Tales of the Astonishing Black Spark by Charlie J. Eskew

Author:Charlie J. Eskew
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Superheroes, Satire, Science Fiction / Humorous
ISBN: 9781941360231
Publisher: Lanternfish Press
Published: 2018-09-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

The Actually Actual Tales of

the Illustrious Thandie D. Nettle

I’M ACTUALLY SURPRISED THAT I haven’t gotten around to writing about Thandie until now.

In my defense, you wouldn’t ask Kyle Rayner to have a casual chat about Alex Dewitt, would you? Or expect to drive around town with Peter Parker and gab about Gwen Stacy? Okay then.

Anyway, she’d finally figured out I was in town and texted my decrepit old phone. I jumped at the chance for some time away from Chris, from the election, from everything. We sat at the bar for a while, watching each other watch each other.

“This is kind of insane, right?” I said. “Twelve bucks for a draft?” I was struggling to even read the drink menu in the dimly lit place, which sacrificed much of its beauty to the dark. I was in full costume, since I’d spilled some wine a week or so prior on the only civilian suit I’d brought with me to NYC. Thandie didn’t seem to mind, though.

“Well, actually, it’s not so bad for New York,” she said. “But I suppose by Ohio standards the pricing here can feel a little high. I miss the old town sometimes.” She sipped her red wine through red lips. As usual, she was looking at something in the distance, not at me.

“Hah, yeah, silly little Columbus, right? Anyway, I’m glad you texted. Glad I could find a way to squeeze this in. I was a little surprised to hear from you, though.”

She sipped at her glass for at least ten seconds. I studied her, as if I hadn’t already failed the final—as if us at that table would be anything other than exactly what she wanted it to be. I felt myself falling, slipping into the history of us. (Granted, not literally, but since I’m obviously setting up a flashback we’ll say there was a little time warp going on.)

These are the Astonishing Tales of Thandie D. Nettle

When you’re eighteen and trapped in the body of a twenty-five-year-old, it’s not so odd to find yourself in a hookah bar on a Tuesday night. So, there I was, doused in the newest Machete body spray that promised an instant harem with one light application and wearing the jacket of thick black fleece that accentuated my speckles of dandruff. It was a quaint little shop with dim lighting and dimmer clientele, in the dead center of the state college campus scene. I’d been going there for years, since the first time I went with Paul, back before I dropped out. Now, alone with my clean-shaven face and strategically ripped jeans, leaning back in the seat trying to appear as sexily sloppy as I could, I realized that things change, and what we seek is often the furthest thing from what we need.

I kept my eyes on my book, coming up for smoke now and then but otherwise sticking with Vonnegut and his Ice-nine. I was the only person there alone. Occasionally I’d see someone of interest,

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