Troubles of a Superwoman
I happened to come across a 'flash fiction' contest on a website. The prompt was that the character is a superwoman who is terrified of kids (Irony, when will you stop pursuing me?). The most challenging part of this seemingly casual topic was the body constraint of 200 words. As I came to realize, a) I write a whole lot more than is needed and b) Editing is a pain in the posterior. So, here's what I entered:
There I stood, face to face with my biggest fear; children. ‘Hold on’ I stuttered, as I grabbed hold of the end of the roller coaster they were stuck in, and pushed it to ground level before it could plummet. The three preschoolers were sitting in the front, which made it possible for me to manipulate the back. The second I brought them to safety, I ran at lightening fast speed, getting as far away from them as possible. I had to stop myself when I realized I had entered a different continent, at which point I ran back to the amusement park, to assume my role as a spectator of the event.
People cheered, chanted the name of my alter ego ‘Miss Magnificent’. They looked around to see where she’d disappeared. At this point, they might have glanced at me adjusting my spectacles and tidying my hair. But they wouldn’t suspect me to be her. To the public, I was a regular newswoman, noting down an act of heroic proportions. Maybe if they had x-ray vision like me, they’d see the shiny blue and green bodysuit under my regular formal clothes.
There I stood, face to face with my biggest fear; children. ‘Hold on’ I stuttered, as I grabbed hold of the end of the roller coaster they were stuck in, and pushed it to ground level before it could plummet. The three preschoolers were sitting in the front, which made it possible for me to manipulate the back. The second I brought them to safety, I ran at lightening fast speed, getting as far away from them as possible. I had to stop myself when I realized I had entered a different continent, at which point I ran back to the amusement park, to assume my role as a spectator of the event.
People cheered, chanted the name of my alter ego ‘Miss Magnificent’. They looked around to see where she’d disappeared. At this point, they might have glanced at me adjusting my spectacles and tidying my hair. But they wouldn’t suspect me to be her. To the public, I was a regular newswoman, noting down an act of heroic proportions. Maybe if they had x-ray vision like me, they’d see the shiny blue and green bodysuit under my regular formal clothes.
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