna laser blast the whole thing sometimes, you know?’

‘Not really’ said Norman truthfully ‘You could just use voice to text? Speak into the phone rather than type.’

‘Never thought of that before’ said Bill sheepishly. ‘I can already tell it’s gonna be fun having you around’

Norman relaxed and eased himself into the groove of the purple couch. He could tell he had found his new home. The violet rays of the sun shone brightly through the window and all of a sudden he was lucid and awake and back in the doctor’s office.

‘More water?’ asked Dr. Lylak coolly, pouring another glass for himself.

‘No, thank you’ said Norman, a little perplexed and still unsure of his surroundings. He grasped the seat of his chair firmly in a vain attempt to determine what was real and what was a figment of his imagination.

‘Calm down, Norman. Deep breaths’ instructed the doctor, placing the sunglasses back over his eyes. ‘Everything is perfectly normal. The process can be a bit intense for those of a .. delicate nature’

‘I’m not delicate’ stated Norman ‘Please continue’

Dr. Lylak smiled ‘It is most interesting’ he said.

‘What is?’ inquired Norman.

‘Well, most people see objects belonging to themselves. You have viewed an object belonging to another.'

‘What does that mean?’ Norman inquired, eager to find out his place in this world.

‘Well, it could mean a lot of things.’ Replied Dr. Lylak, disappointingly vaguely for Norman. ‘Do you wish you were an Enforcer? To help people’ The Doctor removed the spectacles once more and stared deep into Norman’s eyes. The bright purple orbs of his eyes flickered flashes of bright light blurred Norman’s vision.

‘No. I mean, yes, but not like that.’

Norman thought back to the one time where he actually needed an Enforcer’s assistance. They hadn’t been much use then. He had been working as a dishwasher in a local Italian restaurant. Illegal work. Everybody had to have an assigned government position and this wasn’t Norman’s. Due to his lack of powers, they were yet to find him a suitable one. Naturally, the pay was quite poor, but Norman was desperate to make it on his own. He didn’t want to go grovelling back to his parents for yet another loan.

The restaurant was particularly busy that evening. The owner, Mr. Acerbi, had a new promotional offer -  50% off spaghetti dinners. The restaurant was stuffed to capacity and Norman was backed up trying to scrub the greasy pasta residue from the plates. It was tedious, laborious work and he was straining to keep the mountain of dishes from pilling higher and higher as the evening pressed on ‘Curse this damn spaghetti’ he lamented to himself.

Just then, a pair of hands reached out and grabbed the plate right out of Norman’s hand and the dishtowel from the belt at his waist. ‘Move it or lose it, short stuff’ squeaked Johnny Forearms in his high-pitched voice, that always made it sound as if he was complaining  ‘Bossman says I’m to take over here’ bumping Norman aside. Johnny was relatively new to the restaurant, having been fired from his government position just a few weeks before. ‘What can I say’ he would often joke ‘I have sticky fingers. And lots of ‘em. Herr herr herr!’

He was certainly faster than Norman, his four arms working in unison, like a dish washing Rube Goldberg machine, washing and drying all at the same time.

 ‘Go make yourself useful, N’ he barked  ‘and go catch a rat or something. Herr Herr Herr!'

‘You sure we don’t have some kind of cat-lady to do that?’ retorted Norman dryly. At least he was free from the impeding avalanche of cheap china plates mounting up next to the sink.

‘Norman! Get your ass over here!’ bellowed Mr. Acerbi. Even above the raucous of a kitchen in full swing, his booming voice resonated above it all. Norman sprinted over to his boss, waiting impatiently by the two large swinging doors between the frantic hustle and bustle of the kitchen and the relaxing smooth jazz on repeat in the restaurant. He was a large man, as wide as he was tall, with a fast receding hairline shaping a Widow’s Peak atop his head. The lack of hair on his head was made up for with a bushy barrel chest, proudly showing through a halfway fastened salmon shirt. Norman often wondered if his power was the ability to grow hair where no man should have any.

‘You’re working the tills now, Norman. Tammy’s gone home sick. That’s what you get for eating at a competitor’s restaurant!’

So Norman set about settling bills with the customers, charging them credits and wishing them a lovely evening.

It was a lot nicer this side of the restaurant. Candles were lit in every booth, nestled on dark red tablecloths, matching the upholstery sewn and studded to the large wooden booths. Cool air from the air conditioner flowed through the room, dissipating the heat from the kitchen and the body heat from the throngs of people gathered together for their weekend soirees.

All was going smoothly until about 9pm. Though the restaurant was still full, less people were ordering food and had settled down to their desserts and evening drinks. 

Suddenly, a large man charged into the restaurant. He wore a black leather jacket and a poorly stitched balaclava over his head, as if he had cut holes in an old tea cosy and placed it over his head.

 ‘Hands in the air! Hands in the air!’ he screamed, brandishing a large white weapon. It was a government issue stun gun, strong enough even to take down a Level 1 powered being. The long grip of the gun extended out into two forked prongs like the jaws of a rattlesnake. Clacking sparks of electricity jumped between the prongs, hissing at the audience to heed their warning. Everyone in the room went still and arms bolted in the air. Johnny Forearms, who had been carrying a tray of pots back to the kitchen, yelped and thrust his four limbs as high as they could reach, sending the pots and pans crashing to the ground in a clanging symphony of  jarring metal.

‘The cash, now! In the bag’ He kicked over an old black sports utility bag to Norman. It smelled as if it had recently been used to launder dirty socks, and not money. ‘NOW!’ roared the thief impatiently.

Norman began emptying the register, waiting for a chance to press the silent alarm under the til. When the armed robber turned his sights on the customer’s wallets and jewellery, he had his chance. As discreetly as he could, Norman pressed the little white button firmly. Being a silent alarm, he had no idea if it had worked or not, but if it had, it shouldn’t be long before the Enforcers would arrive. He imagined his roommate Bill swooping in wearing his pristine black uniform and apprehending the perpetrator in a matter of seconds with a wisecrack and a cheeky grin on his face. Bill was Level 0, with multiple abilities and formidable power – super strength, super speed, he could even fly. The stun gun or the brandisher would be no match for him, Norman knew. It was just a matter of waiting it out.

Each second seemed like an eternity waiting for help. As the time ticked away, Norman grew more and more worried that no one was coming to their aid.  He looked on at the rows of customers, glued to their seats and petrified of their assaulter. All of them had powers, Norman knew. All of them could do something, but they’re all just too afraid.  That was the job for an Enforcer of Justice. It was not their position.

As the robber seemed to be collecting the last of the loot, Norman made his move. He reached for one of the largest frying pans dropped by Johnny Forearms and stuck round the booth the in an attempt to ambush the thief, thinking in vain of the canister of pepper spray left behind on the living room table.

As the robber rounded the booth, Norman pounced, the pan raised high above his head, ready to crack the assailant right on the head.

But the robber was too quick. The long forked arm of the stun gun shot out at a tremendous speed and caught Norman round the neck. His whole body spasmed as the electric shock took control of his limbs and sent him sprawling to the ground. His vision swam and he could see flashes of bright white light pouring into his eyes.

The bright lights changed a violet hue and suddenly Norman was back in the Doctor’s Office.

‘So was the thief apprehended?’ inquired the Doctor.

‘No, he … he got away’ said Norman, shaking his head, still with remnants of flashing lights in his eyes.

After the encounter with the robber, Norman had awoken sometime later to find the thief had made off with the goods and no one else had tried to stop him. The Enforcers were nowhere to be seen. Later Bill informed him that most of the Enforcers had been up in Cloud Quarter, where the Major was overseeing a Gala Event to raise funds for the CQU Museum of Art. They wouldn’t be following up the investigation. ‘Sorry, Norm. We’ve got more important things to do. Don’t have the time to pursue every petty theft down by the Docks’

‘Funny. You told me you wanted to be where the action was’ said Norman coldly.

Bill turned his head away. ‘You know how it is Norm. Gotta stick to my position’

‘Every worker has a position’ recited Norman once more.

‘You feel let down’ remarked Dr. Lylak, snapping Norman back to the conversation at hand. ‘by a system that has failed you somewhat’

‘I think the system has let everyone down’ Norman replied ‘People are just following orders, being told who they are and what they should be.’

‘And you hope to rectify this, Norman?’

‘I .. I don’t know’ Norman stammered. ‘Maybe’

He knew what he wanted to do now. What he always wanted to do.

“So, tell me, Norman’ Dr. Lylak encouraged ‘ What’s in the box?’

Norman looked down more surely at the innocuous cardboard box on his lap. He firmly pulled off the lid and looked inside. Norman looked into the box and saw the truth, what he was meant to be. He emptied the contents on the desk. Hundreds of drawings and comics he had made came pouring our onto the chrome desk.

‘I want to be a comic writer’ said Norman proudly. ‘I want to inspire people’

‘A writer’ repeated the doctor curiously, grabbing the closest comic. ‘Tell me Norman’ he said

‘What is a superhero?’

While technically this is the 3rd upload of my draft, it has undergone so many re-draftings and changes that I felt I was doing it and myself a disservice by simply stating that this was the third draft of the tale and ignoring all the hard work that had gone into it. One version of the story, which I liked quite a bit had an alternative ending, but again had fallen into the same pitfalls of focusing too much on Bill and not on Norman that ultimately, I scrapped it in favour of this piece.

I tried to anchor the story around the doctors office and the character of Norman, limiting it only to his point of view. I felt it worked much better this way and the story can flow a lot easier. The flow is also aided by the extra scrutiny but into to chopping and editing sentences and sequences so that they gel together much more freely.

Overall, I felt this version of the story is much better. The story flows well and there is a clear protagonist to the piece as opposed to the first few drafts. I still feel the scale of the piece is a bit too large to be condensed into a short story and you can see elements of the larger picture trying to break free, particularly in the last 'vision' Norman has. I could have simply made Norman working at the register from the start but felt it lacked credibility really and that the scene needed more depth. 

The final scene does seem  rushed but overall I think it fairs better than the clunky exchange between Bill and Norman from he previous piece. 


Reducing Bills role to a minor part ultimately proved much better for the tale. I really liked him as a character, and to my undoing I kept going back to long dragged out emotional torments of Bill in my various drafts, which hindered the story quite a bit. Perhaps I will revisit him, but for now the story has to focus on Norman. 

I tried to nail down the imagery of the various places and items using the descriptive exercises from our weekly tasks. Having clear scenery and objects really helped make the world feel more real.

Wealth

The anticipation was so palpable I was near sweating from it alone. Add to that the humidity and 15kg backpack on my shoulders and I was hard-pressed not to reach up and wipe the beads from my brow. My heart beat faster with each ‘ting’ of the glass elevator announcing we had bypassed yet another floor of the hotel. Looking down onto the foyer, I could barely make out the smooth mahogany of the check-in desk, where the concierge had issued those magical words. ‘Free upgrade, sir?’

*Ting*

Another floor whizzed by, I nervously adjusted the strap of my backpack. The bell-hop had offered to carry it for me, but unaccustomed as I was to such luxury, I sheepishly declined and carried the burden myself, my tense sweaty frame a stark contrast to the other guests, casually mingling and flowing like silk around the sleek marble steps of the foyer.

*TING*

The doors opened wide and I drew in a deep breath as I stepped out onto the plush carpet. Under the weight of my backpack, I could feel my body sink a little deeper into the rug than most, leaving a trace outline of my flip-flops behind me, leading anyone who followed down my path to Room 3113, the palindrome etched in shiny brass letters upon the darkly vanished door.

With a clink of metal, the bell-hop unlocked the door and ushered me into my new home, if only for one night. The door peeled back and I got my first glimpse of a 5-star hotel room and it just seemed so … ordinary. Make no mistake, it was nice. Everything was prim and proper and nothing was out of place, even the room service menus and TV remote control instructions were neatly stacked together on a polished silver tray. The scent of fresh flowers hung in the air, emanating from the two vases on the lockers either side of the bed. A large wooden bureau stood formally in the corner, hinting that not all who stayed in these rooms were here to unwind. Yet nothing of this room spoke of richness and extravagance that TV and movies had led me to believe about 5–star hotels and the lifestyles of the rich and famous.

I laid my backpack down by the end of the bed, careful to avoid touching the pristine white sheets with my sweaty human limbs. As the bell-hop busied himself with the air conditioner remote, I checked out the bathroom. Again, it was immaculately clean with a sturdy tinted glass surrounding shower, to add more privacy to the already exclusive room. The marble tiled floor led up to a flat golden shower head, designed to create a waterfall-like cascade. Usually on my travels, upon my inspection of rooms, I would test to see if the hot water was working, but not here. Here, to even question such a thing seemed like an insult to its grandeur.

When the bell-hop finally won his war of wits with the air-conditioning, he coolly left, leaving me none the wiser if he was expecting a tip or not. As he scampered back to the elevator, I watched some of the other guests ambling around. An old man in a bright yellow shirt lovingly holding the door open for his wife. A large, round man, who was seemingly straining to fit into his swimming trunks, when in reality it was the humidity he was suffering from. Such was the true freedom of the super wealthy. Not the extravagance of private jets, tailored suits and infinity pools. No, but to wear loose clothes, sleep in a comfortable bed and not having to worry about appearance, tips or hot showers. And I could have that too, with the right attitude. At that moment in time, I felt extremely wealthy.

This story is based upon a true encounter I had in a five star hotel in Singapore. My friend was working there at the time and had got me a staff discount. Even with the discount, I could only afford to spend one night there, my birthday, and spent the remainder of my trip in a hostel in the cheaper part of the city.

I really was imagining something special, especially when I was told of the free upgrade. However, it was somewhat underwhelming. The room was nice, but not much better than some hotel rooms I've stayed in before. Clean, comfortable bed. A nice shower. It was certainly nice, but it was not the lavishness I was anticipating.

I know the idea of this exercise was to write about extravagance and excess and to be as descriptive as possible, but I felt this was a story I should tell and personally I feel that writing about the mundane is far more difficult for me than hyperbolic descriptions and rich metaphors of the extraordinary. I also didn't want to add to the cliched stereotype of  the rich lifestyle that had fed my imaginings to begin with.

The fancy elevator up to my room

The bed and shower room

A view of the desk and balcony

Senses - Describing Taste and Sounds

Taste it:  Describe your favourite food without mentioning its name. Describe the dish in front of you. Put the food in your mouth. Describe everything as you keep eating.

A sublime blend of soft, rich creaminess with a tangy savoury meatiness. Both feminine and masculine combining effortlessly in a sweet embrace upon my taste buds as the layers melt effortlessly  as I chew and finish with a sharp cheesy bite and a craving for more.

Hear it: Hear a noise/sound that is really irritating you. Describe it.

If a shriek could be a question, it would sound like this. It builds up the tension with a few warning wails before unleashing a harsh, high pitch screech, that still makes me and the others around me shudder and contort, despite our anticipation. It is purely animalistic; a noise of fear and doubt, but mostly of pure frustration of not knowing what is going on and lacking any other means to communicate this. It frustrates me too, trying in vain to block it out by twisting and turning in my seat in a futile attempt to fall asleep. I try to distract myself and to think about sand swept beaches and fancy hotel rooms, but the squealing knocks me back to reality and inhumane thoughts that would make Ted Bundy blush. But the most irritating thing of all is that I have just buckled down for the ride and still have fourteen more hours to go before this plane lands.

Describing an object

Paint with words:  Find an object to focus on. Study the object for a few minutes. Notice everything about it. Now write a description without mentioning the object.

*

The sleek chrome finish still gleams, despite its age, refracting a distorted image of the work space around it, and my tired eyes reflecting off the cap and bending down the curved surface, halted only by the orange trim of the seal. Tiny flecks of dirt and grime circle around the stained seal in those hard to reach spots, yet still visible nonetheless.

 The hemispherical dome of the cap comes to an abrupt stop and cuts straight across, for a flat circular top that can stand easily when removed. The circular top shines brighter than the rest, with circular grooves spiraling from the centre out to the rim. As I move my head, I can see triangular slices of light reflecting and changing like a kaleidoscope.

A small sticker of a blender sticks oddly out of place, yet still apt, to the rounded metallic side of the tube. A student had wished to give me a sticker from her vast collection and at the time, had nowhere else of prominence to display it on my desk. She seemed content with that.

 On the opposite side to the sticker, the black lettering on the tube is faded, all but disappeared. The fault of positioning the label exactly where my hands would grasp it everyday, my fingers almost touching as I clasp my hand around it. It is surprisingly light and cool to the touch. Sweat from my hands has eroded the manufacturers logo and intended purpose of the object. The only wording that remains is on the flat bottom of the cylinder – “Made in China”. No surprise there. Both the bottom and the cap were punctured with two small dents from where I had clumsily dropped it before I was fully awake. The light, cheap materials giving way to the harsh wooden floor. The dent to the bottom now causes it to wobble, just a fraction, but enough to irk me sometimes. If I give it a little tap, I can hear it drum ever so slightly from side to side before settling down and I can settle back down to my work.

*

This task was more difficult than I originally envisaged. Being asked to describe something without mentioning it is a difficult feat, and shows how much we rely on simple words without really describing the exact picture you have in your mind for your story. 

I had this issue with my short story in which everyone viewed the Doctor's office completely different from each other, and different to what I had envisaged myself. I now know that I need to go back and real/y paint a picture of that scene and make the audience see what I see.

And now for the big reveal. It was ..............................................

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

A coffee flask.  I felt it best not to allude to the contents, as this would give too much away, but there were some subtle hints to my sleepy demeanour that I hope would be picked up on by the reader. It was also hard to refer to the 'tube' without resorting to words such as container.

Unsupermen 2nd Draft

Unsupermen

‘So, what’s in the box?’

Norman tensed and tightened his grip on the small package on his lap, immediately fretting even more that he had damaged the contents by squeezing too tightly. He was forced to remind himself that he wasn’t some lumbering hulk absentmindedly crushing things without realising. The box was perfectly fine.

The interviewer’s sunglasses slipped down from their perch above the ridge of his nose and he casually, but precisely, pushed them back up to their exact resting spot. Norman could make out the vague outline of himself in the reflective lenses. His bright orange tie looked even more crooked in the warped mirrors, though it still felt a tight noose around his neck. A stark contrast to his interrogator, who seemed to breathe easily enough despite the elaborate knot at his throat and a rigid grey pin-stripe suit.

From behind his desk, he looked as if he belonged amongst the furniture of the room - the tall steel filing cabinets, the chrome printer. Even his stapler shared a similar palate and disposition. The only non-metallic item in the room seemed to be the small wooden nameplate at the front of his desk - etched in sunken golden lettering upon it were the words Dr. Charles Lylak. Norman wondered just what kind of doctor he was.

‘What’s in the box, Norman?’ he pressed ‘I’m not psychic, you know’

“I.. well … you see …” spat Norman, choking on his words.

‘Norman, do you know why you’re here?’ The question was asked innocently enough, but the bluntness of the statement made Norman uneasy. There would be no dancing around it today.

“Because I don’t have a job and I don’t ...I don’t have any powers.’ he confessed.

‘I’m afraid not’ said Dr. Lylak with a look of genuine sympathy, despite the straight-forward approach. He took off his aviators and rubbed his eyes. They shone a bright purple and Norman was hard pressed not to squint. ‘Your parents are very worried about you. They were most insistent that I see you.’

‘They are always worrying. I wish they’d just leave me alone.’ lamented Norman.

It was true, Norman’s parents were worrisome, but it had not always been the case. When he was born, they may have shown some slight apprehension about his lack of abilities - no strength, nor speed, nor laser beams. Not even a tail. But the doctors had reassured them that everything was fine and that many children don’t discover their powers until later years. So they brought him home and examined him like a Christmas present, trying to guess what lay beneath the wrapping. Would he be a Hydro like his father, Nathan Neptune, who could summon huge tempests with a flick of the wrist? Maybe more subtle powers like his mother, who could tell when somebody was lying or perhaps that was just a power all mothers have.

They grew concerned once Norman started attending school and was placed in the NVP (No Visible Powers) Class, with all the other children who had yet to find out who they really were. There was Harry Heartbeat whose organs began to function at an extraordinary rate. He was soon moved to a special class for speedsters. He went on to become an Emergency Responder, Norman recalled. Ellen Everlast realised she was immortal when a bookcase collapsed on her in the 3rd Grade. And there was Chloe Contiage, Norman’s childhood crush, who discovered she was a living bio-weapon when she accidentally infected Norman with Cholera through their first kiss. Norman had spent three weeks in the hospital, which he deemed to have been worth it. She too was gone upon his return to school. And so it went on, all the way through middle school, high school and university. His parents tried to mask their feelings, but as Norman aged the more he could see their growing anxiety over when he would develop his powers, until eventually Norman graduated from university Bachelor of Arts - NVP. It didn’t bother Norman that much. He had always gotten by without any powers and he was sure he could continue to do so, but he hated seeing that look of disappointment in his mother’s eyes. So much so, he had moved out and found his own apartment, away from Cloud Quarter, the affluent begrudgers and government cronies. Away from all the nagging and pestering and disappointment.

‘Be that as it may’ spoke Dr. Lylak, snapping Norman back to reality ‘They brought you here for a reason.’ A glimmer of lavender shone out from behind his sunglasses and a glass of water bobbed its way across the room. Norman pressed his precious box first to the side and then behind his back, away from the ebbing water as it traversed around his seat to the man in the grey suit, who caught it nonchalantly and took a small sip. ‘Here, have some water’ said the doctor. Norman turned to see another glass was resting by his shoulder, bobbing up and down like a piece of flotsam. Norman took the glass and drank deeply. He was quite parched.

‘Norman, do you know what my powers are?’ spoke Dr. Lylak before Norman had finished swallowing.

“You can tell when people are thirsty?’

‘Not quite’ he chuckled. Norman didn’t realise that men in suits could laugh. They always seemed so dreary. Well, those from the government anyways.

‘Norman, I can sense a person’s needs, their … desires, for want of a better word. I help them discover who they are and how they can be a benefit to our society. How can you benefit our society Norman?’

‘Well .. I’m a pretty good swimmer.’ offered Norman weakly.

“Hahum. I’m sure you are’ the doctor said gently ‘but unless you can swim faster than a man with a dorsal fin, then I’m not sure that Lifeguard is the best fit for you. No, no, no. Tell me Norman. Who are the people in your life? How are you of benefit to them?’

The room started to darken and take on a violet hue. Purple light shone off the chrome surfaces and refracted around the walls, covering everything in a plum haze. Norman pondered for a while. The people in his life? He had only ever seemed to disappoint his parents. He couldn’t even play underwater sports with his dad. Instead, he liked to sit in his room and read books or draw pictures. He remembered seeing the pain in his dad’s eyes as they were forced to move away from their house at the Lagoon and into a more suitable apartment in Starlight City. A swamp was no place for a growing boy with no powers. Was he really of benefit to anyone at all?

*

A dog barked angrily at passersby. Disgruntled drivers stuck in traffic blared their horns defiantly at other irritated commuters who were in the same position. A little girl wailed as she mourned a dropped ice cream cone. 10 storeys up and several blocks away from all these different commotions, Bill could hear everything. He could always hear it. It never went away. Even in the dead of night there were sounds of drunken brawls, stray cats, or construction work. The incessant noise had become like a background static to Bill as he tried to drown it all out.

He stared blankly at the TV as the Spanish soap opera continued its matinee. Repeating all the previous episodes of the week, in case the busy housewives or the elderly had missed any of the gripping drama.

Bill bobbed up and down, slouched in mid-air above the living room couch. His light blue bathrobe hung loosely from his muscular frame, struggling to hang on and threatening to reveal his old, worn underwear to the exasperated woman on the TV screen.

‘No es beuno!!’ lamented the mistress on TV, dramatically leaning back from the camera and planting her wrist to her forehead.

‘No es bueno’ sighed Bill and tightened the cords of his gown. His interest waning, Bill pierced the TV with his supervision, looking beyond the surface, to the connections of tubes and screws and wires. He followed one wire down the back of the TV, through the plug and escaping out into the hallway and beyond. Bill could have pursued it further, but it was already a trivial deflection from boredom. He re-adjusted his eyes and scanned the living room for something to peak his interest. Like most apartments in the city, it was fairly sparse. Not many people in the area opted for well-furnished living quarters, where at a moment’s notice a neighbour’s sneeze could blow a hole in your bedroom. His eyes peeled over the cracking plastic veneer of the living room floor, failing poorly in masquerading as genuine wood, past the TV, with all its tangled wires and even more tangled Spanish love triangles, to the desk in the far corner.

It was a plain wooden desk that creaked irksomely if you leaned too hard on it. A few trinkets lay on top, mostly his roommate Norman’s – Norman’s notebook and pencils, complete with chew marks, Norman’s snowglobe, a birthday gift from his mother, Norman’s medication from when he was sick. Bill pondered what it was like to be sick. He was never sick. What must it be like to feel pain? To be vulnerable and needy? What must it be like to feel anything at all? He tried reading the label on the container.

‘Apsirin … Aprisin …Aspirin. Take tow tims a dya .. a day. If you ex ..exp .. exper …Bah!’

‘Dyslexia, my only weakness’ he thought to himself, allowing himself a rare smile. Giving up on the bottle of pills, he turned his attention to the other items on the desk. Norman’s swimming googles, Norman’s paintbrush, Norman’s pepper spray. He had bought it shortly after moving in with Bill. The run-down neighbourhood full of dilapidated buildings and foreclosed factories was like a beehive of illegal activity –drugs, theft, power battles, you name it. This area wasn’t safe but it was cheap. For Norman, this was all he could afford without an official government occupation, but Bill didn’t care, he had his savings. He could just as easily live in the gutter or a molten volcano. Bill was Level 0, with multiple abilities and formidable power – super strength, super speed, he could even fly. He had no need for food or water. He felt neither hot nor cold. None of the Level 4’s or 5’s below would even consider messing with him, but Norman? They would gobble him up. When Norman brought home the pepper spray, Bill had tasted it to see how it felt. Not even a hint of spiciness flickered on his tongue. If Bill had seemed downhearted by this, Norman was even more so. He left the pepper spray down on the desk and there it has remained since.

The spray wouldn’t have helped anyways. Bill was sure of that. He could hear the sounds of the streets echoing in his brain everyday and every night. Sirens blaring a few blocks down, children screaming, parent’s shouting at each other. The incessant noise never stopped. Never stopped. Once there was a time when he would have done something about it. Donned his meticulously clean black uniform of the Enforcers of Justice, his black peaked cap with a shiny brass badge and patrolled the streets keeping the peace between superpowered individuals. But not now. The uniform was gone. The black badge gathering dust, the sole possession of Bill’s atop the rickety wooden desk. None of it really mattered. It would all end up the same. Even now he could hear a woman shrieking a couple of blocks from here. He tried to drown it out but then he heard a familiar voice. It whimpered  ‘pepper spray’

*

“So, tell me, Norman’ Dr. Lylak encouraged ‘ What’s in the box?’

Norman looked down nervously at the innocuous cardboard box on his lap. He gingerly pulled off the lid and peeked inside. Inside there was … there was … nothing?

‘Nothing?’ inquired the doctor puzzled. The purple hue receded from the room. The box on Norman’s lap shimmered and dissipated into nothingness. Had it ever been real? Both glasses of water had disappeared as well. Was anything here real? Was it all just an illusion?

 ‘Nothing’ echoed Norman.

Dr. Lylak pinched the brow of his nose and settled his sunglasses back on. He sighed heavily ‘Go home Norman. We’ll try again tomorrow. It’s not good to keep your inner self bottled up, you know?’

Norman gathered his stuff awkwardly, an old raincoat that had seen better days, his hat and gloves. He turned back to reach for the box, before recalling that it no longer existed. A figment of his imagination, just like his dreams. He sheepishly thanked Dr. Lylak and left down-heartened. Would he ever find his purpose in life? He knew there was something out there waiting for him, so why can’t he view the contents of the box?

The sun was setting as Norman exited the building and the tall looming street lamps awoke from their slumber. A brisk spring breeze reminded him that he was no longer sitting in a comfortable office and he drew his coat close. He had a long walk ahead of him to his apartment in the more affordable part of town. As he walked, the street lamps became more dispersed, replaced by harsh neon lights. Graffiti encroached like spiders on every brick, window and door with threats, lewd promises and more.  Dogs barked, car alarms blared, glass smashed.  Norman hummed to himself, trying to drown out all the noise, each sound certainly attributed to some illicit act as Norman’s imagination went wild. ‘C’mon’ he reassured himself ‘Only a couple of blocks from home’

Suddenly, an ear piercing scream shook Norman from his imaginings. Up ahead, Norman could see a young woman being dragged into a back-alley by a large ape-like man. His hands were the size of shovels, hard and jagged like the shell of a crab. ‘Help me!’ screamed the woman, struggling in vain, before his giant paw covered her face and dragged her into the darkness.

Norman steadied his nerves. Was he really seeing this? Was he really about to do this? What exactly was he supposed to do?  He looked down to see his feet were already in motion.

‘Hey!’ He quickened his pace.

‘Hey you!’ Norman broke into a sprint.

‘LET HER  …’

Norman stopped short. The man looked a lot bigger in the close confines of the alleyway. Clearing seven foot, even while slouching, he dwarfed Norman. His broad shoulders caused the fire escape to creak as he brushed up against it. The girl was a lot taller too; she stood a good foot over Norman, and seemed rather calm for someone who had just been dragged into a dark alcove. Her body wretched and shifted, her face elongated and her teeth sharpened. She hissed in laughter revealing a large reptilian head with huge protruding eyes and a flickering tongue.

Norman turned to run, but the lizard-girl was too quick, darting around him to block off his path.

‘Well, look at thisssss’ she hissed ‘My knight in ssshining armour.’

‘Stay back!’ yelled Norman, his quaking voice unmasking any false pretensions of confidence that he would try to feign.

‘Little guy’s got spunk’ growled the large man ‘You sure he’s not Level 2?’

‘Ain’t no level 2s down here, Mort. They all up in the clouds, in the rich part of town. Like they too good f’us. No, he smell like five f’me. Whatcha gonna do, boy? Blow some bubbles at me?

‘I’ll … I’ll call for enforcement’ said Norman, visibly shaking at this point.

‘Oh, ain’t no Blackcaps, this side of the track, boy.  They only look out f’themselves, them rich boyssss. They ain’t never come down this way. Ain’t that right, Mort?’

‘Right’ grinned the giant, revealing a set of chunky yellow teeth. His concerns eased, Mort reached out to grab Norman with one large sweaty paw. Norman closed his eyes ‘If only I brought that damn pepper spray’ he whispered. He braced himself for what was oncoming. And braced. And braced.

He slowly peeked out one eye to see Mort’s massive hand hovering in place above his head. He opened his eyes and turned around to see Bill standing there, still in his bathrobe and fluffy pink slippers. He held Mort’s arm in a vice-like grip. Mort flailed and swung his free limb in a vicious arc at Bill, who didn’t even flinch, taking the full impact of the blow right on his chin. Bill calmly stroked his stubbled chin, as if he were brushing off a cobweb, before coolly back-handing Mort, sending him flying into a nearby dumpster in a cloud of tin cans and old newspapers.

‘Did someone say pepper spray?’ he said coolly, tossing the container to Norman, who fumbled with the trigger momentarily before unleashing the spray right into the lizard-girl’s large yellow eyes.

She hissed even louder than the canister of spray and tried to scurry off in the opposite direction, but quick as a flash Bill had rounded her as easily as she had cornered Norman. She gasped as he grabbed her round her scaly neck and carried her up into the air.

 ‘You alright Norman?’ Bill sounded concerned.

“I’m okay. Just a bit shaken’ spoke Norman, trying to sound calmer than he was.

“No harm in being shaken’ replied Bill, passing over Norman’s head back to Mort, where he proceeded to demonstrate what he meant by shaking him violently to wake him up. ‘Might keep you from doing something stupid in future’

‘It wasn’t stupid. It was ..’

‘Heroics?’ interjected Bill ‘ You could have been killed. You’ve got to take care of yourself’

‘Some of us care about more than just ourselves’ Norman said defiantly ‘Maybe others need to remember that’

“What are you saying Norman?’ said Bill, floating down towards him, still clutching the two would-be assaulters.

‘All day long you mope around on the couch when you could be doing so much more.’ pushed Norman. Bill needed to hear this.

‘More’ said Bill, shaking his head  ‘Everybody’s always wanting more, Norm, but they never tell you what to do when it gets too much? Do you have any idea what it's like to be me? I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. Time goes by so slowly. You start to miss those ... little things. You know, when you can take the full blast of a nuclear reactor, it’s hard to feel any sensation at all anymore- the breeze blowing in your hair right now might as well be a gale force storm to me. These slippers may as well be made of concrete for all I care. I mean, it’s hard for me to appreciate life, when there’s not much I can do to enjoy it. Sometimes, I want to just end it all ... but I don’t even know how I could do that.’

Norman was taken aback. He knew his friend was unhappy, but this? How could he have been so blind as to not see it, to not be there for his friend? Dr. Lylak was right. He truly hadn’t been of benefit to anyone. Here was someone who needed him all along. He was right under his nose and Norman hadn’t even noticed.

‘C’mon buddy. Let’s go home.’ Norman suggested. It seemed as if his friend was more in need of rescuing than him.

“Sure thing’ Bill replied ‘Won’t be a sec’

In a blur of light blue and pink, he disappeared with the criminals and re-appeared almost instantaneously.

‘So’ said Norman ‘if you can’t feel those slippers, why do you wear them?

‘I dunno’ replied Bill sheepishly ‘I guess I just think they’re cute.’

*

Back at home, Norman showed Bill all the artwork he had done over the years, whenever he was feeling down on his luck.  He pulled out a large dusty cardboard box from under his bed where he kept his most precious work.

‘So, what’s in the box?’ asked Bill. Norman emptied the contents onto the floor. Hundreds of drawings and comics he had made spilled out onto the tiles.

 

“Cool’ said Bill, grabbing the closest one.

‘What’s a superhero?’