This is posted by James who is hi-jacking Elisabeth's Login.
Sorry that this is so late.
My brother was telling me about a song that I just had to listen to. I watched it on youtube () and it gave me the germ of an idea about my ficathon story.
Later, I was reading The Girl Next Door, where Clark mentions that he hadn't thought about the media, a name or anything before he performed the shuttle rescue since he was still in the planning stages when his talents were required. The rest of this story was grown from that idea.
With many thanks to my husband for putting up with loud music while I wrote. Most of these songs are not his preference. (Actually, they’re not my favorites either, having been released before I was potty-trained.)
Additional thanks go to ToriWada for stepping out of her comfort zone to beta read these for me.
Out of Focus: A PR Nightmare By Elisabeth For Bobbart--I only wish there was room in the story for some good technobabble for you.
If I had known that the whole world would see, I would have handled it differently. But, of course, I didn’t know that at the time. How could I have known? If Lois Lane wasn't able to get a seat on Prometheus, I just assumed that press coverage onboard the shuttle was strictly forbidden.
It had all begun over Christmas break. My family and I had taken a break from the yearly traditions after the tinsel glittered from the tree, an angel adorned the highest branch, mistletoe hung above the dining room doorway and presents were crowded under the boughs.
I had told Mom in advance that I was hoping for some kind of a costume, with the idea that I would create a fictitious character that could be credited with rescuing people, giving me the opportunity to help out when I needed without putting my personal life at risk.
She was ready before I had even arrived. She had prepared about two dozen sketches. They reminded me of the artists’ renderings that were sent to the costume department before a movie was made. She had all kinds of different ideas. She spread out the drawings on the kitchen table and then we got to work. Dad got in on it, too. Some of them tended to be impractical, more sci fi than functional. Some of them were too trendy for what I had in mind. Some lacked the right look. Mom shied away from anything that had a mask, saying if it looked like I had something to hide then people were more likely to look too deeply. Dad wanted to make sure it wasn’t mamby pamby. I was pretty excited too, but none of them really suited my personality. I’m not very flashy or anything. I thought if it had elements of a military uniform or a policeman’s uniform I would look more trustworthy, but Dad pointed out that wouldn’t necessarily be the case. He was the one who had come back from Nam, so I took his word on it.
By the end of the evening, Mom had collected a bunch of our ideas on post-it notes. She sorted through them and made a few more sketches. She promised that she would see what she could do.
~*~
Early the next morning the sound of 1970s rock filled the farmhouse, masking the whir of Mom's sewing machine. Alice Cooper was singing School's Out for Summer while she was cut ting red stretchy fabric. I didn't mind that song that much, except that it was first thing in the morning on Christmas Day.
I took a walk. Eventually I made my way out to the fallow pasture. There was a whinny of welcome. Obviously Dad had agreed, once again, to house the Ishmeier's mare while the family traveled to Florida for the winter. The sky was gray, blocking the sun’s warmth and energy. I wouldn’t have minded if it were gray and snowy, but accompanied with brown grass and leafless trees it didn’t exactly put me into the Christmas spirit.
I decided not to dawdle out back. I didn’t want to delay the festivities, so after patting the horse’s nose I picked up the pace on the way back.
The farmhouse was practically vibrating with Hocus Pocus by Focus when I returned a short while later. I’ve never liked that song, even though Mom certainly does. It wasn’t the guitar that I didn’t like, it was the yodeling—particularly since it’s always reminded me of dolphins when the lead singer squealed like that. Maybe the song would make more sense if I spoke Dutch, but that was one of the few ports that I never called home. I’ve always suspected, however, that it would only make sense if I smoked dope before I listened to it.
Apparently Mom was more inspired than I was, however, since she had finished cutting fabrics and had started pinning pieces together.
At the moment, she was working with the leopard print fabric. Last night, Mom had suggested that she sew up three costumes. Dad had selected the design which featured primary colors, Mom had picked animal prints, and I chose a red suit with a spider theme and a mask.
I hung out for awhile, watching her work since we obviously weren’t ready to start the festivities yet. It was too loud for idle conversation, so I just leaned in the doorway until the song ended.
"How's it going?" I finally asked in the stillness after the song ended, but Edwin Starr interrupted before she had a chance to answer, wondering what war was good for. She shrugged and nodded. I smiled back, even though I wished that she would suddenly develop a yen to listen to the Temptations today instead of her normal fare.
Dad was standing in the kitchen peeking into the refrigerator when I caught up to him. "When do you think she'll be ready to open presents?" he wondered, yelling over the music.
"There's no telling." I watched as he rifled through the contents, trying to ascertain what was off-limits and what was fair game. "I'll make Christmas dinner, if I need to," I offered.
Since Mom wasn’t there, we each snagged a piece of ham and headed to the kitchen table to enjoy our stolen treasure.
Easy Rider was blaring into the kitchen when Mom came in a few minutes later. I grabbed and hid the booty before Dad and I were caught nibbling.
"Are you ready to open presents now?" Dad asked. I could tell that he was surprised to discover his food suddenly missing, but he hid it well.
"Let me get the zipper finished first," she requested, crossing to the coffee pot and refilling her mug. "I'm almost done. I saved myself a bunch of time by cutting like pieces together." She sipped carefully as she left.
I’m not exactly the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, but I have to say that I was disappointed. From the look on his face, I’m sure that Dad understood, too; he was practically pouting. It was just as if Mom had forgotten about Christmas.
"I'm sure we'll open presents eventually," I said, partly to convince myself.
"I sure hope so." He didn't look like he had been persuaded. "You know how your mother gets when she gets in touch with her artistic side."
I winced. If she turned her artistic side on full bore we might never have the opportunity to nibble on that relish tray, indulge in a full slice of ham, add an extra dollop of whipped cream to the homemade pie, toast with a glass of holiday cheer, kick back in front of It's a Wonderful Life, and--most important of all--open presents. "Maybe if we start singing Joy to the World it will get her into the Christmas spirit," I suggested.
"She'll probably just think it's a request for Three Dog Night," he countered morosely.
I refused to give up that easily. "Zippers don't take too long. Do they?"
Obviously they did. It was three long hours later before Mom returned to the kitchen. By the time she got there, I was almost done with the food preparations. She was bobbing her head to the beat of Riders on the Storm by The Doors.
"Are you ready to open presents?" Dad asked as soon as she got close enough.
"Almost." She smiled. "I wanted to finish all three costumes before I presented them. That way Clark can give each one an honest, equal appraisal when he sees them."
Dad groaned. "But you are going to have a break to eat lunch with us, aren't you?"
"Probably." She turned toward her sewing nook as the song changed. "Oh, Good Foot has the perfect beat to sew to. I'm working on my old machine. The heaviness of the metal is so much more stable than the newer plastic ones that I can really pick up some speed." She hurried out of the room, unaware of how disappointed the two men in her life were.
"We may not get to open those presents until next year," Dad whined.
"It won't be that bad. At some point they'll start playing Gypsy, Tramps and Thieves, and she won't feel like sewing fast anymore."
We weren't that fortunate, however. Good Foot was followed by Troglodyte and then Proud Mary and after that Temptation Eyes. Dinner was starting to turn cold.
"I'm going to go talk to her," Dad finally decided. "Enough is enough." He marched brusquely back to her corner and announced, "I'm serving the food. Are you coming?"
She looked up, startled. "I'll be right in. Just let me get to the end of this seam." He didn't bother waiting for her, instead storming back to the table and taking his place in his usual chair.
I hesitated while he filled his plate. On the one hand, it was well past time to serve Christmas dinner. On the other, Mom's chair was so obviously empty.
It just didn't feel like Christmas. It was supposed to be about family, togetherness, the feeling of... something more than this.
I missed Mom. I missed the laughing, the food, the presents, the Christmas carols.
At the moment, the house was pulsating with the bass line of a song I didn't even recognize. "Did you guys really listen to all of this stuff?" I asked, unable to keep the bellyaching out of my tone.
"Martha did," he answered around a bite of ham. "I was more of a Lion Sleeps Tonight/Popcorn/Mr. Bojangles kind of a guy. I liked Donny Osmond, Sonny and Cher, and the Carpenters. Grandpa and I listened to some Marty Robins and John Denver, too. She’s always been more of a free spirit than I am." He glanced over at Clark's still empty plate. "You better eat up; I don't plan on leaving a lot of leftovers for dawdlers."
I obediently put a token amount of food on my plate, but I didn’t really eat anything. I just pushed the food around in circles on my plate to make it look good.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. I just wanted the ability to help out when needed without risking everything. Since Mom was such a good seamstress and since I was going to be in Smallville anyway... I hadn't realized that I would be sacrificing Christmas for it.
"Are we going to open up presents without Mom?" I asked, truly pouting this time.
"I should hope not," Mom answered from the kitchen doorway. "Did you save me any food?"
"It's a good thing you made it in here before I reached for seconds," Dad grumbled.
She laughed lightly, even though I wasn’t sure that he was joking. "It's a very good thing."
She fixed a plate. We all chewed carefully for several minutes, the tension still thick in the air.
It was Mom who eventually broke the silence. "So, have you two been having a good Christmas without me?"
"It hasn't been Christmas without you," I blurted out, hating myself even as I said it. I didn’t want to argue, knowing that it would ruin the day. But since the day had already been destroyed, there wasn’t much left to lose. "It's been more of an oldies sewing-fest than a Christmas."
Mom looked shocked. I had never been the type for the rebellious outburst, so she probably didn’t know what to do with me.
“Is that what you think this is?” She sounded offended.
“It hasn’t exactly been a piece of mince pie,” Dad pointed out.
“It’s like you’ve forgotten Christmas,” I told her, more calmly this time.
“I haven’t forgotten Christmas,” she protested. Her gaze softened as she stood and crossed behind me. “I certainly haven’t forgotten you.”
Her hand rubbed my shoulder gently. I leaned against her. I would never be too old for a hug from Mom.
“This whole project was a big Christmas present for you. I thought you both understood that.”
She pulled out her chair and sat down again. The mood was different this time. She was really joining us, instead of mentally continuing her sewing while she physically sat in the kitchen.
“Most parents give their children wings when they’re much younger than you are.” She chuckled lightly. “You never needed that from us though. But now I’m able to give you a much greater gift--freedom. I’m hoping that you’ll finally have the freedom to live up to your full potential.”
I put my hand on hers, suddenly realizing how much of a self-centered jerk I’d been.
“You should have said something earlier,” Dad protested, but I knew that I had never given her the benefit of the doubt.
“If it’ll make you feel better, I can finish sewing tomorrow,” she offered.
“Presents!” I exalted like a five-year-old.
“I suppose it’s too late to send him back to bed so that we can get one more hour of sleep,” Dad joked.
Mom laughed as she fondly remembered bygone years. “I guess I’ll have to wait to serve up the pie, then. We’ll finish dinner, and then we’ll open presents.”
We smiled together as the band played on in the other room. We were spending Christmas together, regardless of the play list.
~*~
Mom must have quietly sewed all night long, because there were three more shirt boxes waiting for me when I awoke the next morning. Both she and Dad were beaming as I opened them up to reveal some spandex outfits that looked as if they were way too small.
“You gonna’ give us a fashion show?” Dad requested.
“Do you have any good strutting music?” I wondered as I headed back to my old bedroom.
“I’ll see what I can dig up,” he informed me.
It took me a long time to come out of my room after I tried on the first outfit. I felt ridiculous. The leopard skin made me look like a reject from Sherwood Forest. There was a wide leather belt that might have looked better wrapped across my forehead than it did dangling loosely around my hips.
I moaned, knowing Mom and Dad would want to see it. Mom had worked so hard that I didn’t have the heart to tell her how much I hated it.
I resignedly opened the door, but Dad hollered at me to wait for a second until he had finished cueing the music. I rolled my eyes. I hadn’t expected to be taken literally.
I could hear as he skipped his way through the verse, but I good-naturedly waited until he loudly blared the chorus before I emerged from my bedroom.
Dad looked amused as he watched me. Mom surveyed her work critically before she finally realized the obvious. She shook her head wordlessly. This outfit was a flop.
The next box was more promising. It contained the spider-guy costume that I was so inspired by.
I hoped that by choosing a theme for the character it would be easier to immerse myself in the role.
I could have quickly changed outfits, but I dillydallied knowing that Dad was looking for the next song in the fashion show.
It had potential, I realized as I glanced at myself in the mirror, adjusting the suit self-consciously. Mom had gone above and beyond to get everything just right. It looked as if she had hand-painted a web pattern across the red fabric which covered my feet, the top of my arms, and most of my chest. The blue fabric that made up the rest of the suit added a nice contrast. What really made the outfit stand out, though, was the dark spider she had painted across the center of my chest and the large, brilliant red spider that covered the expanse of my back. It was cool in a way that only a teenage boy could truly appreciate.
There was only one thing wrong with the outfit. My face.
I looked out of place in this outfit. There was nothing wrong with it on the surface; it just wasn’t mine. It needed a mask with spider eyes to complete the look.
But Mom was right about the mask. It wouldn’t work for me. Lois would be all over a public figure if she thought he had something to hide.
I chuckled as Dad played, “You’re so Vain,” as I emerged from my bedroom a long while later. I snubbed my nose up and strutted down the hall like a snooty model.
Dad liked the look of this one better. I could tell it because he wasn’t laughing at me anymore.
Mom appraised it more carefully.
“I think it’s in the running,” I told her cautiously.
She nodded her tentative agreement.
The third box contained the design that Dad liked. It was simple and straightforward, just like a Kansas farmer. Of course, a Kansas farmer would have picked blue plaid instead of blue tights with a red Speedo and a yellow belt.
Mom thought that the red cape would look great when I was flying. I wasn’t so sure about that, but then again I’d never watched myself fly.
I tried it on. I had to admit that I liked what I saw.
It was a basic enough design that it could be a trademark image. It was different enough from everyday clothing that it could be its own kind of identifiable uniform.
Basically, it just fit.
Dad was playing, “It’s Your Thing,” as I came into the family room this time. It was possible that the song was right. Perhaps this was my thing.
“What do you think?” I asked as soon as I walked into the room. I was hoping that one of the designs would be acceptable; I was going back to work tomorrow.
“It’s colorful,” he mused. I wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
“This one might be a keeper,” Mom quietly assessed. She smiled at her own thoughts. “For one thing, nobody will be looking at your face.”
“Mom!” I scoffed; surprised that she would say such a suggestive thing about me.
She chuckled, grinning at Dad. “Well, they don’t call them tights for nothing. But the good thing is that it doesn’t look like anything you would normally wear.”
“Right,” I agreed, letting the joshing slide. “Because it won’t be me. It’ll just be a character that I play.”
Dad frowned. “It’s missing something.”
She tipped her head and looked at me again. “You may be right.”
“It needs something like that half-man/half-spider suit did. An emblem... A crest... A symbol...”
“But not a spider,” I decided firmly. I didn’t want the same problem with this suit that I had with the last.
“What about that thing that they shipped with Clark when he first arrived?” she suggested.
“What thing?” I asked uncomfortably. Hopefully it wouldn’t look too babyish.
“Is it still in your grandfather’s chest?” she asked, as if I weren’t even there.
“Probably. I never move anything in this house.”
I could tell that she was biting her tongue not to give a sarcastic quip in reply, but instead she quietly headed toward the sun porch to fetch whatever it was that they were talking about. She was blowing the dust off of an old manila envelope when she returned.
“How about this?” She pulled out what appeared to be an iron-on decal. It was a stylized ‘S’ in the perfect shade of red, surrounded by a gold that was a bit too dark for the rest of my outfit. It was outlined in that same red color, although the shape was something to behold. It was like a triangle kissing a pentagon.
She handed it to=2 0me. I wandered into the front hallway to get a better look at myself in the old mirror by the door that only company used.
I held it up to my chest, off to the side where a pocket would go in a t-shirt.
Dad looked at my reflection over my shoulder. “I don’t know...”
“What if I borrowed an embroidery machine and made a big one that could go right in the middle.”
I tried to imagine what that looked like, but I just couldn’t fathom it.
Mom ran off to quickly sketch what she had in mind. I had to admit that it wasn’t a bad idea.
“I could make another one with gold letters on a g old background for the cape. I think it would really pop.”
“But if you used gold letters on a gold background, wouldn’t it just be a big gold thing? How would you know what it said?”
“The texture would change,” she pointed out. “But it would probably be okay if I faintly outlined it in red for those with blurry vision.”
I decided to change back into my normal clothes while the two of them worked out the details.
When I came back Mom took the suit from me to tack the small symbol on, just to give us a working idea of what the finished model would look like. Thankfully, she left the music turned off today.
Dad and I sat down to watch TV while we waited. I wasn’t in the mood for The Big Ten Network, so Dad channel surfed until we landed on a live news broadcast.
“It’s the Prometheus launch,” I informed him.
“I hadn’t realized that was today,” he mused while he adjusted his feet on the ottoman.
“It was pushed back because of the sabotage thing.”
Dad nodded.
It had been my first big story at the Daily Planet. Lois and I had exposed how heating units had been substituted for the coolant system onboard the shuttle. The launch had been delayed long enough to correct the design flaw. It put them at the end of their launch window, but at least the program was saved.
It still bothered me that we hadn’t figured out who had spearheaded the sabotage effort. What kind of a nutcase went after civilians anyway? </ div>
Perhaps that was the whole point. This was the first time that a civilian colony would be launched into space. The low-gravity science lab was an historic moment. Maybe some kook just wanted to rewrite history.
Mom returned with the latest version of the costume, so I went back to my room to try it on.
“What do you think?” I asked when I returned. “Is it better?”
Mom muted the TV and turned around.
“Maybe,” Dad decided quickly. “Although I think it’ll look better when it isn’t just a dinky thing. I don’t like the red slippers, either. I think it needs boots. Not like those lace-up boots with the animal outfit, but something more functional than what we have here.”
They continued with their assessments, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore. There was a new ticker on the screen explaining that the countdown had been suspended. I grabbed the remote and adjusted the volume again.
It didn’t sound as if the news anchors knew what was going on, but I didn’t need to be told. The saboteurs were back.
“I’ve gotta go,” I said t o my parents, determined that this was the right time to make my debut. I opened the front door to the farmhouse and took to the air.
Even as I zipped through the sky I knew I wasn’t ready for this. It suddenly occurred to me that I didn't have a clue what I was doing. I had done the occasional grab to snatch someone from the jaws of death before, but never on this scale. This was the space program. Surely I needed a few weeks training at Quantico before I was allowed to get near something of this magnitude.
I glanced down at the costume I was wearing. It wasn’t even finished, although it was close enough to being done that nobody outside of my family would know that.
It wasn’t difficult to find the Prometheus rocket, but once I was there I wasn’t sure where to go. The most logical place to go for answers was Mission Control. At least, that was the most logical place to go if I were looking for computer readouts and bureaucratic what-not. I didn’t need that. I wanted to go where the action was.
I made a quick decision and crossed over to what I assumed were the main shuttle doors. Even as I forced the door open, I tried to make sure that it would close properly the next time it was needed for a launch. I paused just inside the doors to scan for whatever the problem might be. I wasn’t sure what sabotage would sound like, look like, or smell like; but I hoped that I would know it when I saw it.
I didn’t find sabotage, but I did find another source of trouble. Lois was on-board.
Leave it to Lois to find her way past the tightest security on earth, only to land along the threshold of death’s door. I knew that she had tried to get official=2 0clearance to go along for the trip. I should have guessed that, once denied, she would do anything for the story--even if it weren’t exactly legal.
Of course, she was also the most likely person onboard to know what the source of the alarm was about. I straightened my back, trying to look heroic, as I strode with superficial confidence to the compartment she had secreted herself inside.
As I looked into her eyes, however, I suddenly fell apart. There was no way she wouldn’t recognize me. I was about to become the laughingstock of the newsroom. She would tell Cat and Ralph that I ran around in flashy spandex and tights, pretending to be something big and important when I was still just the green country boy who couldn’t figure out how to write his way out of a paper bag.
Luckily she was too distracted to mention right away about how ridiculous I looked, not to mention how far out of my league I was behaving.
She pointed over my shoulder at a bundle of wires. “It’s... It’s a bomb!”
I had done my fair share of rescues in the past: helping to pull victims out of wreckage, searching for survivors after a natural disaster, and that sort of thing. I tried to stay as low-key and in the shadows in the past. I knew immediately that a bomb was far beyond my level of expertise. Certainly it wouldn’t cause me any harm, but I had no idea which wire to pull to ensure that nobody else would be harmed either.
Acting on instinct, I pulled the bomb into my hands. Immediately, I knew that I had already made a rooky mistake. What if the thing had exploded as soon as it moved? Didn’t professional bomb guys put motion detectors and stuff like that inside? So far I had lucked out, but I just knew that my luck wouldn’t hold. I had to get rid of the bomb before I made another mistake. I didn’t want to be responsible for blowing up the Space Program, not to mention my beautiful co-worker.
On the other hand, I didn’t want to fly out of the shuttle holding a bomb. I could just see the news reports stating that the alien invasion had begun with a single attacker who had bombed civilian space travelers. It didn’t make for good press.
With no other alternatives and no more time to consider my options, I just opened my mouth as wide as I could and crammed the entire explosive device inside. The metallic taste was enough to turn my stomach, but I didn’t dare gag it back out again. I clamped my teeth shut instead and swallowed as hard as I could. I braced for impact, but it wasn’t enough. As the bomb exploded it released enough gases that I couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer. My stomach rumbled angrily as I let loose a belch that could make a drunker sailor green with envy.
I glanced up to see Lois caught uncharacteristically wordless. Her jaw was literally dropped.
I felt the blush creep up my cheeks. I wasn’t exactly making the suave first impression that I had hoped for.
“Excuse me,” I muttered. She didn’t answer. I laughed nervously. “Sorry. I’m kind of new at this.”
The minute the words were out of my mouth I wanted to take them back. I hadn’t planned on revealing that little secret. I wasn’t sure how I had planned on behaving, but I was hoping at the very least to look the part of a professional instead of some nincompoop who after playing the part of a superhero on his weekend role-playing games finally fell off the deep end.
At least Lois didn’t seem too unimpressed. On the contrary, she still seemed at a loss for words. I knew that if she ever realized exactly how badly I was doing at this she would have an impressive list of colorful metaphors to describe me.
“Who... Who are you?”
It was too bad I hadn’t spent all of those hours at the farmhouse coming up with a back-story about who I was and where I had come from. But no; I had wasted all of that time complaining about the music instead.
I tried to think fast. Maybe I should tell her that I was the product of a scientific lab. After all, Mom and Dad had often wondered if I had been some kind of a Russian experiment aimed at leveling the playing field after the Cuban missile crisis. But I had no way of proving I was the product of a top-secret government lab, whether that was on the outskirts of Minsk, Russia or up in the boonies around Eureka, Oregon. Furthermore, I didn’t want to create an international incident.
It was better to say that I had extraterrestrial origins. That way nobody could go looking for the documentation that backed up my test-tube birth.
Lois straightened, as if suddenly remembering that she was a reporter at the scene of one of the most pivotal moments in history. “What does the ‘S’ stand for?” she asked, indicating the symbol at my chest.
I hadn’t=2 0taken the time to come up with a name. Beyond saving the world, I hadn’t given any of this a second thought.
I squelched the first word that came to mind. ‘Smallville’ wasn’t what I was looking for. I opened my mental thesaurus and started perusing the adjectives: saccharine, sappy, sensational, serendipitous, shallow, silly, sophisticated, splendid, stupendous, supreme, surly, sweet, suave... None of them were right. I could just imagine going through life as a Suaveman. It wasn’t pretty. I would probably be asked to do commercials for shaving cream and beauty products with cheap, artificial ingredients.
Inspiration struck and I went with it. If I had known that the whole world was watching this moment on a live feed broadcast by LNN News, I would have handled it differently. But, of course, I didn’t know that at the time. I naturally assumed that if Lois Lane wasn't able to get an official seat on Prometheus, that press coverage onboard the shuttle was strictly not allowed. I was too distracted at the time to notice the small camera outside the door.
I didn’t realize that the one pivotal moment would be shown in slow motion on billions of screens around the globe. I only thought I needed to impress the one girl. I figured that I would go home and flesh out the rest of the details before I had to deal with the rest of the fourth estate.
I had no way of knowing that the entire world had seen me chewing down an explosive device. But the bomb thing was entirely out of my control. What followed was a mess that was entirely of my own making.
I thought back to the stupid music that mom had been playing while she sewed. The guys yodeling in that insipid band, Focus, had always reminded me of dolphins trying to leave one last message for any orbiting space aliens. Surely with my ability to move just shy of the speed of light I could vibrate my vocal cords in a way that could take the sound up an octave or two above the highest human voices, just enough to make it=2 0sound like an out-of-this-world dialect.
“It doesn’t translate well,” I told Lois, with newly found confidence. “Up there,” I pointed toward the heavens mysteriously, “it stands for...”, and I let loose with a long string of yodels, yelps, chirrups, and tweets, ending on a prominent hiccup.
Her eyes squinted closed in pain at the torrent of sound.
I shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe you could just call me Stan.”
She shook her head, as if to clear it. I hoped that I hadn’t addled her brain. It would be just my luck to randomly locate the resonant frequency of her cerebellum. “I’ll come up with something,” she promised, distractedly, tipping her head to the side and tapping her ear like a swimmer who had just belly flopped.
I took the opportunity to push past her, back out into the hallway. It was in that moment that I saw the camera, with the microphone hanging beneath which was prominently marked ‘LNN.’
I froze. All of a sudden I knew that everyone had seen my sophomoric entrance. I awkwardly smiled for the camera. My hand waved of its own accord. I sounded like a dweeb as the words escaped my mouth. “Merry Christmas, Mom.”
At least, I was pretty sure that my next outing as Stan the Alien Man would be better. It certainly couldn’t be any worse.
Bobbart:
Three things I want in my fic:
1. A secret revealed 2. A misunderstanding resolved 3. Smallville or at least a talk20with Martha
