Pebbles: A Collection of Short Stories

Jimmy Olsen

"Hey, Chief, do you have a moment?" My voice cracked as I tapped gently on the door.

"Come on in, son," the Chief's deep voice bellowed past me and onto the bustling newsroom floor as staffers hustled to wrap up their day before 5 pm. "What can I do for you, son?" He asked as his blue eyes met mine, but other thoughts clouded his words as usual.

"Well, you see, Chief, I've been here at the Daily Planet for two years..."

"Jumping Jiminy, has it really been that long? Feels like just yesterday you were sitting across me greener than a spring morning," Chief's voice got distant with nostalgia as he spoke.

"Yeah, and you know I've loved every minute here at the Planet."

"Two-right you have, the best damn newspaper in the world. Why George Washington himself wrote the first editorial." It was a knee jerk response that Chief had when the Planet received even a hint of an accolade. After twenty-five years as editor and Chief, he had a lot to be proud of in that time.

"Right, yeah, so I thought it was time for my next step..." my voice creaked as though my horrific puberty years were returning.

"Next step?" Chief's brow furrowed as he looked through a proof on his desk. "Mmhmm, next step," he murmured to himself, lost in another thought.

"Yeah, next step; you know, like..."

Chief's eyes snapped up as he shook off his moment of distraction. "Next step, of course, Jimmy. Next step," he nodded to himself as he stood and paced around his desk. "Now listen here, son," one of his bearpaw-like hands fell heavily to my shoulder, which I tried to absorb without much bowing. "It's good for a young, eager man to come in here and speak up for himself. Why, when I was your age, I was still running papers to doorsteps. I didn't have the ear to the Chief as you do. He was a distracted man, a bit self-centered if you ask me. Now, if I had walked into his office asking for a promotion, he'd have laughed me up and down both towers of Lex Corp."

"Right, so..." I stuttered as I sensed I was losing him to an indulgent path.

"You come in tomorrow, Jimmy, and I'll personally see to it that you have a new assignment. I won't be too busy like Chief Taylor. I'll take you under my wing and teach you everything you need to know," as he spoke, he ushered me to the door.

"Thanks, Chief, I really appreciate it," I failed to stifle the bubbling excitement in my voice.

The following day, I found myself racing to work at a fevered pace. A small voice in my head told me to slow down as I whizzed by the snarled traffic of the morning commute. My feet pumped faster, matching the race of my heart drumming in my ears. My knuckles gleamed white as a deep ache throbbed from my fingers to my tense wrists. The horns of disgruntled drivers bounced off me like bullets falling from Superman himself. I was invincible.

I closed my eyes and let the breeze rush over my face. I knew what it was to fly; I knew what it was to be Superman. But it was a mistake. The breeze shifted as my hands were viciously ripped from the bike handles by the unseen force of momentum. I opened my eyes just in time to see the flash of yellow from the taxi floating beneath me. I braced for the impact. The crash of my fragile bones against the hard concrete. The ripping of my paper-thin skin along the grit of the ground. This was it. I wouldn't make it to the office; I wouldn't get my first assignment as a wet-eared reporter. But as quickly as the realization hit, a blur of blue and red blocked the impending black of the asphalt hurtling towards me.

"Jimmy," a voice snapped me from my doom. "Jimmy," it called again. It was familiar, soothing, like a big brother.

Somehow I was upright on the safety of the sidewalk as people looked on in awe and excitement. In blurred confusion, I thought they could be greeting me with their looks. Had I learned to fly?