Prompt: Write a story containing the words 'truncheon', 'feathers', 'ghost', 'failure' and "cloak"

A figure lurked on the brown brick-tiles typical for the roofs in the Merchant District. The impression of a wraith comes to mind, with the dark, tattered cloak fluttering in the moonless night, if not for the gasps and occasional stumble.

The nightwalker stopped his skulking and hunched over, taking deep breaths while glancing around the empty roof. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and whispered: “Is it this one?”

Small specks of silver flickered next to him. The specks turned into smoke and swirled together, forming a pale blue fire the size of an adult’s hand.

“No, you moron, I just said the guards went for a snack. Another fifty paces to the left,” said the mystic fire, its voice hoarse and crackling like burning wood. 

The light from the fire revealed the cloaked individual. He was barely a man, with curly black hair plastered on his sweaty forehead and large, deer-like eyes glancing around. Underneath his cloak was a scrawny build with a leather belt holding several bags and pouches. A truncheon was holstered to one side and rope gathered across a shoulder. He whispered between clenched teeth, “Language, Vima.” 

The boy proceeded to the left, counting softly the steps while the fire began to run circles around his head.

“I thought we went through the plan already back home,” ranted Vima. “But now, not even an hour after we’ve begun, you forget step one.”

“Be nice,” whispered the youngling as he reached fifty and started to slowly dislodge the roof tiles. “And lower your voice, don’t draw any attention.”

“You know that you’re the only one that can see or hear me,” said Vima with a sneer. 

“Then don’t distract me,” responded the youngling.

“I think the noises you made across the roofs were more distracting,” said the fire, spinning around faster.

The youngling stopped with his work and put out a palm to block the fire’s path. He gathered the flames with both his hands and looked at the light. Dark circles were prominent under his eyes.

“Vima, please,” he said softly. “You’ve been nagging from the start. What’s going on?”

The pale blue flame shrunk in size and its brightness dimmed.

“Sorry, Jorn,” said Vima. Its voice was raspy and smoky, no longer crackling. “I’m just nervous.”

“So am I but I don’t insult my partner because of that,” said Jorn. He released the fire and continued with removing the tiles. “Starting to have second thoughts about this whole thing?”

The flame burst into molten red and its size grew twice, “Of course not!” 

Then the mystic fire retreated back to ghostly blue. It floated upwards and landed softly on top of Jorn’s hood. “It’s just… we’re not stealing from the butcher or that shabby inn. We’re going to steal from one of the wealthiest merchants in Stormwall. I just want it to go smoothly.” The flames weakened slightly. “Don’t want this to be our first failure.”

“It won’t fail,” comforted Jorn and opened his cloak. “Look, I’m armed to the teeth. I’m prepared for anything!”

“Yeah, I’m not sure if you had to bring everything from the cottage,” said Vima. “Will you even be able to carry some gold home?”

“Muira said to always be prepared for whatever situation,” said Jorn wiping away sweat from his forehead. “And you don’t have any say since you insisted on that bag of feathers.”

“Hey, it's stylish,” said Vima. “And it weighs much less than that hammer.”

“It might come to use,” said Jorn. “What better way to be prepared than this?”

“If there’s a risk, just avoid it completely,” muttered the fire. “Less to carry at least.”

“You can’t avoid everything,” said Jorn. The fire was going to reply, but the way Jorn said it made Vima shut up.

Jorn picked out a knife from his cloak and began to cut the layers underneath the tiles, revealing supporting wood beams and darkness underneath. The youngling exchanged his knife with a small saw from the cloak and began to work on the beams.

“Can you check one more time that they don’t hear me?” asked Jorn to the blue fire. 

Vima floated down, passing through the wood, silent like a ghost. Jorn watched as the flame drifted, a small light surrounded by darkness growing fainter. The fire landed on the wooden floor but soon seeped through the boards leaving the space gloom. Jorn was frozen on his spot, staring into the abyss. He breathed out when specks of light appeared and the small blue flame popped out its head from the floor. 

“There are two guards but they haven’t noticed anything,” reported the flame with a shrill tone, a hint of excitement. “There’s tons of chests and barrels there!”

Jorn sawed with renewed vigour.

* * * * *

Pearls of sweat ran down from Sammy’s scalp, down the chin and lost in the gruff beard. He exhaled slowly as he glanced at Kovar on the other side of the table, who coughed and unbuttoned his red shirt while wiping his palms on his trousers.

“Alright,” said Sammy. “Show me what you got.”

Kovar nodded and on three, they both revealed their cards. A moment of silence as they both looked at the values and then Sammy howled in rage, tearing his own cards apart. Kovar burst out laughing, pulling in the chips to his side of the table.

Sammy left the board, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. He walked across the room, taking careful steps to not trip on the many chests and barrels spread out on the floor to inspect a sand dial in a corner. He scratched his beard and swore again when he saw that more than half of the sand still hasn’t run to the bottom. Sammy wiped his forehead and threw an irritated look at the gas lamps illuminating the room. He knew why the room must always be lit, but it makes guarding this place that much more exhausting. He took out the cudgel resting on his side and swung it in the air, each swing giving a sharp whistle. He nodded and returned back to the table, thudding the treasures lightly on the way. 

Kovar had picked up another game from under the table. He opened a bag of black dices with white marks and began to rattle them in his hands with a wide grin, sporting a missing tooth. Sammy sat down and cleaned the table from the torn cards.

“I swear,” said Sammy. “If you have done something with the dices I’ll ki-”

Knock, knock.

Both guards looked at each other. Kovar in mid-motion of throwing the dice on the table.

Knock, knock.

Both guards looked up.

The ceiling burst open. Wood and brick tiles splashed down and Sammy threw himself away to not get hit by the debris. A scream was heard and Sammy saw a small cloaked figure on top of the sprawled body of Kovar, who now was motionless and with face on the ground. 

Sammy roared and charged at the figure, who gave out a yelp. The bigger guard tackled the intruder and slammed him into a wall. The intruder dropped like a sack of potatoes, squirming and gasping for breath. Sammy raised his cudgel when suddenly he was locked in place. He dropped, unwillingly, his cudgel and every muscle worked against him. He looked down in horror as his hands, now of pale blue shade, grasped his own throat and squeezed tight. He screamed out, trying to regain control of his own body. Through gritted teeth he managed to release himself from his own grasp, only to hear himself say:

“Hurry, this one’s tough to handle.”

The cloaked figure stood up with wobbling steps. From his cloak, he grabbed a truncheon and Sammy stared at the weapon with wide eyes of horror. The last thing Sammy remembered before everything turned dark was an apologetic “sorry”.

* * * * *

Jorn looked away as the guard crashed to the ground. He peeked with one eye and saw the bigger guy lying on his back, the eyes vacant and a bruise forming on the cheek. Blood sipped out from the nose. The guard's skin glistened and the glimmer gathered into a small ball above the body, forming into Vima. 

“Block the door!” the fire urged. 

Jorn hurried towards the big door and pushed nearby furniture to block it. He used his truncheon and wedged it shut in the small gaps on the bottom. 

He returned back to the spot with the hole in the ceiling and swished his rope with a hook, throwing it up and checking that it was taut. He then turned his attention to the two unconscious guards, prodding their necks and putting his finger under their nostrils, nodding and then pushed them to a corner of the room, throwing their weapons to the other side.

“Stop that and come here,” said Vima circling around a chest. “Open this one.” 

Jorn pulled out some picklocks and began to fiddle.

“Going quite well, isn’t it?” said Jorn. 

“Shush, don’t jinx it,” said Vima. “Now focus, I’ll go and check for other guards”, the fire said and zoomed out, passing through the blocked door. 

Jorn continued fiddling until he heard the satisfying click and the chest revealed its content. He was met with shiny piles of gold coins filled to the brim, glinting in the light. He pulled out several bags from his cloak and began to fill them up with the treasure but he didn’t manage to empty even half of the chest when the bags were swollen, almost bursting from their seams.

The cloaked youngling walked with clinking steps towards the rope and began the climb. He took a small jump and locked his hands on to the rope. Each climb was hard, Jorn clenched his teeth and grunted due to the strenuous effort, dragging himself slowly upwards. His hands suddenly gave up and he fell hard on his back, once again squirming in pain and gasping for breath.

Vima returned. “Okay, the guards are hurrying up here and they are armed to the teeth. Let’s run now.” The fire saw Jorn lying on the ground staring at the dangling rope. “Too heavy?”

“Yeah…” acknowledged Jorn. 

“Then drop some stuff, we can buy a new saw and gadgets with the gold.”

“Are you crazy?” said Jorn as he stood up again for another try. “I’m not going to leave Muira’s tools behind. It’s all I have from her!” 

“It’s either that or the gold,” said Vima. “And personally, I like the gold more.” The fire zoomed towards the half-stolen chest. “Heck, I wished we took the whole chest with us.”

Voices echoed from behind the door followed by thumping and bolting. The fire zipped up to Jorn, returning to the circling around the youngling’s head.

“Jorn, you know what’s best for us,” the flame inquired. “Drop your tools.” 

“No,” said Jorn. He grabbed the fire and held it close to his face. “There’s another option.” He looked at the fire with unwavering gaze. “You can do the heavy lifting.” 

Vima shrank in size. “You sure?” The fire’s voice was hesitant. 

“Yeah.”

“Alright, I just want to make sure that I have your consent,” said the fire carefully. “Because of all the- “ 

“Vima, they’re tackling the door!” urged Jorn.

“You said that I wasn’t allowed to do that anymore,” said Vima serious. “I mean look at those bags under your eyes, it will only result in -”

“I know, I know,” said Jorn. The boy looked at the fire with deer-like eyes, pleading. “Come on Vima!”

The fire zoomed inside Jorn’s mouth and the youngling’s face turned pale. But instead of a horrified expression like the guard gave, Jorn smiled a big smile and screamed out in joy. 

He climbed up the rope as if he was weightless but stopped halfway, releasing his grip and dropped down, landing safely with a roll. He threw all the gold bags inside the treasure chest, closed it shut, then picked up the chest with one hand and ran towards the rope, jumping six feet into the air and grabbed hold with a single arm, before nimbly climbing up to the roof. Jorn threw the chest to the side and pulled up the rope, rolling it once again and put across his shoulder. He looked down at the hole and heard the echoes of the door croaking its last breath as it broke.

Why are you not running?

“Need to finish in style,” responded Vima with a smile.

Several guards flooded into the room, their attention on the debris in the middle. Their eyes drifted upwards to the hole in the ceiling and at the top, they saw a cloaked figure standing tall. 

“Let it be known,” said the figure as he made a motion with his hands, “that the house of Hammel has been visited by The Crow.”

Black feathers wafted down the air, and the cloaked figure disappeared into the night.

Writing Challenge 15: Write a story about a mythical creature

The Mailman and the Babushka

It was an unusual request for the postman called Sasha, but when duty calls, you deliver. In this case, it was a few letters to an old woman who lived in a hut a bit out from town. He was the newest recruit in the post office, and as tradition, he had to handle the most menial tasks. He had to deliver to the ones with aggressive dogs or vehicle owners that didn’t care about safety for themselves or for their neighbours. The hut deep in the forest where you have to travel by foot since there were no roads for a vehicle was the newest addition to Sasha’s delivery-route.

The humidity and warmth didn’t make it any better and Sasha was sweating bullets, cursing whoever decided to live in such a place. As the forest opened up Sasha saw a wooden cabin, his destination. It was an old worn-out building, moss grew on the wood from the top of the roof to the bottom of the...chicken legs?

The postman rubbed his eyes and took a longer look at the bottom of the hut. The whole building was standing on top of thousands of chicken legs. Not the grilled ones, but the legs of a living chicken, yellow and with sharp talons at the end of each toe.

Sasha looked around the forest with dubious eyes, the co-workers might have tried to pull a prank on him. But no, the forest didn’t hide any cameras, or postmen sniggering in the bushes, and there were no mini-helicopters with GoPro’s attached floating in the sky. Only white clouds. And a small dot that grew in size with rapid speed.

Squinting, Sasha discerned it as something black, and it was heading towards him. He threw himself towards the dense forest and a few seconds after, a huge explosion was heard in the vicinity. As the frightened man turned around, he saw a giant black mortar, the thing you crush spices in, planted on the ground in a small crater. Before he managed to take another step he heard a sound and looked down only to notice a pestle, the size of a walking stick, rolling towards his feet.

“Ty che, blyad?!” screamed the mortar. It was a shrill high-pitched voice and it sounded offended.

Sasha swallowed hard as he grabbed the giant pestle and approached the talking mortar. The hands squeezed around the pestle so that the knuckles turned white, summoning almost the same amount of courage as when he asked for Anastacia’s hand.

“Hello?” he said. “Are you alright?”

“Angliyskiy,” muttered the mortar, then it switched to a language that was easier to understand. “Come. Help me lift this miska, I’m stuck.”

The growing tension in Sasha released and his shoulder slumped down. It was a person, not a talking mortar. He hurried forward and grabbed the turned-over object with both hands and heaved, grunting in pain due to its weight.

“Glupyy, use the pestik...the uhm...the pounder!” said the shrill voice from inside the mortar. “As, you know...leveredzh, you know leveredzh?”

Sasha got the hints and wedged the pestle inside. He angled the giant stick towards a protruding rock nearby and used it as a fulcrum. He put down his entire weight on the stick and the mortar opened up, revealing an old woman with streaky white hair crawling out with rapid speed, which was good since Sasha couldn’t hold it any longer and the mortar closed with a heavy thud.

The postman panted and heaved, gathering his breath and taking a look at the mysterious woman, who had crawled out from a giant mortar that had previously been flying up in the sky.

She looked like an evil granny, the thin white dishevelled hair, the crooked nose and the wrinkly yellow skin. Yeah, she looked like a witch alright. The granny wore a pink quilt over her shoulders, a purple blouse and a dark blue long skirt that ended in a pair of Mickey Mouse sandals.

“Spasibo Glupyy,” said the older woman. “Getting too old to fly with my miska.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sasha as he wiped the sweat from his brown. “You’re Mrs Yaga, right? I have a few letters for you.” He then handed over a few envelopes that he had inside the jacket.

The old woman took a sniff on Sasha’s hands and then squinted her eyes.

“I smell Russian in you,” she said with the same offended tone she had inside the mortel. “Why you no speak russkiy?”

“I never got a chance to learn it, we spoke english at home,” defended Sasha. He quickly added, “But I think it’s a wonderful language.”

“It is,” said the old woman and nodded in approval. “Sounds very good when swear, yeah?”

“Da,” said Sasha with a grin and they both explode in laughter.

“Again, Spasibo Glupyy,” said the old woman. “For… all this.” she waved towards the mortar and the crater. “You ever need lessons in russkiy, you come back here, okay?”

“I will,” said Sasha with a smile and waved goodbye.

Writing Challenge 14 - Write a story with the word "Salt" in 250 words or less

Letter to Chef

Dear Papa,

You always wanted to cook for important persons well now you have the chance to cook for God. Hope God is not too picky like I was. The kitchen still reminds me of you from the smell of homemade spices. It still tingles my nose because of the paprika. But it feels strange now that I don't hear you chopping veggies in the morning.

Me and mama are doing fine recently I even

Hey Papa, remember when you told me about salt and how it makes food better? Last week I learned that our tears had salt in them. Isn't that weird? Maybe it's to make one feel better after crying. I guess it kind of works. Crying made it a little bit better. But I had to pour out a lot of salt until it stopped hurting. It still feels very empty and sometimes I still wonder why you're not here anymore. But now I can leave my bedroom.

I tried one of your recipes yesterday and almost chopped off my fingers. I made a mess of the kitchen. Served the dish to Mama and she cried. Maybe it needed more salt. It's not that easy to cook without our master chef. I wish you taught me how to cook. I wish I spent more time with you.


We miss your food.
And we miss our super great chef even more.

With love,

Ellie

Writing Challenge 13 - Write a story about "Treat" in 1000 words or less

Moonlit Bucket

The dark alleys of the city where often visited by beggars and lunatics. The walls were tall enough so you could seek cover from the winds, and there would be enough scraps and trash to create a small ember of warmth for your limbs during cold nights. The dwellers often kept close to the ground, laying down in a bundle covered in newspapers to keep whatever heat they could. Seldom stood people up in the alleys, it was just a waste of energy. Even rarer was it to see two people standing on top of each other.

“Is it high enough, sir?” said a female voice to the person above. She was a young woman, wearing clothes fit for a boss in a company. Her face was of oval shape, almond eyes of brown and thin black brows. She had delicate lips pressed into a single line as she balanced the weight of the figure above her.

“Straighten your back a bit, gal, a bit to the le- there ya go,” said a raspy voice. “Okay, stand still now.”

It was an old man sitting on top of the young female’s shoulder. He lifted up his hands revealing a red bucket in the dim moonlight. The hands were fragile and sinewy, veins apparent, but they held the bucket in a tight grip as the elder positioned himself so the inside of the bucket would get basked in the moonlight.

“There ya go,” he said in a softer tone as if ushering small animals into the bucket.”There ya go, just go inside.”

“Sir?” asked the person on the ground. “How long are we going to stay like this?”

“Just for a little bit,” responded the old man looking down. The moonlight revealed a bald head with thin white hair on the sides. The skin on his face had folded for the weight of life. “How you holdin’ up?.”

“I can stand here all night, sir,” assured the woman as she re-balanced herself, shifting the weight to a better position.

“Atta’ gal,” said the old man and patted the woman’s head. “Not often seeing a young woman like you in this day and age. Helping old people out, and polite also. I haven’t been called ‘sir’ for a long time!”

“I lived with my grandparents when I was young,” explained the female. “My grandpa was very strict about treating older people with formality. Using titles to older people was a very important thing for him.”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” said the senior with approval in his voice. “He still alive and kickin’?”

“Yes sir, still alive and kicking,” reported the woman. She glanced up at the red bucket and shifted the weight once again. “So what are you doing with the bucket, sir?”

“Collecting moonlight,” responded the old man as he corrected the angle of the bucket. “For my memories.”

“How unique,” said the woman politely. “Most people write down their memories in diaries or takes photos.”

The old man chuckled. “Yeah, well. I’m one of those that didn’t write down anything at all.”

“And now you...” the woman paused for a moment, “... don’t remember?”

“Yeah, big mistake,” said the old man in a lower tone, his body slumped slightly. “I was so proud of my memory. I could remember everything so vividly. Never needed a notebook or a reminder. But now…”

“And moonlight will help?”

“Maybe…” the casual tone faded from the old man’s voice.

“Tell me and let me decide.”

“Well, I’m sort of...praying to the Goddess of Memory.” explained the man. “The one from the Greek mythology, Selene, who was also the moon? I thought that if I gathered enough moonlight, the goddess would, you know… give me some of my memories back.” His eyes looked up, gazing higher than the moon, staring into the dark nothingness. “I mean, I prayed already to the Christian god but nothing happened, so why not try some other gods I know about?”

“I see,” said the woman, again politely.

They both stood still for another moment. The woman gathering her thoughts. The old man in an arduous and crazy quest to do the same.

“I thought the Goddess of Memory was Mnemosyne in the Greek mythology. For mnemonic,” said the woman, breaking the silence. She looked above her and saw the old man gaze far away. His face grim and eyes twitching. The hands holding the bucket quivering and escalating in magnitude.

“Oh wait, my bad. Mnemosyne was the muse. I remembered it completely wrong. You’re right,” declared the woman, her voice turning shrill and urgent.

The shakes from the old man subsided. His absent gaze disappeared and the face lit up with a wry smile.

“Careful now, you don’t want to lose your memory like me,” said the old man with a chuckle.

“You know a lot about Greek mythology?” asked the woman as she once again began with shifting the weight of the old man to a more comfortable position.

“Oh do I, you could ask me anything about it. I might not know my name anymore but I can still recite all the gods in the pantheon, but let’s start from the beginning. In the beginning, there existed only chaos... ”

The old man prattled on in the silent night, eager to share his knowledge. His almond eyes of brown shining with joy, the thin lips pronouncing each foreign names with ease. And the woman listened while supporting him.

Writing Challenge 12 - Write a story with 250 words or less with the theme "Dance"

Da Capo Again. I exhaled with force and coordinated my breath. Sweat dripped from the man in the mirror. From the eyebrows, down the chin, balancing for a moment before falling to the ground. A troupe of perspiration gathered between my feet. I grabbed a towel from my worn-out bag in the far corner of the empty dance room and began cleaning up my own mess. A few moments of rest which ended as I flung the cloth across the room. Again. I sat down, took my position. The music started and I moved in swift motion, accenting my limbs and figure as I stepped across the floor. My body screamed out in pain but I clenched my teeth and focused on the person in the mirror. Reviewing. The dancer moved like a leaf fluttering down a gentle wind. A natural grace but with no self-control. The turns quick and sharp. The balance flailing. A mess except for the eyes, poised to devour an audience. The music ended and I held my pose for a full measure before allowing myself to relax and embrace the floor. My eyes were heavy but I still forced myself to look in the mirror. My body was tired. Maybe it was time to call it a night. I stared at the reflection. He shook his head. Again.

Writing Challenge 11 - Story about space

The End

Death watched as the vast universe finally collapsed on itself. The universe that had contained all these vibrant life forms, unique cultures and great history accumulated throughout billion years of time. 

But every beginning has an end.

It was the Yass’rl that first felt something changing, something wrong and dangerous happening to their worlds and galaxies. The second were the Travelers of Sol, wanderers known as humans, that noticed how their so-called quantum laws were broken, their data predictions becoming less and less true. The realization dawned on everyone when the first fold happened in the universe, and galaxy M83 disappeared. 

It was inevitable, but they still struggled. Death observed from afar as all races united together to find a solution to stop the collapse of the universe. They tried many things but nothing worked. It was amusing, how these small insignificant beings fought until their last seconds, as space folded one last time and everything finally disappeared. 

No, not yet, thought Death, and the harbinger turned around. He reached out with his scythe and swung it in a swift motion. A hiss followed by an echoing scream of pain. Death struck out with his hand and grabbed hold of something incorporeal.  

"Even you must die," said Death with a cold and chilling voice. The echoing scream turned to whimpers, it pleaded for its life but Death swung the scythe once again and there was silence. 

"You too," said Death and raised the scythe once again. But this time a booming voice erupted in retort. 

“No, this wasn’t how it was planned. Good was the only one that would die. Not me. You promised me that it was only Good that would die!”

"I lied," responded Death and swung down for another kill. The booming voice was screaming something incoherent and got cut down mid-speech. 

Now it was void. Only nothingness and a single entity known as Death left. The entity dropped his scythe and the weapon dispersed into million fragments of light, quickly losing their glow and disappeared. Death searched in one of his pockets and pulled out a key of silver and stared at it for a long time. He knew what was going to happen next. But he had a choice. If he ever wanted to, he could stop here. Forever. He could be the last single remnant of this universe. He was Death after all, and he decided everyone’s end.

A single hesitation, but then Death continued with the process. He removed his cowl and revealed a white humanoid skull behind the clothes. He had many shapes and forms but the anthropomorphic personification was one of his most often used, since the humans thought of him the most out of all the sentient beings in the universe. 

On his right temple was a keyhole. Death inserted the silver key and turned.

A soft click was heard throughout the void and Death was slowly surrounded by a shimmering light.

Every beginning has an end.

The light enveloped Death, and the entity shone brighter than anything that has ever been. His dark robe glistened in multitudes of colors, a spectrum that joined together in pure white light. Small cracks started to appear on on Death’s skull, growing bigger for each moment. The Harbinger breathed out one last time.

And every end has a new beginning.

In the empty space, there was a big bang.

Writing Challenge 10 - Write a prequel to that Superhero. Pre-Superhero life. Maybe their childhood.

Another Writing Challenge? Why Error, why?!

Well...

The biggest reason is that the exercises I've been doing from Writing Excuses are implemented in my novel that I'm working on, and I'm still too shy to share it. Many of the exercises are turning a scene into another, changing perspective and genre etc. It's fun, but I'm too conscious of it to put parts of the stories on the internet when I'm not even done revising half of it. 

Regarding Inspirations from Reddit, I haven't visited the subreddit /Writingprompts for a long time, the regularity from before has gone due to work and other events. I occasionally visit to read some fun stories, but I haven't posted there at all for over two months. Hmm...

So what have I been doing? Writing Challenges, the first draft of my novel and some part-time jobs in the writing industry. I hope that the lack of my other texts doesn't upset you readers too much. 

Alright, time for some background on this challenge. It's a prequel to last weeks post, a story from the days Joseph was a child. Instead of writing the "incident" that made him into a superhero, I wanted to write a normal day in his childhood life, before life switched up a gear. Happy reading!

---

Captain J - Childhood days

The city took a slow breath as it awakened to the sun peeking out of the horizon. The citizens, like automated machinery, rose up for a purpose and priorities. Some reaching for that morning coffee, some to take that ice cold shower, and others…

“Joseph! Wake up, you’re late for school!”

...to wake up their kids. 

Joseph gave out a slow groan of discomfort as he was pulled away from his sweet dreams of delight, much like the blanket that his mother threw on the ground. The little kid curled up into a ball, seeking warmth and hoping that he could meet Mister Sandman again. 

“Honey, must we do this every time?” sighed the mother. She crawled onto the bed and gave Joseph a kiss on the cheek before attacking him with tickles. Little Joseph squirmed for as long as he could but laughter was an undefeatable enemy and he had to succumb to its mighty force. He said a bubbly “Good morning, mom,” and kissed her on the cheek before waddling to the bathroom to prepare himself. He finished up quickly and continued to the kitchen where he was met with a plate of fruits, a sandwich and a tall glass of milk which he gladly devoured. 

“Honey, you’ve been to school now for a week. You should soon be able to wake up by yourself,” said his mother while rubbing his head lovingly. “The other kids might think you’re strange showing up late to school.”

“Naa,” said Joseph in between his mouthfuls. “That’s not what kids think of at all. I’m a kid and I know what they think of.”

The mother gave a kiss to Joseph’s forehead and asked curiously: “And what do kids think of, could you tell your mother?”

Joseph gave a beaming smile and said: “We think of sleeping!”. He finished up his plate of food and grabbed his backpack to leave home. 

“Be careful on your way to school, honey!” said his mother from the kitchen as she washed the dishes.

“I know mom,” said Joseph as he struggled with his shoes. “I’m going now. See you! Love you!”

The city was not a morning riser, but when it finally woke - life was bustling. Joseph and his mother were new in the city, but instead of feeling scared of the unknown Joseph preferred to be excited. Smiling wide, looking at everything around him and being swept away by the sounds and colors of the city was intoxicating. 

“Joseph, where are you going?”

It was the mailman that had shouted with an alarmed voice after the boy.

“Hi Mister Lewinsky!” said Joseph and waved eagerly. “I’m going to school!”

The energetic boy put a small smile on the mailman’s face. “You’re going the wrong way Joseph, your school is to the left.”

“Right you are. Have a nice day!” continued Joseph and turned left.

The school itself was a small building with even smaller groups, maybe ten to twelve students in each class. But that made it easier to befriend each other, and Joseph knew everyone in his class, even the teacher’s full name.

“Good morning everyone!” said Joseph as he opened the door with full force, interrupting everything in class.

“Good morning Joseph. You’re late so please don’t scream so loudly,” said the teacher while correcting his glasses. “Go to your seat silently.”

Joseph covered his mouth with both of his hands and tiptoed dramatically to his seat. This gave a few sniggers and laughter before the teacher grabbed everyone’s attention again with a smack on the chalkboard. Joseph sat in one of the corners of the room, away from the teacher but close to his friends and daydreams. As the teacher’s voice got less and less interesting his attention drifted off elsewhere. First to the window to look at the scenery, then to the classmates in front of him, and ended finally with him doodling in the textbook.

The class was soon over and as the teacher left, some friends gathered around Joseph to see what he had been doodling during class.

“Is that a fireman?” asked one of the classmates and pointed at the figure.

“Nope, it’s Superman!” said Joseph proudly and showed it to everyone. “Look at the ‘S’, and the cape!”

“Batman is much cooler,” insisted another classmate. This shocked Joseph to the core. How could someone not appreciate Superman?

“Superman can fly!” argued Joseph.

“Batman has lots of cool stuff like a car, a plane a…”

“Superman is strong!”

“Batman is rich!”

The arguments continued for a while until the teacher returned and once again grabbed everyone’s attention by smacking on the board. Just before everyone returned to their seats Joseph managed to get the last word in the argument. “Well, I’m going to be Superman in the future!” He then returned proudly back to his seat.

Many children have claimed to become something in the future. From becoming a doctor to a star, rich or happy. There were many things to strive for. There were, of course, many that dreamed of being a crime-fighter or a superhero. But the last one is usually the naivety of youth that spoke. The innocence before reality struck. Little did everyone in town know that this little kid named Joseph would in the future make that dream to reality.