Well, more like draft 2.5. I completed a second draft, and it was too long. The story must be under 1500 words. So I cut out the unneeded scene in the comic book shop. Also, I had started rewriting from Cal’s intellectual point of view, but realized that it should still be Holly’s first person POV to better show how her words begin to leak out of her head. (“mental narration hard to write” in my previous post? I was being a wimp!)
So here is the new start of the story. I have to rewrite the second half, then I’ll see if I can grab a review before I send it off to Scripting Change. (Oh, and an editing pass or two, and reading the whole story aloud.) Now it’s bedtime.
SURFVILLE, CALIFORNIA. THE GEEK GUY’S COMICS AND COFFEE CORNER. THE PASSENGER SEAT OF A DARK AVENGER’S CAR. EARLY SEPTEMBER. A WEDNESDAY. 5:52 P.M.
It was hard squirming into my blue supersuit as Cal careened the Intellecta-car toward our next battle. The passenger seat easily allowed for my six-foot-one frame, but it also distractingly caressed my thighs with its dark, leathery kevlar. I’d have flown, except changing clothes was not aerodynamic, and it also lent a whole new meaning to “Look, up in the sky!” I twistingly punched my arm into my long right sleeve. Done!
So was my reading. A few minutes ago at The Geek Guy’s Comics and Coffee, I’d bought my weekly stash and gleefully opened the latest Batgirl comic book, where Barbara Gordon delivered a flying kick to a meaty thug’s mug and quipped, “Bykn hijfdkh stbbbb NARFFF!” I almost literally tore through the rest of my comic books. I couldn’t read a single word! Was I having a stroke at twenty-five? My blood froze! I was a writer, I couldn’t lose my words!
My boyfriend Cal had burst into the shop, dressed for duty: cape, cowl, utility belt, and jet-black body armor with built-in six pack abs. The store customers clapped. Cal grimly informed me that an emergency news bulletin showing high schoolers zombie-walking toward the football field, the upset fanboys/girls returning unreadable at the Geek Guy’s cash register, and the fact that only his super-intelligence was retaining its literacy indicated only one logical conclusion: words were under superpowered attack.
Now we stopped at Surville High School. My alma mater. Cal turned to me, his eyes and voice deep with upcoming justice: “The unknown evil epicenter is two hundred and eighty ffftubu urm tirtucion.” What? I dug my finger in my ear.