supremegoddessofall: (Default)
It’s been a long time since we last saw our heroes. Time passes, and life marches on, even for superheroes. It’s harder to fight crime when your arthritis is acting up, let alone the gout!

The aging Red Raider has traded in the Red Racer for something that gets better gas mileage – even the wealthy Jack B. Nimbel finds it hard to justify the conspicuous consumption of excess fossil fuels when gas is nearly four dollars a gallon! Besides, after Nosso Slick, the Chief Financial Officer of Nimbel Industries, was convicted of insider trading, the finances of the company really took a nosedive, so every penny counts.

As for the Blue Burst, well…let’s just say that Ned Nemo may have been an ace reporter, but that no longer cuts the mustard. He never really mastered that “blogging” thing and has been struggling to simply keep his job in an age where print media is a walking carcass that isn’t aware it died.

Yup, times are tight for our hapless duo. Sure, the mayor sends out the beacon periodically for the odd bank robbery or chemical spill, but it seems that cybercrime is the wave of the future. The need for caped crusaders has been replaced by a need for a good firewall. Are our heroes becoming obsolete?

Let’s tune in and find out!


Ned shuffles to the fridge, only to find that the compressor had gone out again, so his beer was warm. Sighing, he pops it open anyway and meanders back to the couch. He’s been meaning to buy a new one before the editor cut his piece rate again. Something about needing to be more culturally sensitive… Ned snorts and thinks to himself, “You write one article about ragheads and they call you a racist…”

He glances at the dusty police radio on the dresser before beginning to nurse the beer. He grimaces at the skunky flavor – Milwaukee’s Best really is more like Milwaukee’s Beast, but when it was Guinness or his electric bill, Guinness had to go. So the Beast it is, for now anyway…

Ned burps and takes another swig. No matter how long he stares at the radio, it only squawks about routine traffic stops and public intoxication.

Which reminds him, he needs to get his own PI ticket taken care of. PI, what an inane charge! You urinate on one park bench and they want to call you an alcoholic…

Maybe I really should stop drinking, Ned thinks to himself, finishing the beer and opening a second. His rounded beer belly gurgles at the introduction of more cheap alcohol. Nah, he thinks.


Meanwhile, on the other side of town Jack is attempting to plunge a toilet. He lets loose a stream of profanity as he manages to slosh sewage onto his Versace alligator wing-tips. He mentally curses Mycroft for having the indecency to die of old age before reminding himself that these things happen. He mentally makes a note to put another ad in the paper for a butler, preferably one with an English accent. Or at least one that speaks English – Guadalupe simply wasn’t working out.

Clog removed, Jack retires to his study and mixes a vodka gimlet. Nothing like Grey Goose to help him forget that his pant leg smells of shit! He opens his briefcase and takes out the latest quarterly report on Nimbel Industries to review before the shareholder’s meeting next week. A quick glance at the sharp downward slope of the arrows on the earnings graph is enough to start his head pounding again.

Jack sets down the gimlet and reaches for his Atenolol. Dr. Noah E. Tawl increased the dosage of both his blood pressure medication and his migraine medication at Jack’s last appointment. Apparently financial ruin is bad for the blood pressure – who knew? All Jack knows is that he can’t afford to have another stroke. The last one almost killed him and left him with a permanent droop to the left side of his once handsome face.

Abandoning the financial reports for the newspaper, he skips over Ned’s latest column on “the Muslim threat” and reads Laura G. Tata’s latest expose on Hollywood gossip. Maybe Ms. Tata has the inside scoop on the latest Brangelina drama…

Jack reads a few paragraphs about the latest season of The Real Housewives of Toledo before spitting the remnants of his gimlet out of his nose. He rereads Ms. Tata’s most recent commentary:

In amazing news, it seems that the next big Hollywood blockbuster isn’t just coming to a theater near you, it’s being filmed near you! That’s right Metronians – “Who Wants To Be Sold To A Russian Brothel?” is going to be filmed right here in Metro City! And they’re looking for extras! If you are a hot young woman aged 16 to 24, now is your chance to break into stardom! Just be at the Metro Central Plaza today at ten in the morning and see if you’ve got what the casting directors are looking for! Director Malice has said that preference will be given to young women with no family or friends and valid passports! See you there!


Jack glances at his watch and notes that it’s almost eleven. He bolts out of the chair and heads for the secret entrance to the Raider Retreat. He barely catches himself as he falls over on the mop bucket Guadalupe forgot to put away.


Meanwhile, Director Malice, formerly Major Malice, looks across the Plaza at a sea of young nymphettes eager for stardom. He chuckles to himself at the naivete of the girls. The driver opens the door to the limousine and he steps out, bracing himself for the expected high-pitched shrieking of the buxom beauties.

They do not disappoint.

“Ladies, ladies, you’ll all get your chance!” Malice nods to his henchman-producer Hugh G. Val, who begins to hand out applications. “Make sure to sign on the bottom of page ten; don’t worry about the small print, it’s just the standard information about your union rights.”

As expected, the star-struck bimbettes don’t bother reading before signing. Malice makes a mental cackle as Hugh collects the forms. “Alright, form lines behind each of these nice white-paneled vans so we can drive you to the studio for auditions.”

“Stop right there, Malice!” The Red Raider’s voice booms from across the plaza. “Unhand those women!” He strides across the plaza and stops before Malice, hands on hips.

“Unhand them? They’re here of their own accord! I even have their signatures, right here!” Malice shoves a signed contract under the Raider’s nose. “Looks like my ducks are in a row, Scarlet Sucker!”

The Red Raider scans the document. “Lifelong indentured sexual servitude in Siberia? That’s some terribly un-fine fine print!”

“Perhaps so, but they’ve signed and there’s nothing you can do to stop me! So buzz off, Maroon Moron!” Malice motions to Hugh, who puts his hand on the gun barely concealed underneath his jacket. Hugh and his assistant-producer-henchmen begin to inch forward. The girls continue to mindlessly pile in vans.


Ned smacks at the nightstand. What was the buzzing sound? Annoyed, he grabs the phone and slurs into it. “This better be good, I was dreaming about a threesome with Megan Fox and Katy Perry.”

He listens for a minute as the Red Raider kvetches. Something about women and legally binding contracts and vans and…Malice?

He bolts out of bed, knocking over five empty Beasts on the nightstand in the process. Digging through his laundry, he finds a pair of blue tights that aren’t too stained and pulls them on.

“Give me five minutes” the still inebriated Blue Burst informs the Red Raider. He stumbles into the bathroom for a quick piss and a shave. Three minutes and a considerably more empty bladder later, the Blue Burst is on his way to Metro Central Plaza on his moped. He kicks himself again for the DUI that cost him his license – the moped is so much slower than the Blue Blazer was, and its a hell of a lot harder to smoke on a moped. He once again regrets that Chevy pulled his endorsement after he ran over that pedestrian... The Blue Burst putts along the highway and vows again to stop drinking. Next week.


That’s all for this week, folks!

Will the Red Raider and the Blue Burst save the nubile cuties from a certain life of turning tricks for slovenly Russian businessmen? Or will Malice’s binding legal contract render the Dynamic Duo wrapped in endless red tape? And more importantly, will Guadalupe be fired once and for all? Will Ned get on the wagon?

All this and more, next time in Dynamic Stories!


This has been an entry for LJ Idol. This week we were in groups of three. My story is "part three" of a superhero saga started here by [ profile] alephz and continued here by [ profile] joeymichaels. If you enjoyed our stories, the poll will be posted sometime toorrow.
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Sometimes days go by and no one comes. Weeks even.

That's the way of it, these days.

Les Américains no longer revere our fashion esthétique the way they once did. de Vise, Doucat, Paquin...these names mean nothing to les Américains any more. Even Chanel must compete with the Gap and Wal-Mart.

Odious, Wal-Mart is. But what can one do? C'est la manière des choses.

My shoppe, it grows dusty. I smell the mildew trying to take hold. But it will not win - let it never be said that Madame de la Rouche keeps a dirty store.

Once I was the busiest magasin d'habillement in all of New York City. The mayor's wife, she came frequently. All the stars of Broadway, too. Where else to get the latest Parisian fashion but at An American in Paris? The waiting list to even enter was months long.

But no more. Les Américains that came earlier were my first customers this week. And they left without buying. Probably couldn't have afforded my wares anyway. C'est la vie.

Les Américains...I both love them and loathe them. They are so full of hope, of life. They look at the sky and see a future of wonder, of joy.

Or at least they were - now their eyes look down instead of up. They move like rats in the Paris subway - scurrying along, suspicious of their neighbors.

I moved from Paris as a young girl, with stars in my eyes. I saw the bright lights, the bustle of the city. I would be part of le rêve Américain. I would create my dream. And so I did - An American in Paris was my dream.

And for awhile, the city dreamed with me.

But no more.

The world changes. I become obsolete. One day no one will remain who remembers Madame de la Rouche and her An American in Paris.

C'est la manière des choses.

This has been an entry for LJ Idol. Once again, we are paired together, so my fate is linked to [ profile] i_17bingo. His entry is linked above - I encourage you to read it first, as his nonfictional tale inspired my fictional one. If you want to vote for one or both of us, the poll will likely be up later today.
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
I can't believe the fuckers actually caught me.

I know, I was careless. I was supposed to just be scoping out the Depot for the Action next month. But when I saw the Animals trying to rape the little sisters, I guess I just lost it. I mean, just because the little sisters don't have Minds doesn't mean they're not Our sisters, you know? know what happened next.

The Animals think with their fists, and little else.

They're beasts. Gaia gave the Animals brains but damned if they'll use them.

Beat and fuck, beat and fuck some more - that's all they know, all they care about.

And they wonder why We want to stop them.

Well, actually...they don't seem to wonder at all. Because if they did they would have noticed two things. First, we only target Animals. Second, they rarely catch a male Brain. Brain...what a silly, inarticulate way to describe what We are. But what else can you expect, from Animals?


We call Ourselves the Children of the Mind.

Most of Us are women, of course. Gaia knew what She was doing when She handed out the Talent, so it's only natural that most of Us are women. Those few men among Us are the Special ones - the ones more like women, so they think more like the rest of Us. Usually they are lovers of men, which suits Us just fine. Regardless, they will copulate with Us when needed - it's the only way We can ensure that Our children will also be Children of the Mind.


They think We can't talk. That's the Animals for you - always assuming that if they can't see it, touch it, or feel it, it doesn't exist. Dumbasses.

Of course We can talk. Gaia didn't take Our human voices when She gave Us Our Minds.

But why walk when you can run? We don't talk because We have no need.


They'll put the Lock on soon, of course.

I am but one, and my talents are limited. I'll take out a few more before they can put me in the Lock, but eventually they will.

And then I'll be sent to the Quiet Grounds. Others who have escaped were nearly mad when they came back to Us. I can only imagine what it will be like - to be unable to hear my Sisters. To be unable to call out, to be heard. To be limited in such a way.

I can only hope that my Mind survives. Not everyone's does.

I will wait for my Sisters to free me, and hope.


The Animals tell the public they have caught Us all. They're wrong, of course. We've just gotten better about hiding Ourselves from their Eyes. We watch, We wait, and We grow strong.

The Animals should be afraid. They aren't, of course - Animals think they know everything, and since they don't know about Us, clearly We must not exist.

We watch, and We wait.

One day soon, Our numbers will be enough. One day soon, We will play the odds.

One day...

But not yet.


Come, my Sisters.

I am waiting.


This has been a post for LJ Idol. This week my fate is linked to the lovely [ profile] applespicy. Her entry is here. Ideally hers should be read before mine. If you want to vote, the link will be up later in week.
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
It takes patience to drive a man insane. Time and dedication, yes, it takes those, too. But infinite patience – that’s really the key.

I know you’re wondering how I did it. I mean, I was dead after all. Just the residual energy of a life, that’s all I am. Protons or photons or some sort of spectral ether – honestly, I’m really not sure. I never was much good at physics and I never believed in the paranormal when I was alive.

It’s funny how you think you’ve got it all figured out, when your soul’s still in your body. Go to church every Sunday, say your amens, and sleep tight, knowing that God is in his heaven and the angels are waiting for you when it’s your time to go.

Just so you know, it’s a complete and utter crock of shit. There’s no angels, no white light. Not that I’ve seen anyway. Just the dark and the time and the waiting.

And in my case, plotting revenge on the son of a bitch that killed me.

Who would have thought the spineless bastard had it in him? All those years of standing by and watching while I drifter further and further away from him – you would have thought he had just accepted my leaving as inevitable. When I finally told him I was leaving, he looked so helpless, so defeated. He didn’t even try to stop me while I packed up the bags for Elise and I. Just sat there staring at his hands and rocking back and forth.

I was almost at the door when the gun went off.

You know how in the movies the victim doesn’t seem to realize immediately that they’ve been shot? Like they’re dead and just don’t know it yet until they see the blood stain seeping across their chest? I know it sounds cliché, but that’s exactly what it was like. The gun went off and I turned around to give him a piece of my mind. I got as far as making a snide comment about dramatic gestures when I noticed the blood on my hand. I looked down, and there it was – a crimson flower blooming with just a bit of intenstine dangling.

And, just like in the movies, I slowly crumpled to the ground with that ridiculous look of shock and surprise in my eyes. I heard Elise wailing, and then silence. The last thing I remember while I was alive is the squelching sound the knife made when he sliced Elise’s throat.

Now, don’t ask me how it works, because I really don’t know. I can’t move things or make the temperature in the room change or even write spooky messages in steam on the bathroom mirror. Those are all just Hollywood parlor tricks. But what I can do is make voices in his head. Joey’s not crazy when he thinks he hears us in the pipes. Well, no crazier that the average man who kills and purees his family. He really does hear me. My electrons or gluons or miasma or what not flit right through that balding skull of his and whisper cries for help.

If I still had a throat to laugh, I would have, watching him tear out those pipes. Like that would somehow make it stop, make me stop.

It was so very sweet when the police found him covered in sewage in the basement, screaming like a mad man. So sublime, to turn a figurative shithead into a literal one. Oh, how far the mighty have fallen! It really was a sight of beauty. But then to see Joseph Andrew Michaels in that orange jumpsuit, confessing to my murder? It was the most beautiful thing in the world.

I’m really not sure what happens next. They don’t give you any kind of Beetlejuice-esque manual when you die. Melinda Gordon hasn’t shown up to help me share my final thoughts with my family before guiding me to the light. I do know that it’s getting harder and harder to make old Joe hear me, and I haven’t been able to hear Elise in a few weeks, either. You’re about the only one I can still talk to – I think maybe it’s the anger that keeps us strong. Now that Joe’s going to rot in a cell, it’s harder to keep the anger.

I think one day I’ll just fade away, drift off into some great void. Maybe those angels will be waiting.

This has been an entry for [ profile] therealljidol, on the topic "Moments of Devestating Beauty." We were partnered again this week - my partner is [ profile] joyemichaels, and his piece is here. Look for the voting link later in the week.


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Kimberly Boyd-Bowman

May 2011

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