I take a breath. My cape (a repurposed blackout curtain) flaps in the wind. My utility belt (a fanny pack with granola bars and band-aids) feels pathetically lightweight.
My name is Leo, and I’ve been a superhero for exactly six days. My superpower? Uncontrollable gravity defiance. Which sounds awesome until you realize it works only when I sneeze. adventures of a rookie superhero
But that’s the thing about rookies. We don’t start with the world-ending meteors. We start with the small things. The things that prove we care more than we fear. I take a breath
They don’t tell you about the nausea.
Being a rookie superhero isn’t about glory. It’s about getting back up, wiping the yogurt off your chin, and realizing that the only thing braver than a perfect landing is a spectacular failure… followed by a second jump. My name is Leo, and I’ve been a
The cat saunters over, looks down at me, and meows. It sounds suspiciously like laughter.
“Three… two… one… heroic stupidity,” I whisper.