Modest Super Hero

If at first You don’t succeed, try, try, try again

Postcard from a Pigeon

“Are you a superhero?” the snotty boy with a thin film of dayglo popsicle on his face, asks.

He was asking the man in the dandyish Edwardian suit of shades of blue plaid with skinny pants and mirror polished, brown leather shoes.

“It all depends,” the dandy answers.

“On what?” the boy asks, one finger exploring the inner depths of his right nostril.

“On whether people value style over substance.”

Examining the treasure gathered from his nasal probe in myopic detail, the boy misses this last retort. He looks at the dandy with the same scrutiny he’s just given his mucilage.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Irony Man, “ says the dandy.

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ELEVATE

Her naked body gleams in the waning sunlight, the meandering shadows cloak her in an erotic memory, the tricky genie of light casts spells that highlight her sensuous curves. 'This is a vision to elevate the soul,' he says. 'I agree,'  Lurg mutters, drooling. 'No, ' says Bjorn, 'ELEVATE, not SALIVATE.' Photo: Shutterstock

OOZE

  Martin knew the procedure. Stay calm, behave normal, answer the questions and present his documents, without ceremony. The commandant seemed affable. He didn't parade like a martinet. Instead, he was smiling, friendly. But as his officers examined his documents, Martin sweated. If they got close, they'd see the blood ooze.

TAILOR

"It's a stitch up," he complains,  "I never seen those goods in my life before, as God's my witness. Someone's 'aving a lawrf." But no-one laughs, least of all, the dour faced beak on the bench who deems his crime worthy of incarceration. The detective smiles. He was a tailor, before.  

CAPER

  No, I'm not skipping about, having a laugh, it's a berry that's neither soft, succulent or sweet. Quite the contrary, indeed, for it's sharp, even bitter with a crunchy texture and a salty flavour. Eat it fresh or soaked in brine, with fish, in a tartare sauce, it's a caper.

ANGLE

There was a time when the angle of your dander meant  almost as much as the stoke in your poke but never enough. Back then there were standards, he thought, ready to torch the twelfth bonfire. But standards have fallen, he thought. for Chrissakes, some of these boys are racists.