Under privileged

Jessica gave birth to Laura. Jessica was a single mother and struggled to keep a roof over their heads. If it weren’t for welfare and other programs, Laura would have ended up in an orphanage. Jessica couldn’t do that to her only daughter. Her only chance of redemption.

Not everything was given to Laura. In fact, at most, opportunities were presented that she rejected. Her main reason for rejection was from the treatment she received from her peers. The constant pointing out of used clothing, the same lunch, and even getting on the free lunch program.

The poor treatment followed Laura to high school. One would think that in the advanced classes, the smarter kids would show more class. They didn’t. Laura had to give up several of her after school part-time work checks to purchase her cap and gown. When the school offered yearbooks, she declined.

The only opportunities she took were the scholarships offered to pay for her college. They weren’t the best scholarships, so she didn’t get into the best schools. She did, however, abuse her privileges to learn beyond what the teachers taught.

She maintained an after part-time school job and even got paid for tutoring. Two of the more affluent kids paid her for their school work. This money went into her savings account.

When she approached the end of her two-year degree, she had paid for the exams to gain extra credits. Her paperwork had her with a four-year degree instead of a two.

Holing onto most of her money, she rented a loft apartment and set about executing the plan she started in middle school.

Seven months to the date, she hired a patent attorney and applied for eight of them. It took an additional year, but the system awarded her the patents. She sold them, which gave her enough money never to have to work again.

From that money, she bought a small warehouse and established her lab. Three months later, five more patents.

Laura emerged from her lab, clad in armor. It looked thin and flimsy. But when she clicked her heels together, rocket boots propelled her into the air. Extending her hands produced blasts from her palms.

Laura didn’t need money anymore. Her inventions cleared a hundred-year stride in technological advancements. Through her designs, people with terminal conditions were cured. Travel to other planets and the deep sea have been made safer and more accessible. Foods with higher nutritional value without chemical enhancements are affordable. Textiles are made from reclaimed products. Laura has improved the lives of everyone on Earth.

Laura landed in front of the National Bank on Main Street. She extended her hands and blew the doors off the hinges. Striding inside, she broadcast over unseen speakers, “Give me all your money.”

Bank employees and customers floundered. The tellers scrambled to get all their money into a pile. Laura activated a beam from her forehead, and the money disappeared.

Laura’s head was covered with a helmet, keeping her identity a secret. “Listen up,” she shouted. Her voice was amplified through her suit. “I’ve already demonstrated I can save the world. This is a demonstration that I can destroy it. Learn to be civil to others and teach it to your children.” She strode toward the blasted opening. “Otherwise, I’ll be back.”

The Foodie

Growing up as me was different, just like everyone else.

I remember back as a kid, the TV showing stories about people gaining supernatural abilities. People with super strength, speed, or the ability to fly were appearing daily. It was rare, but that rarity was showing more and more on the news. I wished for powers like that.

My parents were typical and would always curtail my fantastic stories and playtime with reality. “No, Theo,” they would say. “It is possible, but it won’t happen to you.” Deflecting bullets didn’t come my way.

“Stop that,” mom would say. “You’ll hurt yourself.” She was right, too. I broke my arm twice, trying to see if I was invulnerable.

When I turned that magical age of thirteen, it happened. I cried.

When I ate my burger, I heard a cow. There was no cow in the restaurant. My parents freaked when I flung the food across the room. They took me to a shrink for eight months. I was normal. Well, as normal as I could be.

It took some time, but I adapted to the sounds of cows, chickens, and pigs when I ate. Around the time I transitioned out of middle school, the sound changed. I had mutton and heard a lamb: venison, and a deer. Then a new, extraordinary voice added to the mix. It was quiet, except for a low hum that I almost missed. Looking at my plate, I had the double serving of fries. Potatoes.

Each vegetable came next. Most sounded like you would expect, quiet and eerie. Until my grandmother served rutabaga, it was my first, and last, time eating that. Sharp and shrill, it whistled for nearly two days after I choked it down at the table. At seventeen, I wanted to cry.

The voices quieted as I aged, or more likely, I tuned them out. My life was going well, and I headed off to college. On my first spring break, I went home by driving my car from high school. It was a clunker back then and was held together by duct tape and hope. In the middle of nowhere, it died. The combination diner and garage is where I’m at. Sally, the waitress, put the burger in front of me, and I stare at it.

The lowing of cattle was not buzzing as you would expect. The lettuce, tomato, and onion were all quiet. The wheat the bread is made from only carries the other sounds. What is causing me to shake in my seat is the voice I hear.

When I swallowed my first bite, I heard, “Hello? Who are you? My name is Hillary.”