Fiction River: Superpowers: Fiction River: An Original Anthology Magazine

By Rebecca Moesta, Anthea Sharp, Lee Allred and 13 more

Many wish for superpowers. But even Superman has his kryptonite. These fifteen stories of super powerful young heroes/heroines demonstrate the humanity possible even among those possessed of great gifts. In this anthology for all ages, join a young girl who must protect those she loves most from a powerful evil, a young goddess who must decide whether to embrace her powers, and a young boy who must choose between superpowers and loyalty. This latest volume demonstrates why Adventures Fantastic says: "If you haven't checked out Fiction River yet, you should. There's something for everyone."

Table of Contents

"Villainous Aspirations" by Stefon Mears

"A Kiss Too Sweet" by Eric Kent Edstrom

"The Clunkety" by Brenda Carre

"Power Trip" by Lee Allred

"Pocket Full of Ashes" by Anthea Sharp

"The Ordinary" by Valerie Brook

"Dawn" by Jody Lynn Nye & Rebecca Moesta

"Fatty Boombalatty" by Kerrie L. Hughes

"Passion for the Game" by Brigid Collins

"Just Stop It!" by David H. Hendrickson

"Normal Boy" by Rebecca M. Senese

"Sophie Rosenblatt, Hero At Large" by Annie Reed

"Flowers in Winter" by Kelly Washington

"Hidden Talents" by Dayle A. Dermatis

"The Ballad of Osmosis McGuire" by Travis Heerman

"This anthology is dedicated to teenage superheroes, much like the ones that have captured the popular imagination. While written for a YA audience, the tales in this collection can reach all ages. … The stories in this anthology are reflections on the inner conflicts of the human heart. Superhero stories should be human stories after all, and that is always worth your time."

—Tangent Online

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Nov 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386366461

Book preview

Fiction River: Superpowers

Fiction River: Superpowers

An Original Anthology Magazine

Edited by Rebecca Moesta

Series Editors

Kristine Kathryn Rusch & Dean Wesley Smith

WMG Publishing Inc.

Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Introduction to Villainous Aspirations

Villainous Aspirations

Introduction to A Kiss Too Sweet

A Kiss Too Sweet

Introduction to The Clunkety

The Clunkety

Introduction to Power Trip

Power Trip

Introduction to Pocket Full of Ashes

Pocket Full of Ashes

Introduction to The Ordinary

The Ordinary

Introduction to Dawn

Dawn

Introduction to Fatty Boombalatty

Fatty Boombalatty

Introduction to Passion for the Game

Passion for the Game

Introduction to Just Stop It!

Just Stop It!

Introduction to Normal Boy

Normal Boy

Introduction to Sophie Rosenblatt, Hero at Large

Sophie Rosenblatt, Hero at Large

Introduction to Flowers in Winter

Flowers in Winter

Introduction to Hidden Talents

Hidden Talents

Introduction to The Ballad of Osmosis McGuire

The Ballad Of Osmosis McGuire

About The Editor

Fiction River: Year Five

Fiction River Presents

Foreword

Superheroes

I watch waaaay too much superhero television. I know I’m not in the CW’s prime demographic, but I’m one of its most diligent viewers. I watch everything, from Supergirl to Arrow. Even when it’s stupid. Especially when it’s stupid. Because then I have a chance to explore—in my own mind, usually—what makes the idea stupid and why I don’t believe it.

I’m also the first in line for all the superhero movies. I watch the trailers over and over, waiting for the Easter eggs. I also watch the spin-off shows, particularly the Marvel shows on Netflix, which are grim and dark and noir, which I absolutely love.

My very favorite superhero is the Batman, not because of his extra-special powers, but because he doesn’t have any. He’s just a guy with some cool tech who takes matters into his own hands. And, oh yeah, he’s very grim and very dark.

So when Rebecca Moesta proposed Superpowers to Dean and me, I have to admit I was a bit leery. Rebecca had given us a Young Adult Fiction River before, but Sparks seemed more suited to YA content, at least to my mind. Then I went on a YA binge, and realized that some of my ideas about YA fiction were stuck in the previous century. Perhaps the book that convinced me the most was All American Boys by Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely, which won the Coretta Scott King Author Honor award.

The boys in that book were just trying to live their lives, and in so doing, became everyday heroes. They also lived in a noir world.

So, I figured, Rebecca’s superhero anthology could include noir. And it does. But it also contains humor and pathos and heart. Lots and lots and lots of heart.

From their earliest beginnings, superheroes have been metaphors for our better selves. Superman, born outside of the United States, so embraces our country that he embodies Truth, Justice, and The American Way. Wonder Woman got her start in the 1940s, while women were serving the cause at home by doing all those jobs that women had been told just a decade before that they were too delicate to do. Spider-Man appeared during the Baby Boom era, when that generation was just beginning to discover its own strengths, strengths that were different from those of their parents.

The kids in the Superpowers stories live that metaphoric larger-than-life existence. They will face questions the rest of us only dream about. Maybe some of them will become repeat superheroes.

Although it doesn’t matter. Because in these stories, the kids are the heroes. Not their superpowers. Not the secret sauce or radioactive spider that gives them abilities the rest of us can only dream about. But the kids’ innate sense of right and wrong.

That’s the other thing we ask of our superheroes. We ask them to fall on the right side of the line, every time. Otherwise, they’ll become super villains—as a few of the characters here struggle with.

What makes a superhero? Is it the superpower? Or the super-willingness to block a bullet for someone weaker? Or is it something else entirely?

You’ll find the answers to those questions and more inside this volume. Superpowers has its own superpower: the power to make us all believe, if only for a little while.

—Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Lincoln City, OR

May 3, 2017

Introduction

In Praise of Kryptonite

Have you ever wondered why Jerry Siegel created kryptonite instead of just letting Superman have free rein with his incredible superpowers? As a kid, I found the very idea of kryptonite upsetting. I mean, x-ray and heat vision, flight, and invulnerability, as well as super-level strength, speed, and hearing, just for starters. Why mess with perfection?

Because perfection can be a problem.

Why? Is it because power can cause corruption? Or because perfection is not humanly possible? In any case, superpowers are tricky things. The makers of myths were also careful of them. Even gods and heroes weren’t usually portrayed as perfect. The expression Achilles’ heel comes from a millennia-old legend about a hero who was invulnerable, except on one small part of his body.

Imperfection is human. Without an Achilles’ heel, without kryptonite, there is no humanity. Whether a person has enormous talent, wealth, strength, or some other enviable quality, none of us is immune to personal tragedy, family troubles, or health difficulties. In fact, no one is life-proof. That’s what makes us human.

Those of us who are writers often give a weakness to a character who has great ability, whether that character is the hero or the villain. It helps us explore their humanity. On the other hand, we sometimes create characters without weaknesses as a way to explore the potential for inhumanity.

And so, I’ve come to be very forgiving of kryptonite, even grateful for it. It becomes a touchstone to what is real in all of us: our flaws, which do not make us lesser beings, but human beings.

The stories in this book explore themes like love, loyalty, security, and freewill, sometimes with pathos, sometimes with humor, but always, always with humanity.

—Rebecca Moesta

Monument, Colorado

December 1, 2016

Introduction to Villainous Aspirations

Stefon Mears has become a Fiction River regular. Villainous Aspirations marks his fourth appearance in the anthology series, and, for the second time in less than a year, one of his powerful stories leads off the issue. Quest for Beer, began our Tavern Tales issue in January. He has also had stories in No Humans Allowed and Visions of the Apocalypse.

In hindsight, Stefon’s appearance in this issue might have seemed preordained. He spent his own youth inventing, in his words, "a thousand superheroes and super villains. All because I played roleplaying games. Champions, DC Heroes, Marvel Superheroes, Villains and Vigilantes, Superworld...I played them all. Still do. My copies of those old games are on my shelves right now, alongside plenty of company."

His interest in superpowers became a natural part of his fiction. Two of his novel series, The Telepath Trilogy and Tales from Power City, feature characters with superpowers. You can find out more about his writing and read more of his short fiction on his website, stefonmears.com.

Villainous Aspirations

Stefon Mears

Sorry about that first entry. Mrs. Jacobsen—she’s the psych teacher making us all write these journals—she said that she didn’t care what we wrote, as long as we could show her at least three new full pages every morning.

She even said we could fill three pages with swear words, as long as we had the commitment to do it longhand. I had to test that theory.

Plus, it pretty much guaranteed she’d never read any of this. And it’s not like I can talk to anyone else about it. Heck, when the semester’s over I’ll probably burn the whole notebook, just to make sure it doesn’t fall into the hands of one of Mom and Dad’s enemies.

In fact, with them in mind, I’m keeping identifying information out of this. No real names. No dates. Mom and Dad work hard to maintain their secret identities, and even with my soon-to-be new identity as a budding villain I can’t bring myself to just out them.

I guess I should back up a step.

Mom and Dad, well, everyone knows who they are. Seen them on the news beating up the bad guys and saving the day. Or seen them in person at some rally for decency or the homeless or some other cause, or just streaking through the sky at speeds that should be causing sonic booms, but somehow never do.

Yadda yadda yadda.

Didn’t even know they were married, did you? See, that’s how good they are at the secret identity game. When everyone’s looking, all they see are co-workers for justice and the American Way.

They’re not aliens, either, no matter what Dad likes to tell the press when he’s wearing his tights. Dad really is from Ohio, and Mom’s from Boston.

No, they got their powers from this hunk of meteorite that Dad calls the Stone of Truth. He claims the stone looks into your heart and soul and, if you are worthy, grants you powers to defend mankind and...

Something. I forget. Honestly, I pretty much tune that crap out. Once he gets going, he can ramble with the best of them.

Besides. Take a science class sometime, Dad. It’s called radiation. Look it up. No, I don’t know why it messes with your DNA and lets you do things that drive physicists crazy—like picking up a bus by the fender! Seriously, Dad, how does that work? Why doesn’t the fender rip free?—when all those rads should just make your hair fall out and kill you.

Anyway, despite being the only begotten son of two freaks of nature, I was born perfectly normal. I’ve always been a pretty good natural athlete, but that just meant I could dunk a basketball and throw a fastball hard enough to interest some college scouts.

Maybe even get me a scholarship, which would be nice because Mom and Dad might be able to punch an alien spaceship into orbit, but they can’t manage money to save our lives. Seriously, it’s a good thing they never use that crappy health plan Dad has through...

Yeah, I shouldn’t say where they work. Let’s just say that they aren’t raking in the big bucks, and a scholarship is the only way I’m getting into any of my first choice schools.

That may all change tonight. Yes. I can’t wait. Tonight is my...well, let’s just say it’s a big day in the life of any young man, and after the party is over and everyone’s gone home, that’s when the real celebration begins.

Tonight, Dad’s going to expose me to the Stone of Truth.

Wow. Just...

Okay. It’s a Saturday, and I don’t even have to write in this today, but...

So, the party was awesome. No names, but my best friend talked—how do I say this?—that certain cheerleader into giving me a kiss for every year. And she didn’t stop there. Suffice to say that while Mom and Dad were out at the movies—read, on patrol—a good time was had by all.

Then everyone went home, and Mom and Dad got back. Mom tried using those senses of hers to tell whether or not anything had gotten out of hand, but I’ve long since become an expert at cleaning up after myself. I’m more than good enough to hide any incriminating evidence, which I feel will suit me well in my new career.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

No one knows that we have a basement. Not some kind of secret super lair full of advanced technology or anything. It’s just storage. But Dad built it himself under the garage because the kind of trophies Mom and Dad store aren’t the kind they want to keep in a safety deposit box. Scrap from an alien spaceship. Trinkets from the lair of this villain or that villain. Their news clippings. They keep all that crap.

Anyway, the trap door is at the back of the immaculate garage. Seriously. Immaculate. It smells like lemons. Dust would not dare settle on the floor in there. Even spiders think the possibility of a decent meal is too slim to be worth the bother.

The center area is wide enough for both their unnoticeable midline sedans to park, but Mom and Dad just use the driveway, like everyone else. So the whole big middle area is empty. When I was a kid, they used to put a bouncy palace in it on my birthday.

Should give you some idea of how big the garage is.

Along the outside wall are the emergency supplies. Crates of rations, water, water purifiers, first aid equipment, all that kind of stuff. Enough to supply the whole block for years. Which is probably the plan. The opposite wall holds the stained oak workbench that has only ever been used by me. Back when I was in the scouts and thought wood carving was the coolest thing ever. All my old tools are still hanging from the pegboard above the workbench. Fifteen different blades for cutting, shaping and gouging wood.

I was such a dork.

Anyway, the trap door is all the way at the back, under a pile of steamer trunks. Because it’s not like Mom and Dad can’t slide them all to one side with a single finger. Dad buffs the floor every so often, but you can still see the scuff marks on the concrete if you look hard enough.

The drop into the basement is thirty feet. No stairs. No ladder. The light switch is in the middle of the ceiling. I was twelve the first time I tied a rope to the steamer trunks and went down there. Fourteen before I mastered swinging on that length of rope to reach the light switch on the first try.

They caught me, and doubled the number of steamer trunks. The locks are all just slightly bent in enough to keep me from picking them to empty them out. Not that it matters much. I think they filled the trunks with rocks.

I haven’t been back since.

At exactly midnight, Mom poked her head into my room. Without knocking. As usual. As though she thought she’d catch me doing more than reading a thriller. Not that I could focus on it anyway. Probably read the same page for the last half hour.

Anyway, she was wearing those goofy plaid pajamas. Celebrating her Irish heritage with garish green and gold. Whatever. Better than seeing my mom in lingerie, however much those men’s magazines would offer for the pictures.

By the way. She really does smell like apple pie. All the kids at school think the newspapers made that up, but it’s true. Even when she hasn’t been baking. She just has to use extra perfume when she goes out in street clothing. Dad’s the same way. Goes through cologne like a fiend.

It’s time, she said.

She sounded as excited as I was. I wasn’t in pajamas though. I sleep in my boxers like a grown ass man, thank you very much. But since I knew Mom would come get me, I was still in my jeans and Three Coyotes concert tee.

I couldn’t play it cool though. Not yet.

I bounced off the bed, which got me that fifty megawatt smile of hers, but also that little conspiratory nose-wrinkle that I think she saves just for me.

She led the way into the garage, where Dad was waiting in his Sherlock Holmes pajamas. The ones plastered all over with book covers, from the original editions all the way through the reprints of the eighties.

Yeah, my dad’s pajamas were out of date. But he liked them that way.

Dad had that small smile. The one you see on the news sometimes, when he’s proud of himself for foiling some big world-breaking scheme, only he’s too humble to say so, so he shows the camera this smile just before he streaks off into the sky.

I used to ask Dad if he and Mom caused havoc for the F.A.A. He just gave me that damned smile and told me not to worry about it. He did remind me that the public doesn’t know Mom can fly without some kind of invisible conveyance.

After all, if everyone knew they had the same powers, there would be questions they wouldn’t want to answer.

The steamer trunks were all still in place, which surprised me. I almost thought I misunderstood. That Mom meant something else. But then I heard Mom close the door and I knew I was right. This was going to be The Moment.

Son, said Dad, I found the Stone of Truth when I was in college. Off hiking in the woods with—

Kenny. I know, Dad. It’s all I can do not to say the words along with him. I’ve heard this story like a thousand times. About how Kenny was his best friend. How it was on the third day of a five-day hike when the meteorite struck. How Dad was found worthy and got the superpowers, and how Kenny wasn’t, and it made him bitter. But Kenny was a brilliant student and went on to become some kind of super-scientist and Dad’s arch-nemesis.

(I’m sure you know who I mean now. And no, Kenny’s not his real name. If I’m not spoiling Mom and Dad’s secret identities, I’m not spoiling his either. Terrible thing to do to someone I hope to have as a peer.)

Anyway, I drifted a bit while Dad went on and on. I perked up when Mom took over, because it meant they were coming to the end.

...and when your father revealed his secret identity to me, I made him show me the Stone of Truth. The stories about him being an alien are such a part of our culture that I just had to see the evidence for myself.

Mom shook her head with that little snort of disbelief, like even after all these years she still can’t believe she got that lucky.

But when your dad opened that lead box and showed me the Stone, I could feel it looking into me. Just the way it looked into your father. And I was fortunate enough to have been judged worthy. The power began coursing through me and...well, the rest is history.

And now it’s your turn, said Dad.

He turned and slid the steamer trunks aside with a bare flick of his wrist and a screaming complaint of metal trim on concrete. He flipped open the trap door, dropped down, and flew back out again moments later holding a one-foot cube of lead.

I stepped forward, but Dad held up a halting hand.

One thing first. He waited until I settled back on my heels, but I couldn’t stop fidgeting anyway.

Your mother and I love you very much.

More than anything, Mom added.

And we want you to have this opportunity. I’d tell you that you don’t have to do it, but I can see the eagerness in your eyes. Wider, more relaxed smile from Dad this time, but then it was back to Serious Face. "But still. Though I always talk about the Stone of Truth judging who is worthy to receive power, remember that it came from the stars, though we did not. It is alien to us, and its logic and reason are alien as well. We do not, cannot, know what criteria it uses to judge on whom it bestows power. So, this is important!"

He could tell I was starting to drift again. I nodded for him to continue.

So, son, realize that the Stone might not grant you power. We have no way of knowing until we expose you to it.

But if it doesn’t, Mom continued as though they rehearsed for this, please know that we will not love you any less, or think any less of you. You’re our boy and we love you, and nothing will change that.

If the stone does not grant you power, this is not a failure on your part.

Guys! I waved my hands for attention. I’m not Kenny. If I don’t get any powers from the stone—it will eat me up inside for the rest of my life—I’ll just go off to college on a baseball scholarship and study hard while trying to make the majors.

That seemed to reassure them.

Dad closed the distance between us without a single step.

He opened the lead box.

Sorry, I had to answer the call of lunch and stick to my story through a kabillion questions.

There I was, standing in that immaculate, purified-lemon scented garage with my super-parents in their non-super-jammies while Dad finally opened the lead-lined box and exposed me to the little meteorite he calls the Stone of Truth.

It was my Moment of Truth.

I don’t know why, but I thought it would be green. It wasn’t.

The Stone was a chunk of roundish rock that looked kind of like amethyst, only orange instead of purple. And glowing. This amber haze pulsed out of it like a heartbeat. Expanding and contracting. Expanding and contracting.

It sort of rang and hummed at the same time. Like someone was trying to replicate the sound of a power line with one of those singing bowls.

And it smelled like candy corn. Which creeped me out, because it was almost Halloween.

Then the glow kind of caught my eye. Or my eye got caught in it. I’m not quite sure. It was like, one moment I was standing there in the garage with Mom and Dad, looking at a glowing rock Dad was holding in a lead box.

Then the next moment it’s just me and the rock. No Mom. No Dad. No lead box. Not even a garage. Just me and the rock, and its pulsating glow.

The glow didn’t seem to grow any brighter, but somehow it seemed to spread. Each pulsation came closer and closer, and I couldn’t move. Then I was inside the glow, rocking backward every time it expanded, and forward with each contraction.

And that humming-ringing sound got louder. And the smell stronger. I could even taste that waxy-sweet flavor, feel the texture on my teeth.

The glow was all through me now. My bones were ringing with the hum. My muscles pulsating. My eyes glowing. I was inside the rock. Or maybe it was inside me, because I was still on the outside, looking at it.

Then Dad closed the