© Copyright 2018
This is me in my two alter egos. Click on each of them to see larger image.
It’s tough being a superhuman. Oh, excuse me, POSThuman. Mustn’t be politically incorrect, suggesting superiority to ordinary humans. Even in my secret diary stored in one of my brain’s nanoscopic memcores. (As opposed to my public supposedly private pback diary I’m keeping to keep my school counselor happy. Not that she or anyone else can read it, it being in my 256-bit personally constructed code.)
So, future me, hope you don’t sneer at me. I’m only 10 years old. Cut me some slack. Are you really that more mature, five or fifteen or fifty years from now? Or five thousand. I’m supposed to be able to live that long. I cringe at the thought. Cringe.
What really annoys me is the missions PH Rescue Central assigns me. Last week it was getting a cat down from a tree. I couldn’t use my supersuit, it and me, Kelly “Shadow” Walker, being secret. Nor could I jump up to it, supposedly being a mere human. Yes, MERE human. MERE MERE MERE I said it. (Silently, to this memcore.)
It’s bad enough that I can’t fly till I’m at least 16. My posthuman counselor won’t switch on that ability till then. She says my body can’t take the stresses yet. I have to get everywhere on my bike.
In some ways I don’t mind. It’s really a superbike, at least when I’ve unfolded and unfolded and unfolded it to look like an ordinary bike. I love its paint job, pink and purple splotches and with a high gloss. It also is a racing bike design, so when people see me zooming along almost as fast a car they don’t think it strange. (Strange beyond a 10-year old going that fast. Keep it down, my PH counselor says to me way too many times.)
© Copyright 2018