Assignments

These are stories in progress and/or submitted to the writer's group, given various prompts.

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This particular story was a response to a conversation about perseverence not being included in a list of 39 areas of influence and the idea that underdog stories, like Rudy, while inspiring, go directly against reality. Underdogs chasing impossible dreams, it was argued, ought to put their energies into places of more effectiveness.
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The woman behind the desk was old. Small, frail, withered and entirely angular. She had been pretty once, that was clear. But her charms had give way to chicken skin and sharp glasses with a beaded chain dangling beneath a sour expression.
"Ahem."
The woman looked up from her tappy typing. Nothing.
Tap tap tappity tippy tap--
"AHEM."
Again she paused and looked around. Still nothing.
"Down here."
The woman sat up taller and leaned over the counter. Here she found herself nose to snout with a very pink pig.
"Hello," said the pig. "My name is Herman and I'm here to apply. For the Order."
The woman's frown took on a sharper angle but she pulled out a crisp piece of paper and clicked her pen.
"What are your qualifications?"
The pig puffed out his chest and in a rush of excited breath squeaked, "I can fly!"
"Mmmm." The woman glanced down her list. "Anything else?"
"Didn't you hear me?" asked Herman. "I can fly!"
"Yes, I heard you," answered the woman. "Flying is not one of the super powers."
"What?! Who ever heard of a super hero who doesn't fly?"
"There are 39 very clear points on this list, Mr. Herman, and flying is not one of them. Do you have any other super powers?"
"Um, what are my choices?"
"Well, do you have laser vision perhaps?" The woman's voice was an absolute monotone. Herman chose to ignore that.
"No. Who needs laser vision when you can fly?"
Scratch. The woman executed "Great Strength" with one thick, black, wet line from her pen.
"Maybe extraordinary strength?"
Herman cleared his throat, flexed his bicep and pushed with all his might on the counter before him. It did not budge.
Scratch.
"Do you perhaps have exceeding charm?"
Herman smiled with as debonaire a smile as he could muster. "You tell me, gorgeous."
Scratch scratch.
"Wait," said Herman, "what was the second scratch?"
"Sharp wit."
Scratch.
"And that was a highly developed sense of fashion."
"Those are super powers?"
"Some of the most potent."
"But I can fly."
"And what good does flying do?"
"I can inspire millions,” Herman explained. “I can tell children to look to the skies and live out their hopes and dreams, to persevere no matter the odds, as I soar into the air and commit stunts of daring and danger and courage of a marked degree."
The woman continued to look down her list.
"I'm sorry, there's nothing on this list of that nature. Perhaps you would be better suited to some clerical work?"
"Is that on your list?"
"No. Super heroes don't do their own paperwork."
"But I can fly! What kind of a list is that? Only 39 specific things that can make someone a super hero? What about heart? What about love? What about---"
The woman let out an exasperated sound and set down her paper and pen with a dull, resounding thud.
"Mr. Pig--"
"Herman."
"Flying is a lovely trick and helpful as a secondary ability to any real superhero, but if you insist on making it a strength of its own I'm afraid you are simply not what the Order is looking for. On its own flight is a parlor trick. I'm afraid that outside of these 39 points, you are simply not operating in your most affective capacity nor are you making your most efficient contributions."
"I'll show you!" cried Herman, flushing to his already pink ears. "I'll go out there and you'll see that some things just don't fit on your stupid little list!"
Herman ran out the glass doors and into the busy city streets, huffing and heaving and angrier than he'd ever been in his life. Frantically he searched for somebody in distress.
The city streets were packed with the midday rush of office workers, cabbies, power walkers and street vendors. They were shouting, calling, texting, running, hailing-- but in the midst of it all, Herman saw his chance.
There! On the 39th Street bridge, teetering high above the clustered commotion, a car was swerving in his lane. Herman took to the skies and flew with all his might toward the car, which was now trying to brake too quickly. With a squeal of its tires and the screams of everyone who saw, it tipped over the edge and sailed straight toward the street below.
Herman was under the car before the first screams had finished ringing out. With every fiber of his being he struggled against the weight of the car as the entire city froze and watched in awe.
The wriggling little pig was too small, that was obvious, but he continued to struggle as the car plummeted, pushing him closer and closer toward the mangled concrete below. Down they fell together, pig and machine, death certain. The people directly beneath scattered to the winds. It became clear all hope was lost and Herman felt hot asphalt meet his rear hoof.
Suddenly, without explanation, a flash of light exploded underneath the car as it and Herman rose a foot above the pavement and hung there, suspended in the air. Then, very gently, they lowered onto the pavement.
The crowds of people sucked in a collective gasp, then cheered as long and loud as they could. Herman thought for one lovely moment that all those thighs of steel videos had paid off. The moment was short lived, however. As he raised his eyes, he saw a tall, chiseled figure walking toward him, silhouetted in the light.
"Are you all right?" boomed a deep baritone.
"It's Mighty Man!" a woman cried out, and fainted.
Mighty Man indeed. The larger than life hero knelt beside Herman.
"That was close, brave pig."
Herman didn't respond. His heart broken, he couldn't even look Mighty Man in the eye.
"Say," said the hero, "what's got you down?"
Herman sniffled slightly. "Flying was supposed to get me into the Order. This was my big chance to prove it belonged on the stupid list of 39 powers."
Mighty Man nodded. "I understand, little pig--"
"Herman. My name is Herman."
"All right, Herman. On the level? You're not a super hero without at least one of those strengths. Most of the members of the Order have three or four. But don't let that get you down. If you're serious about supporting peace and justice, I'm sure you have other skills that are far more efficient than chasing impossibilities."



After that day, Herman gave up flying. It hurt his pride terribly, but convinced his flight was no more a gift than head gear, he applied to work in the administrative offices of the Order. It turned out he was quite skilled at data entry. So he spent the rest of his life working efficiently and passing on information about the great feats of strength he would never get to do. He decided he was happy enough and forgot about flying. Every now and then, though, he would sneak a glance at the sky.



When Herman died, at a ripe old age, he was buried in a modest grave in a vast cemetery beyond the city's edge. His tombstone read "Here lies Herman. He was a very efficient pig." Within 50 years, the stone wore down until it was so smooth nobody could read it any more.