The Flying Woman
Terrific Book 1
by Daniel Sherrier
Genre: Superhero Fantasy
The impossible has become reality! A masked man possesses extraordinary powers, and he’s using those fantastic abilities to fight crime and pursue justice. Meanwhile, Miranda Thomas expects to fail at the only thing she ever wanted to do: become a famous star of the stage and screen. One night, Miranda encounters a woman who’s more than human. But this powerful woman is dying, fatally wounded by an unknown assailant. Miranda’s next decision propels her life in a new direction—and nothing can prepare her for how she, and the world, will change.
The
Flying Woman
By
Daniel Sherrier
—excerpts—
#1
The elevator carriage settled, and
Miranda expected to find Officer Hoskins somewhere along the well-lit path,
ever vigilant as he stood guard over the park. But once the door opened, she
saw only a long, vacant stretch of brick surrounded by topiaries and
impenetrable darkness. The park did span several acres around the tower.
Perhaps something demanded Hoskins’s attention.
Miranda kept her phone in hand as she
began her brisk walk, reminding herself that this was one of the safer parts of
town. Still, her parents had issued many warnings about the dangers a city held
after dark, and her mind replayed the greatest hits. Miranda felt her ears
expanding to catch even the faintest rustling of leaves.
She heard something else. Not leaves
or wind or any scurrying critter. Nothing from nature. Nothing natural.
A moan. It was coming from somewhere
behind those bushes. Miranda’s senses all dialed up to maximum.
She decided to ignore it and stay on
the path, stay under the lights. Keep her eyes on her phone and check the hell
out of those text messages. Or pretend to while secretly poised to dial 9-1-1 if the need
arose—a need like someone leaping out and strangling her.
Whatever it was,
Officer Hoskins was probably already on it. That explained his absence. But what
if he was the one moaning?
“I’m hurt,” the
moaning person called out from the darkness, her voice hoarse.
It was definitely a
woman’s voice, not the policeman’s. And he wasn’t around to respond to the cry
for help.
This could have been
a trap—some creepy man lurking, sheathed in the dark, ready to throw the first
unsuspecting good citizen into a black van. And if not, well, really, what
could Miranda do to help? Aside from the simple task of dialing 9-1-1.
It would be the
right thing to do, in case someone was suffering. Miranda could make the
call and run away.
“Help. Please.”
Miranda wanted to
keep walking until she exited the park, but her feet refused to budge and she
cringed. She remained physically capable of forward momentum, just not mentally.
Her stomach folded
in on itself, threatening to incite debilitating queasiness unless she did the
right thing. If she walked away, she’d spend days or weeks dwelling on whatever
she walked away from, constantly checking the news for any hints about what the
hell this was. All food would lose its appeal, and she would look back on the
concept of sleep with nostalgic fondness.
She considered
running back up to Ken, but he was nearly half a mile above the ground. And
someone right here might be hurt.
Miranda dialed the
digits 9-1-1 and positioned her thumb over the “call” icon. Without hitting it
just yet, she advanced toward the source of the moaning and commanded herself
not to dissolve into a shivering mess of nerves. She did not heed herself. Her shaking
thumb almost jabbed “call” by accident.
Didn’t happen,
though. A flash of light cut through the park for just a second, and she
stopped. Where did it come from? Not the park’s lighting system. Was it …
Fantastic Man? Was she about to meet Fantastic Man? This seemed more like
something he should handle, not her.
“That was me,” the
woman said, each word scraping against Miranda’s ears. So scratchy and parched.
She wasn’t far, maybe only a few feet into the darkness. “Want to make sure I …
have your attention.”
Without stepping off
the path, Miranda dared to look between the bushes. A new source of light
flickered low to the ground, revealing a much older woman lying on the grass.
The light came from the strange electricity that was cascading over her unusual
outfit, which looked like a superhero costume—emerald tights with a scarlet
cape. A deep red symbol occupied the center of the chest, the silhouette of a
bird’s wing melding into a fierce, sharp beak. The costume lacked a mask,
though. But this woman had to be at least fifty, maybe sixty, and Miranda had
never seen her before. Surely if an older female superhero had emerged, she
would have dominated the news as much as Fantastic Man did, probably more so on
account of her unexpected demographic affiliation.
Or was she a
supervillain? Was this a trap? Was Miranda stupidly falling into a trap?
The woman was
clutching her side, pressing her hand against a dark liquid …
Blood. The super
electric woman was wounded to the point where she was bleeding all over the
grass. Miranda did not care to stick around to learn who did the wounding, nor
did she relish the idea of running away and unwittingly intercepting such a
person.
The woman reached
toward Miranda with her free hand, which glowed as bright as a standard light
bulb, no more intense than that. The electricity never sparked beyond her
elbow, so the hand appeared safe.
“Come here,” the
woman said. “Help me up. The pain … is too great.”
If she was actually in
pain. Miranda started to wonder. The injury seemed real, but the woman almost
looked like she was smirking. Miranda’s eyes were still adjusting to the aura
of electrical light, though, and she wanted any excuse to get the hell away
with a clear conscience.
Paranoia was not an
excuse to let someone suffer, so Miranda started to reach for that bright,
quivering hand. And paranoia froze her anyway, after only an inch of movement.
“Should I call an
ambulance or the police?” Miranda asked, continuing rapidly without pause, “And
who are you and where is that electricity coming from? Am I in danger just by
standing here? Are you going to kill me? Please don’t kill me.”
The woman chuckled through gritted
teeth, as if Miranda had told a joke. “Just grab my hand, dear.”
#2
Olympus
City awaited a mile off the coast, and Miranda came in high and fast,
determined to neither crash into a building nor show up in any pictures.
The
city’s main retail district was situated shortly beyond the Poseidon Bridge.
The area had plenty of tall buildings with flat roofs, but none of the more
imposing skyscrapers. Miranda designated a random rooftop as her landing pad
and aimed herself at it, flinching the whole way down, assaulted by visions of
crashing through floor after floor like a cartoon character. But she avoided
that embarrassing fate by stopping slightly too early. Hovering a few feet
above the roof, she reached down with one foot until she connected with the
solid surface. Then she planted her other foot, thus completing a safe return
trip that imperiled no one else. She congratulated herself with zero
enthusiasm.
A
breeze tickled a small patch of exposed skin—a tear in her shirt. Miranda
shuddered.
Standing
in the middle of that rooftop, unsure how to move forward, she stared deeper
into the city, where a cluster of the tallest skyscrapers loomed over
everything, high enough to eclipse the low evening sun. They dwarfed her
utterly. Clever people had built them up over the course of decades, creating
this thoroughly modern metropolis that surrounded Miranda. She was a single
speck within, incapable of building a skyscraper, starting a business, or
creating anything else of lasting value.
But
she could wreck it all. The world had become fragile. If she wasn’t careful, it
could break apart in her hands. She could do so many terrible things if she
were a worse person.
Flying
had been the greatest thing. Better than sex. Better than applause. Then it
became the worst thing. How could she ever fly again? Yet, how could she not?
A
glare peeked between two backlit skyscrapers. The scarlet sky, so peaceful now,
seemed to invite her up.
Lowering
her gaze, Miranda happened to look straight ahead at an aging apartment
building a couple of streets over, right as a person tumbled out a top-story
window.
#3
“I’m
in. Absolutely in.” She extended a hand to shake on it. “I’m M—”
“No
real names!”
Fantastic
Man recoiled, and a weariness emerged from beneath his sunny façade. In that
split-second, Miranda noticed how much older he was. Mid-thirties at a minimum,
maybe early forties. What was he before this? What was he when he wasn’t this?
Whatever
he was, it all receded behind that cheesy grin, which he doubled down on. “We must
become something more than we were. We can’t inspire the good citizens if we
keep reminding each other of our … less super selves.”
“Oh.
Okay.” The rule struck her as odd, but what did she know? He was the expert on
these matters.
“You
can’t tell anyone else about your secret either,” he continued, “no matter how
tempting it may feel to do so.”
Miranda
blanched at that. “What? Why?”
“Being
a superhero is a burden you must shoulder on your own. It wouldn’t be very
heroic to place such a weight on anyone else,” he said in a gentle, counseling
tone.
“But
if I just told my—”
Fantastic
Man’s patience slipped a bit, supplanted by slowly escalating urgency. “Then
you wouldn’t be a superhero, not in their eyes. The effect needs to be
airtight. Whenever you don your uniform and answer to your superhero name, you
will bury all your personal foibles and daily concerns. You must brush your ego
aside and become this new persona.”
Miranda
had heard similar advice from a few bad directors.
“We
have to be perfect,” he said. “Nothing can interfere with that. Promise me you
won’t share this secret with anyone.”
The
hell with that,
Miranda thought. He didn’t want to know her name? Fine. Fair enough. He had no
right to dictate anything beyond that.
But
if he expected her to lie to her family and friends, then how was lying to him
any worse?
“Sure.
I promise,” she said.
Daniel Sherrier is a writer based in central Virginia. He is the author of the novel "The Flying Woman." A College of William & Mary graduate, he has worked for community newspapers, written a few plays that have been performed, and earned his black belt in Thai kickboxing. And there was that one time he jumped out of an airplane, which was memorable.
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#flyingwoman #terrific #fantasy #superhero #danielsherrier
this sounds great
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