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Short Superman is not fully convincing. He stands before the mirror stretching to his more-than-adequate height and wonders why his cape hangs limp across his shoulders. It should billow behind him. There should be wind beneath it and in his blue-black hair, and this bedroom with its defeated carpet should be the mountaintop of his achievement and glory. The world needs rescuing, and Short Superman’s been overlooked. Meanwhile, his Super Hearing detects the commuter train rolling over tracks that run past his window. He’ll have to do some Super Hurrying or be late for work. This report needs your special touch, Short Superman! My project is late, Short Superman, can you help me? Short Superman! Hold that elevator door! His hand darts to the doorframe faster than thought. Effortlessly he halts the progress of the diabolical horizontal guillotine threatening his direct reports. As if by design, the door reopens, restoring synergistic alignment in the workforce and making way for adventure. Thanks, SS! We’re going for drinks. Wanna come? Now, although drinks are kryptonite to Short Superman, camaraderie is his credo, and these good citizens may have clues to the riddle of his murky identity. Of course he’ll join them! At street level, though, Short Superman senses danger like a question mark hovering in the air and dashes off in pursuit of dastardliness. And now his cape does billow with the urgency of his mission. Godspeed, Short Superman! We believe in you this time! Not long after, our hero tosses back shots at the Fortress of Solitude bar on K Street and bores the bartender with comic book tales of managerial metrics he has destroyed without much thanks. You know that stuff is poison, Short Superman. Maybe you should take it easy. Don’t you have short Super Villains to catch?
Original Copyright © March 07, 2007
Revised Copyright © March 09, 2026
My son pulls a line drive through the gap just about every at-bat. Claims he does it by letting the game happen to him, letting the bat meet the ball. Because bat and ball want to collide, he says, and effort skews the alignment. He wears Eleven, as I did, but in every other way. I’m in the hometown bleachers as he watches the ball into the catcher’s mitt, so patient, his whole life ahead of him to waste; he’ll take three strikes looking if they’re not quite where his bat wants them. I’d still be unmarried and undivorced with that attitude, but the game is easy for Eleven Junior. When I played, I wanted to rocket balls over the fence like a man with a vendetta, but mostly they glanced off my bat into the dugout sending teammates scrambling. When my boy’s hittin’em hard, there’s no better place than the ballpark, but I must do two things at once: observe the game and make stories on my laptop, where I’m the All Star. Tappity-tap. My characters play games I invent from positions I assign. Tappity-tap. Spouses and lovers toe the infield grass, relatives and workfriends pace their outfield patches, each with a part in the pageant, everyone focused on home. Senior is pitching to Junior. He shakes off signs until the catcher surrenders and lets him hurl it. I close my computer. Junior’s at the plate in a Bunt Situation while his coach pointlessly taps his earlobes, testicles, and elbows. Everyone glares at me as if I’d shouted out “Take Him Yard!” instead of just thinking it. Dads and coaches can’t just let the game happen to their kids. I watch him shrug and take another strike and wonder whether what he does will be of any consequence.
Original Copyright © FEB 27, 2007
Revised Copyright © MAR 05, 2026
Very Short Novels 