Superman’s Secret

 For the copyright holders and hardcore fans, this is a work of absolute fiction not intended to tie in with the DC universe in any way. It was just a little story that came about in my head that I thought would be interesting.

Everybody in Metropolis knew Superman. He was everywhere. You may not have seen him face to face, but you’d have seen him at some point, swooshing through the sky, always ready to help and to fight for truth, justice and the American way.

Everybody knew Superman, and everybody loved him.

No one knew Superman nor loved Superman more than Lois Lane, intrepid reporter at the Daily Planet. Her colleague Clark never thought much of the subject but Lois did, day in and day out. She thought about Superman and marveled at him and wondered where he came from, what he was really like, who he really was.

She had interviewed him, sure. And he had taken her in his arms and flew her across the sky. For the briefest of moments she experienced his world and it exhilarated her beyond comprehension.

And the feeling wasn’t unrequited. Superman felt a kinship with her, a connection. Perhaps there was someone on this planet he could finally open up to, tell his secrets, and never be alone again.

One night, as Lois leaned by her balcony, staring at the Metropolis skyline, Superman swooped down gently, his cape flowing in the breeze. Even though Lois had seen him fly a thousand times the sight of it amazed her every time. At that moment, Lois would do anything to be with him, to feel the way he made her feel every day. She thought it would be worth anything.

But not this.

Superman told her, in full confidence, who he really was. He told her how she had been by his side every day but knew him by another name - Clark. He told her without hesitation, assuming she’d understand.

She didn’t. After hearing what he had to say Lois made an excuse and entered her apartment.

The next day Clark saw Lois at work. She treated him like she always did, spoke to him like she always had and didn’t mention a word about the night before.

That night Superman went to her balcony but she wasn’t home. With his super hearing he heard the cries for help as a monorail train derailed and went to the rescue.

There, in the crowd, she saw Lois writing notes as Jimmy snapped away. When Superman came to say hello he expected her to act differently towards him but she was the same as she’d always been. She treated him like she always did, spoke to him like she always had…

…and didn’t mention a word about the night before.

Because everybody in Metropolis knew Superman. He was everywhere. But Lois now knew a little more. She had always wanted to be special, but now that she was she wished she could be like everybody else again.

Because everybody thought they knew Superman, and everybody loved him.

The Talking House

Is this poetry? Or a limerick? I don’t know. All I know is it rhymes.
Perhaps it’s rap.


There once was a poor man left without a home
And all through the country this poor man would roam
For weeks and for days and for hours and hours
This poor man would search for a home
And so he would go, to the hills to and fro
Past the rivers and valleys, through sleet and through snow
This poor man kept looking for days upon end
For a place that this man could call home

But after a while this poor man stopped a-looking
Decided that maybe there’s no home for viewing
Perhaps there was no place that suited this man
This poor man who so needed a home

He slept where he could and found some form of comfort
In what he could find for that’s all that he wanted
His sights were no longer set ever so high
For this man stopped his search for a home

And that’s when he saw an incredible sight
Shone upon him as though from a glorious light
It was there all along but the door never opened
This place that he could call a home

“Hello,” said the home and the man was perplexed
“You can talk?” asked the man and the home answered, “yes,
I’m a house that can talk and I’ve all that you’d
Possibly want in your very own home”

The man was amazed as he stepped on inside
The house was beyond what his mind’s eye described
On those nights when he dreamed of a wonderful place
That he one day could call his own home

In the past this poor man had seen this house before
But he never thought that he’d step up to the door
And he never imagined that this very house
Would be somewhere he’d proudly call home

“This is perfect,” the man said, his face full of glee,
“Tell me where I should sign, ‘cos you’re so meant for me!
I shall care for this house like no other and when
Others come I shall show them my home!”

The house said, “Sir, there is no contract to enter,
To sit on this sofa or eat at your leisure
These doors, they will open whenever you wish
But I’m sorry, I can’t be your home”

The poor man looked up at the house and he said
“If you can’t be my home tell me why have you led
Me inside when I can’t even say with all honesty
That you are truly my home?”

The house said, “I’m sorry, I know it’s a shame
But this house is now under someone else’s name
Though your company’s welcome whenever you’re here
Even though this house shan’t be your home”

The man sat and wondered what option to take
Should he stay even though it would make his heart break
For he’d know even though he’d enjoy all its comforts
This house could never be his home

Or perhaps he should try to continue to find
Somewhere else that would give even more peace of mind
But he couldn’t imagine another, more suitable
Place that he could call his home

He thought
And he wondered
And queried
And pondered
He mumbled
And grumbled
And whispered
And hollered
His mind couldn’t
Think
No, he couldn’t
Process it
Unless he was back
In that house
That talked back
In the house that
Could not be his home

So he went back inside
And his mind came alive
And between all his thoughts
He’d sit down and he’d talk
With the cool talking house
About Wordsworth and Proust
About life and TV
And the ‘Rings trilogy
About anything that
He pulled out of a hat
And he’d think in between
Of what man he had been
Searching every which-where
For a place that he’d dare
Call a home but he couldn’t
(Or maybe he wouldn’t)
And now that he’s found
Somewhere safe, solid, sound
That he spends all his time in
He can’t help reminding
Himself he’s just minding
This house till the owner comes home

And one day he’ll again be alone

Tigers and Antelopes

Jason had that feeling again. The same one he had in Covent Garden when he first met her. She was just an aquaintance, but it sparked up that feeling.

The first time he experienced it he was fourteen years old. Her name was Sarah. Her hair smelt of danger and she moved the way tigers hunt. He was the equivalent of an antelope at the time, right for the pickings. She pounced and he fell.

But not this time. Now he was conditioned. He wasn’t an antelope anymore. He wouldn’t be prey. As this new predator stalked him within the shadows of the cocktail party, hiding behind coloumns and guests, her eyes striking him like poisoned darts, he stood and waited, a bait.

Deep inside the left breast pocket of his second hand tweed suit jacket, just above where his heart would be, his stanley knife awaited his call.

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” she said, “Donovan’s party at Covent Garden?”

“Yes, you did,” he replied.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said, her voice deep and sultry.

“I know,” he replied. She talked, he listened, and when the conversation died down he asked her,

“Follow me for a second, will you?”

“Where to?”

“I want to introduce you to someone. Someone very close to my heart.”

I just realized the character in this is called Jason, same as the guy in ‘The Mark’ story I wrote before. And the short script I posted before that. All the main characters in this ‘Fiction’ section (save for the ‘Floppily-Doppily Land’ story) are called Jason. Subliminal connection? Maybe. Who the fuck is Jason?

In Floppily-Doppily-Woppily Land…

Since Eddy’s been posting demented children’s stories, I thought I’d have a go for shits n’ giggles.

In Floppily-Doppily-Woppily land
There once was a boy who looked up to a man
Who sat in a bin and would smile with a grin
As he merriedly sipped his St. Broderie’s gin

“I like him because of the mess that he’s in,”
Said the boy as he talked of the man in the bin,
“He’s lost all his money, his wife and his kids
But he’s always so merry, a-fondling his tits!”

For the man in the bin had gained weight, quite a bit
From drinking all day and the man would not shit
“For shit is the soul, and the soul must not leave,”
said the man as he licked off the gin on his sleeve,

“There is no event that is reason to grieve,
In that 9 to 5 life I decided to leave
And why should I grieve of the loss of my wife?
The bitch took my money, my kids and my life!

My comics, she took them, my trophies so bright
That I won as a boxer in my final fight
She took them away and ran off with my brother
Since before we were married they’d always been lovers!

But I did once catch them but I did not bother
To bring up the day when I saw my bro smothered
In My wife’s own bossom as my labrador
Was mounting her hard as she lay on all fours.”

The boy would go often to listen for more
Of these strange anecdotes that the man had in store
But he did not know that the man had a secret
He’d think of the boy, grab his penis, and beat it!

And as the boy’s visits became much more frequent
The man kept on thinking, “I love him, I feel it!
But if I did tell him he’d run to the cops
And they’d send me to jail and my bottom will pop!”

The boy kept returning, the man would not stop
His fantasies of the boy rubbing his cock
But deep down the boy had a secret himself
He was not a real boy but a toy from the shelf

Of considerable value, and a man of much wealth
Paid for the dear toy and used Satanist stealth
To give it a soul by a fortified demon
(For argument’s sake, the rich man’s name was ‘Steven’)

And Steven said, “boy, you must grab all his semen,
And give it to me, only then we’ll be even!
And you can go back as a toy on a shelf”
But the boy did not want to be his former self

“I like my new body, it is of good health
If I had a lisp, I would say, ‘my butt smellthhh
of poo, but thathhh cool becauthh I am alive!’
So don’t come down here with that ol’ semen jive!

So Steven said, “My, by the heads of my wives!
I’ve never heard such insubordinate cries!
I’ll turn you back into the toy you once were
If you don’t get the semen, by theft or by lure!”

So the boy went and found the man covered in fur
Which he took from a lady of well-known demure
“I’ve got me a coat, that’ll last me till winter!”
Said the man in the bin, “now I won’t need to shiver!”

The boy said, “I know of a way you’ll sure quiver”
And with that he knelt and undid the man’s zipper
The man blessed his days and awaited his prize
As the semen spewed, hitting the poor toy-boy’s eye

Then Steven appeared and his smile was so sly
The man said, “I’m sorry, it was my first time”
And Steven said, “you, who doth live in a bin!
Don’t you recognize your own flesh and blood, man of sin?

The man took a sip of his watered down gin
And said, “you’re my brother? How long has it been?
What news of my wife, my kids and my trophies?”
And Steven said, “your wife’s a slave to God Loki!”

Perturbed and disturbed, the man gave him a poke-y
And said, “don’t you mess with me, bro, you don’t know me!”
And with that the man changed, his body did grow
His skin turned to brown, and his hair turned afro!

For he was no man turned to bum or hobo
The man was now bigger, and fitter, with flow
“Ey, yo, motherfucker, you fuckin’ wit’ me?”
He said in ebonics, “don’t you know I’m a G?”

He took out his gat, and his 9-mil Uzi
And shot Steven down to the ground easily
So don’t ever jack-off an old homeless man
In Floppily-Doppily-Woppily land

This came out MUCH more disturbed than I thought it would. There’s something wrong with me…