This might be too late for official entry into the Wordsmiths February writing challenge, but I'm putting it up anyhow because sometimes I crack myself up.
The challenge was to create a superhero with powers as "useless as a sack of wet leaves." I believe that my superhero is not only useless, but maybe also a little pathetic, which is always a nice twist. As always, the word count limit is 500. I believe my story clocks in at 499.
Herein then, my tale:
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My name is O.C.Detta, and I’m a superhero.
I’ve known since I was small that I was different, powerful, able to mold people to my whims and wants through the use of my rich alto voice.
My mama told me when I was 4 that people would cry when I sang at church. “She’s so precious, so clean and fresh, such a beacon for our community!” they would say. My Mama would pat me on the head, messing up my hair, and smile softly. Mama knew that my beacon came at a price.
Since then, I’ve spent the better part of my teenage years locked in my room, expanding my vocal range, practicing the most moving folk songs, embuing them with the desires for peace and kindness and humanity. The mirror tells me I am wonderful, the walls echo my desires, the windows rattle with my passions. I know I am amazing and gorgeous and heartstopping; I am as near to perfect as I can be.
I make sure that my perfection is evident in everything I do. All my clothes are the height of fashion; I am conscious of it in the hours I spend at the sewing machine, fashioning the crisp white cloth my Mama buys me into starched confections. If the dress isn’t right, I start over, because a perfect superhero needs a perfect costume. The seam ripper shreds the evidence of my failure, and sometimes my fingers bleed, but they stop once I plunge them into the bleach solution I kept in a bottle in my dresser drawer. The pain is always worth the reward of knowing I am in control over base things like blood and crooked stitches.
I sing as I sew, filling my attic hideout with my super voice of power and inspiration. When I practice a new song, I sometimes hit a note that’s not quite right. Then I use the “convincor,” pure lemon oil I spray on my throat when it misbehaves. Then I sing that passage over and over until the throat knows the tune. Being perfect is important to the people I will one day save.
Sometimes people on the street will hear me sing, because sometimes I open my window and show them how I intend to change the world. They call up to me to poke my head out and sing a song for them. Sometimes I do, for the world is a hurting place and people need some hope. I put on my stiff white superoutfit, pull on my ammonia-laced white gloves and face mask, and walk on only the white floor tiles to my awaiting public.
And they adore me, for I am perfect, as always.
One day I will have everything just the way it should be, and I will be able to leave my attic and venture out on the dirty streets and save people through the power of my super-voice of perfection.
I just know I will, for I am O.C.Detta, superhero.
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