Cape (plural capes): literally, a sleeveless garment hanging from the neck over the back and shoulders; figuratively, a superhuman who has chosen to act as a superhero. Synonyms: hero, mask, super, superhero. Connotations: 'cape' is used as both a familiar and derogatory term for superheroes, who often casually refer to themselves as capes but generally consider it a demeaning term when applied to them by the press.
Barlow’s Guide to Superhumans
I'm not in this story. It's not about me, you see.
The only reason it's being told from my point of view is that, well, it's my point of view that I'm telling it from. I'm not really involved in events; I don't play an active role in proceedings; I didn't make any decisions or take any actions that affected anything that happened. How could I have? I'm only twelve.
I just watched it happen.
I think the best place to start would be Tuesday.
The dream offers no respite, even in the scald of the daylight hours. It mugs me in the blackness or in my chair or under the stinging roar of my grey-time shower. As with all things in this world my dream comes unbidden, but it is master of my realm. It is the dream.
'The only thing certain about life is death.' I've never liked that phrase. It's bullshit. There are loads of 'certain' things in life. Everybody eats, drinks, sleeps, picks their nose, scratches their arse, hates their boss...shit things happen to everyone. No point pretending otherwise.
This is the story of a journey and of a grail that was found and emptied and filled again by magic. Every word of it is true. The journey was undertaken by the photographer and myself and liquor ran through it like water like gurgling down a Madeiran mountainside.
“I really do not think I can take this paper to the Dean, let alone the Faculty.”
I stared out of the window onto the Senate Square with my hands behind my back, and looked at the statue of Czar Alexander I. A seagull sat on the venerable man’s head and added its contribution to the white crust. I turned to face the man who had inherited my chair and office when I retired from the University. He looked uneasy when I stared him in the eye and asked:
The Kings Hill kids partied at a cottage on one of the lakes. Not Moosehead, but one of the smaller, more exclusive lakes. This place belonged to Shaun's roommate, Peter, or to Peter's parents, although no one could remember ever seeing them there. They had other homes, I suppose, in trendier places, and it seems they didn't consider it worth the trip to Maine to visit either the lake or Peter.
Eleanor Moore sat next to her husband and watched Mrs Jenkins hammering on the piano keys; the voice of the middle-aged woman frayed the nerves of the guests. Eleanor could see Mr Jenkins' hand stroking Mrs Hardy's knee, and she marvelled that the singer was able to retain her composure. Her chest heaved as her voice rose even higher, as though the volume might somehow dissipate her spouse's poorly hidden advances.
Eleanor's husband leaned closer to her. She felt her skin tingle at his nearness.