Superhero Bob Challenge Post by kailhofer » April 21, 2013, 03:11:05 PM The challenge was to tell the story of a superhero named Bob or Bobbi. Top User avatar kailhofer Editor Emeritus Posts: 3245 Joined: December 31, 1969, 08:00:00 PM Location: Kaukauna, Wisconsin (USA) Contact: Contact kailhofer Superhero Bob Challenge Post by kailhofer » April 21, 2013, 03:13:03 PM Saving The World By: I. Verse The girl checking tickets at the gate is very pretty. She has jet black hair in a perfect bob cut. I can’t take my eyes off the way it moves with the tiny motions of her head. When I get to the front of the line and hand her my ticket, I smile broadly at her. I get a tiny smile in return, the kind that comes without teeth. I take my ticket stub and walk away down the gantry with an irrational feeling of disappointed. If she knew that I was saving the world maybe she’d like me better. Maybe it was her hair, I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe my wife’s hair looked like that. “Why are you so sure you were married?” Doctor Cob said when I asked about my wife. It’s wasn’t his real name, just like Bob Howard isn’t mine. I showed the Doc my ring finger and the circular indentation around it. “She died,” the Doc said, his voice flat. “Everyone in the programme is alone, no family, no connections. That’s how it has to be. That’s why you volunteered.” I can’t remember anything before they made me a superhero, I can’t even remember my wife, so how can I be sure I volunteered? I never asked the Doc that. You don’t become a superhero if you haven’t got the right attitude. I’m in business class for a change, which is good because it’s long haul to Toronto. Saving the world means flying all over it. I find my seat, settle in. Nothing to see folks, no need to thank me, just doing my job. Breath in, breath out. They turn the lights up bright about two hours before we land. I watch the news. There are food riots in Spain and France, diplomatic relations between Russia and Finland have broken down again. There’s more on the famine in Africa, There’s always famine in Africa but never this bad, images of babies with swollen bellies and flies drinking from their eyes. The world’s on a knife edge, too many people and not enough resources. World war three is just around the corner, nuclear Armageddon. It’s my job to stop that happening. As I walk out of the gate at arrivals, a cute blonde detaches herself from the crowd. “Bob! Bob!” She waves energetically, face lit up with a huge smile. She grabs me in a fierce hug when I get near. “Oh, it’s good to have you back. I’ve missed you so much,” she gushes for anyone close enough to hear. “Come on, I’m parked in short-term.” I’ve never met her before, or maybe I have but I don’t remember. Maybe she’s my wife. When we’re away from the crowd, marching across wet concrete towards the parking structure, she drops the act. “I’m Andi. You’ve got a fourteen hour stop-over and then tomorrow you’re flying to Beijing via London.” I should do the challenge and response thing but I’m too tired. She drives me to a hotel, it’s mid-range, non-descript. Up in the room there’s a double bed and it makes me wonder if I’ll be alone that night. Andi’s got a whole new set of luggage for me, new clothes, new passport. “You’re a tourist, going to see the sites,” she tells me as I change out of the dark grey business suite and into jeans and a cotton shirt. She sits me down, puts one of those big, fluffy hotel towels around my neck and cuts my hair. Then she tints it a shade lighter. I check my new passport, look at the picture inside. It’s me but I don’t recognise myself. I never do, even when I look in the mirror. I look average, bland, unassuming. It’s one of my superpowers. My new name is Bob Holborn. It’s always Bob something. “Are you staying?” I ask, when she’s finished drilling me on my new identity. She doesn’t say anything but she leans in and kisses me. I’m not sure it’s what I want but I don’t like to offend her, she’s only doing her job. She doesn’t know I’m a superhero or about my mission. She doesn’t know about the programme that’s plotting my routes, directing me on flights through the major transport hubs and population centres all over the world. Sometimes, I like to think I’m the only one but I know there are other superheros like me. She might even be one. She might have the same superpower. I hope so because otherwise she’ll probably be dead in a couple of months. That makes me feel bad so I hope that maybe she’s one of the lucky ones instead. I hope that Andi is one of those who gets sick but don’t die, whose body can destroy the lethal virus I carry. That’s my main superpower, I can carry the virus in my body without getting sick and without my immune system destroying it. In the morning, I grab a paper from the lobby as we leave. The headline says that even though the population has topped ten billion, the new Pope still refuses to allow Catholics to use contraception until they’ve had at least two children. We’re killing ourselves, we’re sucking the planet dry, but I’m going to save us. I’m going to save the world by killing ninety percent of the human population before we get a chance to nuke everything back to radioactive slime. Andi kisses me as she drops me off in front of arrivals and waves goodbye through the open window as she drives away. It’s a nice touch. I hoist my backpack and walk into the crowded lobby, checking the information board. I’m a superhero, I’m saving the world. This is my mission; breath in, breath out. The End Top User avatar kailhofer Editor Emeritus Posts: 3245 Joined: December 31, 1969, 08:00:00 PM Location: Kaukauna, Wisconsin (USA) Contact: Contact kailhofer Superhero Bob Challenge Post by kailhofer » April 21, 2013, 03:14:38 PM The Tale of Bob By: R. Tornello & The Village Idiot Press Once upon a time, almost before recorded history, but not quite, in the time of Gilgamesh there lived a weaver of cloth named Gorfflemychu. Gorfflemychu, which means bright flame, is also the meaning of the name Bob. In order not to make things too confusing to our modern readers and listeners who have no passing conversational ability in Babylonian, we’ll keep his name as Bob. Now as I mentioned, Bob was a weaver of cloth, as was his father, and father’s father before him, and even so down before recorded time. They made a decent living. Bob had a wife and many children. His skill as a rug maker was known locally and throughout the Fertile Crescent. Bob was a content human. One day while teaching his number one son, also named Bob, the secrets of the trade, the boy-man who would inherit all that was his, primogeniture being the custom and law of the time, there came a stranger to the entrance of Bob’s establishment. Bob the father, not the son, greeted the visitor with respect, as was his wont, whether or not the person in front of him was wealthy or not. “All people deserved respect,” the father would tutor the younger Bob. Bob welcomed the man in. “Sir some drink, wine, beer, dates and other fine eatables as you might like after your trip. For surely sir, I would know if you were from these parts. Please rest. We’ll talk business only after you’re rested and fed.” This was the custom and Bob adhered to it. The guest was very pleased. He displayed no trapping of wealth and was delighted that this rug maker, this worker of cloth treated him as a though he were a king. “Your honesty, generosity and fairness are known far beyond anywhere you can imagine,” said his guest. “You are too kind. I am honored,” answered Bob. Finally after food and drink a plenty the guest began,“ I come to you, maker of rugs because of your reputation, ability, skills and fairness which I have seen enough to know is as true as has been proclaimed. I would like you to make me a carpet of the best materials known in the world. Spare no expense.” And so saying dropped 7 bags of gold. “This should be deposit enough,” declared the guest. “Sir, I’m not sure I am up to what I believe you might be looking for, and were I,” he said pointing to the seven bags of gold continued, “your deposit is more than I would charge.” The guest laughed and said, “It might be more than you would charge but consider this my payment for your future efforts and current hospitality. When do you believe you will have it completed?” Bob was quiet for some time thinking about some of the dreams he had had and the designs that had run through his mind. He would wake up from his dreams and press his cuneiform stylus onto the wet clay he kept by the bedside for his ideas. “It will be months at best.” He hoped this would not upset his guest but this was a tall order. The guest said with a smile, “I will return in a half a year’s time.” He rose to his huge full height, which in our day would be reckoned as close to seven feet tall. He bowed and left. Bob stood there wondering what, how and when this task could be completed. His son witnessed the whole proceeding. His wife, when she heard the story and saw the gold as proof of the guest’s sincerity said, “You’ve trained a number of people in the art. Hire them to do the basic work. You can put the finishing touches. You can afford to pay them and work this project. You have six months.” Six months pass: To the day the guest arrived and was treated in exactly the same manner. After the formalities, Bob said, “Please come with me and let me show you what I have made for you. I prayed to the gods for inspiration. I hope this meets with your desire and approval.” He pulled a curtain back away from a large loom that was specially fabricated for this project. The guest looked, walked around the item, nodding all the while inspecting the thread count, the weave, the colors, seven times. At the end of the seventh time he stopped and looked down at Bob. He said, “This is the work of a god, not a human. I am blessed and for such a work I will impart a secret to you and you alone that you may impart to your first born only, and he to his, for ten generations.” He whispered in Bob’s ear. Bob turned a shade like that of alabaster. Bob stood there quietly as his guest left, sitting upon the rug which flew off. Bob made more rugs with the flying skills but only for guests who showed the proper identification that his first guest indicated would be a sign. Many years later: Bob was old and dying. His son now ran the business in the same manner and fashion as his father had done. One day just before Bob’s passing to the great unknown, his son asked him, “Father, you promised to tell me how you did this. What is the secret of the flying rugs?” Bob motioned for his son to come closer. He whispered most of the secret. The effort was too great and in his final breaths said, “You must name the one who will inherit your business with the name Bob, for not only is it in the magic I just passed on to you, but it’s also in the magic of the name Bob. Son, you have to be both a Bob and weaver.” As Bob said these last words, in the heavens the thunder rolled and the lightening flashed and crashed. The End Top User avatar kailhofer Editor Emeritus Posts: 3245 Joined: December 31, 1969, 08:00:00 PM Location: Kaukauna, Wisconsin (USA) Contact: Contact kailhofer Superhero Bob Challenge Post by kailhofer » April 21, 2013, 03:16:03 PM - Winner - Georgia on Their Mind By: Sergio Palumbo Wangombe was a bit pensive that morning. The middle-aged African man sat on a sturdy plastic chair in the airport lounge, waiting for the next flight which had been delayed to 10:30 A.M. Many thoughts were on his mind, mainly worries about the things he had to do that day, along with several duties to be accomplished before returning home. But what troubled him most was the fact he was unable to remember some of the events that had occurred the previous week while he was staying in Boston. Actually, he remembered very well that he had encountered a very beautiful, local woman with dark curly hair, her name was Georgia, and they had had a brief love affair. But most of the recollections of that short relationship seemed to have been lost. How was that possible? ‘Am I becoming ill?’ he asked himself. ‘Is something affecting my mind?’ The only thing he had decided so far was to have a full check up as soon as he got back to his country in Africa. He remembered some whispers, words spoken at night, his mouth descending on Georgia's neck as the two danced all night. The man would say that there was something more than those wondrous eyes, those moments he experienced, those beautiful features, but he simply couldn’t remember the rest. What a strange fact that such a brief love affair had left such sensations in him, that Georgia could make such feelings arise in him, while wavering on his mind so deeply. Maybe it was true what many said, ‘Love is like the wind, you can't see it but you can feel it.’ Or maybe it was just that Georgia had left a very good impression on him, and the memory of her would stay in his mind for a long time. --------------------------------------------------------- Sitting on a chair in the same Airport Lounge, opposite the one where the African middle-aged man was, the slender blonde curly-haired young woman was reading the daily newspaper on her tablet, glancing from time to time at the foreign individual who was waiting for his flight. She was clearly able to see that Wangombe didn’t recognize her, he didn’t remember her true features. All he knew were the false ones she had engraved upon his memory. But she was also a bit sorry, not just for him but for herself. Among all the many men she had previously encountered because of her job, and that she had made fall in love with her for a short time, that African stranger held a special place in her heart. On the other hand, she knew she would never see him again. “I could drown into your eyes…” he had told her the last night. “The same for me…” she had replied. “Would you come to visit my country” the man had asked the woman. “I’ll do, one day or another…” she lay. It was strange to think that Wangombe would always remember her as Georgia, and Georgia’s false features would stay on his mind for as long as he lived, exactly as she had wanted them to be, thanks to her psychic abilities. Actually, her name wasn’t Georgia at all, but Bobbi Roberts and she worked for the government Special Missions Committee One. Being endowed with special powers, the same as all the others enlisted as agents in the office, she considered herself one of the real superheroes defending their homeland, even though she was unknown to the common people. Individuals like Bobbi were working throughout the entire country, searching for the targets they were assigned to, making those people love them and acting as hidden spies in order to know all the secrets that those people had: all in the service of the foreign diplomatic corps. Of course, in order to accomplish their tasks, agents endowed with special powers like her had to stay in close vicinity with the subject they had to study, and there was no better way than to initiate a love affair. Afterwards, the woman took out of his mind the memory he had of her, and instilled into his head the false features of the lover he thought he had been with during that time…that was all! At times, however, things proved harder than usual, as today was going to be. This was exactly the case with Wangombe, as he was a very handsome man from the diplomatic corps of an African country which was involved in many ongoing espionage activities and bloody wars. But as the middle-aged man would forget her true features forever, it wasn’t so easy for her. On the other hand, she thought she had really fallen in love with him, and she was unable to use her ability on herself to forget the feelings she had for him. How ironic it seemed! He would never remember her real face, no matter how hard he tried, while Bobbi couldn’t forget his features, not now or for the future, of course. Previously, Bobbi had done the same to Frank, the Antiguan businessman; to Prokhor, the Russian showman and to Takeo, the Japanese CEO, anyway. Also on their mind there was a Georgia at present… Bobbi had willingly put her superpower at the service of her country, because she really believed in homeland security, but everything had its price. So this morning she sat in that Airport Lounge, in front of that man, in order to make sure that her job had been successful. Sad to say that it really seemed to be so, as Wangombe didn’t even recognize her, nor did he remember her true eyes and her blonde hair. He could only remember the false memory she had given him. And the woman knew that no means existed in the world to reverse such a mental process. Sad, unfortunately, was also the saying of that famous American author: ‘What is once well done is done forever...’ The End