Nov 19th – Silver Sage

November 19th – Silver Sage


Life as a superhero wasn’t going too well.

For one thing, Simon didn’t actually have any superpowers, as such. He wanted to have superpowers, obviously, and occasionally he did get the feeling that he might have something, somewhere, but in the cold light of day, he didn’t. He couldn’t fly, or breathe underwater, or leap huge buildings in a single bound, shoot webs or transform into…well, anything. This was his first problem.

The second problem was his name. It had come to him in a dream, which he had taken as a sign. It had to mean something. Simon. The Silver Sage. It had a ring to it. Silver. Sage. He rolled the words around his mouth, savouring them. It worked. Green Lantern. Iron Man. A colour and a precious metal. This was awesome. There was, of course, already a Silver Surfer, but Simon wasn’t really sure what he did, apart from surf, and what was heroic about that? No, Silver Sage was much better.

When he looked it up online, however, just to see if the dream-hero-name had any significance beyond just sounding cool, he was a little dismayed to find a pretty dull southern European plant. But that didn’t matter, really. He would make the name his own. He would be The Silver Sage, not just a silver sage. That would work.

The costume was the next problem. He’d got hold of a silver morph-suit from eBay, and cut some holes for eyes, but when he tried it on the result was less than flattering. All the superheroes he was aware of were much more toned than he was. He was going to have to work out, and quickly. The Silver Sage couldn’t get away with a few extra pounds. He had designed himself a logo, too, and again was a little dismayed, when searching his newly coined SS brand, that a fairly unwelcome collection of WWII Nazis had come up with a very similar idea. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? He was sure he’d get away with it.

The next thing was then to get himself noticed. He set up a Facebook page, using the most flattering photo he’d managed to take, and buy the end of the first week he’d got himself 10 friends. Ten people who were now able to contact him at the touch of a button, or the scroll of a thumb. OK, so some of the messages they’d left him were less than positive, and they didn’t seem to be taking him too seriously, but no matter. He was in contact with the world. He was ready to fly.

Well, not fly, but spring into action, somehow, whenever he was needed.

Now all he needed to do was work out where to keep his phone.


Inspired by a prompt from here.

Silver Sage – Dead Deer

Today I wrote from 19:41 to 19:51. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

My silken haired sprite entered the bar. A can of beans clutched in a firm and angry grasp. Before the door had even shut behind them the can was hurtling through the room.

“Here’s your tea” they screamed, if it is possible to scream through clenched teeth. Thoughtfully the can-opener came flying next.

Each bounced off my body as I scrambled at the air in front of me, trying to fend the objects off. They hurt. I fell to the ground from the high stool. Dignity was a stranger to me at the best of times, but as I lay slumped on the grubby floor I took a moment to reflect.

Slumped, I was, one foot caught in the stool my arms in Picasso-like contortions alongside me. I took a breath. I thought. Why am I here? How did I end up half laying, half hanging from a bar stool in a back street pub, the sound of an angry door slamming (how is it possible to slam a door on a sprung hinge?) mixing with the low rustle of a mid afternoon boozer getting on with it’s minor business.

I shut my eyes. I tasted the stale remnants of a thousand spilt pints and a million dropped fag ends. I pictured a garden. Long ago, so long ago. I have not thought of it for years. Yet here it is, suddenly I’m back there. The herb garden was always my favourite part. The smells, the bees, the butterflies and my favourite; eating the leaves, a myriad flavours. In a moment my very soul longed to be back there. Not just a thyme in this plot, many thymes, the summer sun sparkling off the sage bush, no, a few, a Garden sage, a Russian sage, Purple sage and the best of all; the Silver sage. I’ll never go back there now, I’ll never taste that glorious leathery leaf on my tongue again. Here I am. Adrift and counting the days. Much much closer now to oblivion than to those beautiful comforting sages. Finally my foot frees and I slide to the floor. Done.