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As a child, he reconciled a mother with her daughter by asking a naive question. “Do you want to die angry at her?” he asked. And with that, he completed his life’s work but continued living for thousands of insignificant days with nothing to do but digest resources and blindly gaze on the loveliness of the earth. To pass the time, he taught himself to conjure complex flavors in his kitchen. While his garden thrived, he merely survived the seasons. He grappled with partners on whatever bed was nearest, once each. And while his landscaping matured, his attitudes grew thorns until his friends stopped calling. Without much interest or insight, he ran another man’s business, which prospered despite his guidance, rebounded with the economy, and was absorbed by an abstract conglomerate that immediately severenced him. Already superfluous, now also redundant, he nevertheless lived on, collecting dividends and stacking up honors like boardroom chairs. He told risky jokes in mixed company with mixed results, texted recklessly, and died in a Truth-or-Dare wildlife incident without redeeming a penny of his pension. His loves were many if shallow, and his passions were varied if a little oblique, but the good earth never took to him. He left behind a modest estate and a widow who was mostly annoyed. Once he had kept his appointment with the mother and her daughter, once he had asked his question, he could have misspent his life anywhere he chose, failed at any enterprise, followed any impulse. Nothing could have undone his achievement. As for the mother and daughter, they drowned together in a lifeboat, or just outside a lifeboat, but together, thus completing their life’s work, not by reconciling—that was his job—but by reminding him briefly, as alligators devoured him, of all that he had accomplished.
Original Copyright © 1999
Revised Copyright © March 25, 2026
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
Very Short Novels 