//------------------------------// // Chapter 6 // Story: Stout Hearts and Dragonflies // by Lightoller //------------------------------// He felt another yawn rising but held it back with an effort that included clenching his jaw and breathing through his nose. Being a Saturday, Stoutheart had slept in until a quarter after nine in the morning, but the bright sun, combined by the uncomfortable pressure building up in his bladder did an even better job of rousing him from his bed than his phone alarm did. After answering the call of nature, his routine of getting ready played out much like the previous five days albeit with an exception. With no school to worry about, Stoutheart had no urgency to get a move on. It was 9:50 by the time he emerged from the bathroom, clean from head to toe, hair slightly damp but neatly sculpted to his approving eyes, teeth freshly brushed. For the day’s attire, he selected some khaki cargo pants, a maroon T-shirt, and, over that, his Jubilee Line sweater, laundered and smelling as fresh as an Alpine meadow in springtime. Once back in his bedroom, Stoutheart quickly pulled on his socks and shoes, and took stock of what he needed for the day. He slipped his phone in his right pocket and reached for his wallet. A cursory check of its interior revealed forty dollars in the pouch that held bills. Hopefully it’s enough should I hit pay dirt, thought Stoutheart. Lastly, he picked up a pair of fully charged wireless earbuds and dropped them into the left pocket, followed by his house keys. Satisfied, he turned and left, closing the bedroom door behind him. Dropping down to the main level, he saw his mother seated on the couch, sipping at a mug of tea while eying a file folder which Stoutheart assumed was related to her hospital work. She had traded her work clothes for a rose wool knit sweater and faded blue jeans. The TV was on—at the moment blaring a commercial—but she paid no attention to it; her eyes were firmly locked on the folder. Stoutheart knew from experience that even on her days off, her mornings were usually taken up with reports and a conference call with her staff. A pang of sympathy crossed his mind. The thumping of his shoes on the steps caused his mother to look up from the file and stare at him. “Morning!” she called out cheerfully as she brought the mug to her lips. Stoutheart looked at her, smiled, and gave a nod as he made his way to the kitchen. “Morning,” he said evenly. “How’d you sleep?” his mother asked. “Fine,” said Stoutheart with a shrug before reaching into the cupboard for a bowl. He felt another yawn coming, but this time he didn’t stifle it. Over the next few minutes, he poured some Frosted Wheat Bombs into the bowl—followed by some milk and some orange juice into a glass—and took a seat at the dining room table. “So,” prodded Snowheart, “what do you have planned today?” Stoutheart paused with a spoonful of cereal near his mouth. “I was going to go to the mall and look for a hat.” Then he shoveled the food in. For a brief second, Snowheart’s face appeared quizzical but then the realization hit her and she brightened. “Oh that’s right, for your Halloween costume!” she exclaimed. “Mmm hmm,” Stoutheart acknowledged with a nod as he swallowed his cereal and reached for his glass of juice. “I’m betting that that Halloween store which pops up every year might’ve got something new in since my last visit.” His explanation was tinged with uncertainty. “What about that store Aunt Redheart told you about last week?” inquired Snowheart. Stoutheart shook his head and set down his glass down. “Nothing,” he replied bluntly as he scooped up more cereal. “Well stocked, don’t get me wrong, but they didn’t have what I needed.” “Sorry to hear that,” his mother said while shooting him a sympathetic look. Stoutheart merely nodded in appreciation as he polished off the orange juice in a long draught. “You have money in case you find something?” probed Snowheart. Stoutheart’s head nodded again, his cheeks bulging with more cereal before swallowing. “Forty bucks. Ought to be enough I think.” He finished off the rest of his breakfast in silence and after sipping up the last of the milk in his bowl, he glanced at his watch. “I better get going,” he said as he rose from the table, picked up his glass and bowl and approached the sink. “How are you getting there?” “Hmm?” grunted Stoutheart as he did a quick rinse of his bowl and glass. “Oh I was going to take the bus. The 114 stops a couple blocks away from the house and its route goes right to the mall. I got money for that too by the way.” “You sure?” asked Snowheart with a hint of concern that her son detected. Stoutheart rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. “Yes mother, I’ll be alright. This isn’t the first time I’ve used Canterlot’s public transit system you know.” “I know sweetie, I know,” she said with a sigh before taking another sip of her tea. “Might want to throw on a jacket before heading out though. The sun’s out, but the forecast says it’s still going to be chilly today.” Stoutheart fished his phone out of pocket and tapped the weather app. “You’re not kidding,” he shot back. “Thirty two degrees in October?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Last time this year, it was in the upper forties.” “You can thank that cold front which snuck in from the north yesterday,” explained Snowheart. “At least that’s what the weathergirl said on the TV.” And to think, there’s still people who believe Global Warming is a load of crap, Stoutheart thought wryly, as he walked to the closet near the front door, opened it and pulled some coats aside until he felt the familiar leathery presence of his bomber jacket. He slipped it on and pulled up the zipper to its collar. The left pocket bulged with something. Stoutheart reached in and pulled out a black wool ski cap that he placed on his head and adjusted it to his liking. It made him look like a stevedore, but it was comfortable and had proven quite reliable at keeping his head warm. Then he returned to the living room. “Alright,” he announced with finality, “I’m outta’ here.” Snowheart looked up at him. “Before you go, bring me my purse.” Walking back toward the dining room table, Stoutheart picked up the purse—which had been resting on the seat of a chair—and placed it next to her. He watched as his mother rummaged through the bag, expecting that she wanted her phone to make a call. Instead she produced a crumpled twenty dollar bill. “Here,” she said warmly. “In case you decide to grab a bite to eat at the mall.” For a long moment, Stoutheart considered a protest. He was certain he had enough for both a hat and a meal, but in the end, he knew his mother just as well as she knew him. When it came to being generous, she would take no for answer. He flashed an appreciative smile as he took the bill in his hand. “Thanks mom,” he said. “No problem kiddo.” Stoutheart put the bill in his wallet, then turned and headed for the door. “Good luck!” she called back as her son opened the door. “Thanks!” replied Stoutheart just as he shut the door and locked it. Turning around, he took in a deep breath of the chilly air before slipping on his earbuds. “Operation Haberdasher is a go”, he said aloud to himself before jogging down the steps to the sidewalk. * * * * The scenery from behind the spotted, dirty windows went by in a blur, but Stoutheart paid no heed. Nor did he pay heed to the babbling of the other passengers on the bus, or the muffled throaty roar of its engine as it rumbled along the street. The bus was packed like a sardine tin and its bouncing made him grateful he was able to get a vacant seat upon boarding—up near the front—and not have to resort to standing and keeping a death grip on one of the yellow support posts. He relaxed in the seat, palms on his knees, eyes closed, and continued to bob his head as the buds fastened around his ears blared the sweet sounds of Phalanx into his head. The current song was a familiar one to Stoutheart; so-much-so that when he mouthed the lyrics silently to himself, it was without error: See the white light The light within Be your own disciple Fan the sparks of will For all of us waiting Our kingdom will come Rays of power shining Rays of magic fall On the golden voice That speaks within us all For all of us waiting Your kingdom will come Eventually the song ended, and Stoutheart was halfway through another one when a loud musical bong reverberated through the interior of the bus, followed by an equally loud, computerized female voice. “Crystal Heights Mall,” it announced. Through Stoutheart’s earbuds, the voice came muffled, but was loud enough for him to look up and take notice of the red LED sign that advertised his upcoming destination. He raised his arms to stretch and tapped the right earbud twice. The music ceased immediately and he took the devices out and dropped them in one of his jacket pockets. Looking ahead through the front windows, he could see the bus effortlessly enter the parking lot and reach the curb outside the enormous mall’s north entrance, where a series of glass shelters sat off to one side. Would-be passengers could be seen huddled inside them, some eying the oncoming bus, others scanning the transit map hanging on one glass wall. The second the front doors folded open with a swish, Stoutheart rose from his seat, quickly nodded his thanks to the driver and stepped outside, moving quickly toward the glass doors while dodging the oncoming stream of people approaching in his direction. A glance skyward showed that the sky was still devoid of clouds. True to his mother’s word, the sun beamed brightly in the clear cerulean sky but its rays did not alleviate the cold. A shiver crept up Stoutheart’s back, but he quickly shrugged it off as he strode toward the doors of the mall, pulled open one of them, and stepped in. Given the temperature outside, Stoutheart expected the mall to have ratcheted up the thermometer in order to compensate and make things a bit more comfortable for its patrons, but the teen could feel no sudden rise in heat. He already sweated enough this week in Phys Ed and was grateful. Even so, he took off his ski cap and pocketed that too, as he continued to walk along the gleaming tiled corridor, glancing idly at some the stores that passed him. He passed the large board in the center of the corridor that displayed a color-coded map of the mall and a numbered directory with nary a glance. He knew where he needed to go. Party Station was the closest to where he entered the mall, so naturally he opted to go there first. It was on the second level, so Stoutheart sought out the first escalator he came across. Once on the upper level, he walked toward the eastern end of the mall. The aisles were thick with shoppers—young and old, male and female—but he weaved about them like a race car driver jockeying for the lead. Inevitably, the illuminated, multicolored sign proclaiming Party Station soon loomed up ahead and to his left. He entered the store and made a beeline for the headwear section, but after moving up and down the aisle four times, his eyes surveying the shelves and racks from top to bottom, Stoutheart’s mouth curled into a grimace of disappointment. There was nothing he could see that even remotely resembled The Wraith’s hat. Plenty of bowlers, top hats, propeller beanies, tricorns, even those horned helmets many people still thought Vikings wore. But the distinctive black slouch hat was nowhere to be seen. Deep down in his gut, Stoutheart expected this. Party Station, he felt, was a forlorn hope but he couldn’t dismiss it. Turning around, he walked out of the store. Reaching the main hub of the mall, Stoutheart took another escalator back down to the first level and this time headed in a westerly direction. His quarry was at the end of the corridor: a large black banner attached to a façade of a defunct store whose original purpose Stoutheart could only guess. On one end of the banner, the grim reaper wielded his scythe menacingly, while the grinning form of a jack-o-lantern took up the other end. Between the two figures were the words SPOOK-O-RAMA printed in white slasher-type font. Passing through the open entrance, Stoutheart scarcely gave the tall shelves laid out before him a glance. His eyes were focused on the back wall, where he knew the hats and masks were located. Once there, he opted for a different search pattern. He walked along the hat racks length-wise, his eyes darting from top to bottom and side to side. Stoutheart didn’t keep track of the time, but he guessed he must have checked those racks for five or six minutes before his peripheral vision caught something off to his right. He turned to find the source. There, surrounded by Phantom of the Opera masks and some goofy beer helmets, it lay: a row of matte black fedoras with wide brims. Stoutheart’s eyes widened slightly. Well, that’s something, he thought with surprise. I don’t remember it on my last visit; must be a new item. He closed to within an arm’s reach of the hats and pulled the first one off the hook. The feel of the material caused him to crease his forehead in confusion. He pinched the brim. “Foam,” he murmured. “Cheap foam.” He looked over the hat carefully from all angles. It seemed to match The Wraith’s own hat quite well, although the band encircling it appeared to be molded on instead of a ribbon. He considered griping about the hat’s manufacture, but the old adage of “beggars can’t be choosers” flashed through his mind and convinced him otherwise. He turned the hat over and peeked inside the band. The white sticker proclaimed its cost as $15.99. For a very long moment, Stoutheart stood there and gazed at the hat before shrugging. Better than nothing, he thought as he plucked another hat off the hook and replaced the one he had examined. The prize clutched in his left hand, he headed for the checkout. He fished out one of his twenties and gave it to the cashier, who handed back some change and placed the hat in a large paper shopping bag with handles. Stoutheart returned her smile with one of his own, nodded and gave his thanks before leaving the store. Near a bench in the middle of the aisle he stopped so as not to get in the way of other shoppers. He glanced at his watch. Day’s still young, mused Stoutheart as he emitted a relieved sigh, content that Operation Haberdasher had borne fruit. Maybe I’ll swing by Bookopolis and see if they got anything new. Then grab a bite to eat, followed by a bus home. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan,” he murmured to himself as he made a U-turn and headed back the way he came. * * * * Bookopolis was situated close to the west entrance, so much so that it was the first store would-be shoppers often saw as they streamed in through that area. The only other businesses in the vicinity were a hair salon and a branch of Canterlot Credit Union. Stopping before the open entryway, Stoutheart eyed the glowing red serif letters and, above it, an open book and white silhouettes of buildings rising from its pages like some kind of child’s pop-up book. He took a breath and sighed in quiet contentment. He felt nothing could beat the “mom and pop” booksellers that dotted the downtown core of Canterlot, but Bookopolis, despite being a retail giant, had a quiet, easygoing atmosphere all its own. It was these factors that convinced Stoutheart to try and get a job with them over the summer. He half expected his mother to protest, believing that someone his age would have plenty of time to join the workforce as he got older, but he had won her over and backed his decision. Though she didn’t show it, Stoutheart suspected his mother had swelled with pride at his maturity. Stepping through the bookstore’s threshold, Stoutheart padded across the glossy hardwood surface dotted with racks holding stylish book bags, and tables displaying everything from bargain priced books, to leather-bound journals and day planners, and accessories for the latest E-readers. On either side of these displays sat six foot high shelves, displaying a seemingly endless assortment of hardcovers and paperbacks. For being a weekend the store didn’t seem to be busy, but every now and then he saw customers perusing the aisles or a staff member restocking a shelf, their ID tags easily seen. Some of them recognized Stoutheart from when he worked there over the summer; waves, nods, and greetings backed by toothy smiles would quickly follow. Off to the left, the teen could hear the faint beeping as someone’s purchase was being scanned at the checkout. Farther ahead he could hear the squeal of young voices in the children’s section, which took up one whole corner of the store and whose fairy tale appearance could have given diabetes to a health nut. In the air hung the aroma of roasted beans, milk, cinnamon, and sugar from the small coffee stand located within the store. With his search for a hat complete, Stoutheart had no further need to rush. His first stop was the magazines section. He spent maybe 10 or 15 minutes ogling the issues on its “History” shelf as well as some of the so-called “Warbird” magazines chronicling everything from the biplane fighters that once dueled over the trenches to the jet-on-jet dogfights of the Cold War. Then he walked over the history section, which was located at the back of the store near a wall filled with books on sports and musicians. The section was subdivided into several tall shelves, with placards bearing the words ancient history, world history, and military history. He sought out the latter first, scanning the shelves. Every now and then, he would pull a title out of its resting place, eye the front and back cover, or even leaf through the pages. With Christmas only a few months off, he decided to compile a mental list of what piqued his interest. Duel #83: UEN Battleship vs. INN Battleship…#57: Q-Ship vs. U-Boat…With Their Flags Flying: The sinking of HMS Reliant and the Odin…Deliverance in the Deep: The Loss of the UES Hatchetfish and the Miraculous Rescue of her Crew. Stoutheart smiled faintly at the last title. Grandpa would like that one for sure. He was serving on Hatchetfish’s sister sub, Amberjack, when the former sank in March 1978, the result of a collision with a freighter while running surfaced in a fog bank. Because of his grandfather’s storytelling, Stoutheart was familiar with what happened next: the freighter’s bow tore a gash in Hatchetfish’s starboard quarter, flooding her reactor and turbine rooms and drowning half of her 105 officers and men under the merciless onslaught. Though the rest of the sub was sealed off, Hatchetfish plunged 1,100 feet before coming to rest on a ledge of a massive undersea canyon. The sinking marked the first use of the Navy’s Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle in an actual emergency. Forty hours after she went down, the DSRV mated with Hatchetfish’s forward escape hatch and picked up all of the survivors. After skimming paragraphs and the photographs in its middle, Stoutheart slid the book back into its place on a shelf and proceeded around a corner to the World History section. He knew from experience that any books on the Excelsior would have been kept here, and he could not resist the urge to see if any new literature on the lost liner had cropped up. At first the pickings were slim. Bending down, hands on his knees for support, he quickly spied six books on the Excelsior arranged in a row on a shelf that was maybe a foot or so above the floor. Four of them he owned already so he didn’t give them much thought. He pulled out the fifth book and looked disdainfully at the cover. “Excelsior: The Shocking Truth”, he read the title in a low mutter before turning it over to read the description on its back cover. He had seen an online review of this one last month. Three hundred and fifty pages of the author’s theory that a coal fire smoldering in one of Excelsior’s bunkers compromised a watertight bulkhead and hastened her end. “Pass,” snorted Stoutheart as he placed the book back in its spot. He had read enough about the disaster to know that the fire had been extinguished a day before the collision and its heat had done little more than cause some paint to blister and a couple small dings to form; hardly proof of a weakened bulkhead. The review had systematically demolished the author’s hypothesis. So had another online article—nearly 30 pages long—that Stoutheart saved to his laptop for his perusal. Looking away from the ridiculous tome, Stoutheart focused on the spine of the sixth book and was intrigued by its title: A Last Gallant Act: The Final Hours of Excelsior’s Band. Stoutheart glanced at the author’s name. Okay Mr. Onyx Star, you had my curiosity, but now you have my attention. Of all the events that played out on the Excelsior’s decks that cold, terrible night a century ago, the eight men who made up the liner’s band, all of whom perished playing lively ragtime on the slanting Boat Deck to calm fearful passengers as the lifeboats were filled and lowered, became immortalized as heroes, despite their movements about the ship and what tunes they played during the sinking remained murky. Reading the description written on the endpapers of the dust jacket, Stoutheart found that the book’s intent was “to solve these mysteries by proposing solutions based on all existing historical evidence.” His interest seized, Stoutheart moved further down the aisle until he found a small nook with a circular wooden table a pair of vacant armchairs upholstered in leather. Flopping down into its comfortable embrace, Stoutheart placed his bag on the table top and cracked open the book. He went through page after page, his eyes skimming paragraph after paragraph. His face showed no reaction to the printed words, but gradually he became impressed with Onyx Star’s level of research. His mind shut off the hustle and bustle of the store. Time stopped. Definitely going on my Christmas list this year, he concluded as he eyed the bibliography. “Good read?” offered a voice. It came with the intensity of a gunshot and startled Stoutheart so much he gave a sharp gasp of fright. Startled, the book fell from his hands and clattered to the ground. He reached down for it and picked it up. “Oh gosh,” said the voice, “Sorry about that!” Though showing signs of embarrassment, Stoutheart instantly recognized the tone in the voice. It was sweet and slightly slurred. He froze in a mix of astonishment and dread. Can’t be, he thought. His breath catching in his throat, he looked up and saw a pair of boots: lilac with purple flames. He swallowed and craned his neck up further. The next thing he saw were white tights with dragonflies on them. Then a pleated purple skirt…a shapely athletic body clad in a Wondercolts hoodie…that beautiful face with the raspberry colored eyes, one of which was, not surprisingly, partly concealed by a bang of grey hair. Oh…crap. “Hey there,” said the smiling form of Flitter. She waved at him with her left hand. The right one held a bag much like his own. For a long, interminable moment, Stoutheart did not speak. He looked dumbly at the girl standing before him. His mouth opened slightly as if to speak, but no sound emerged from it. Stop looking like a caught fish, stupid, commanded his inner voice. Talk. “Flitter! Uhh…hi!” the tone was high pitched and felt so awkward to Stoutheart that it made him cringe mentally. With some effort, Stoutheart shed the deer in the headlights look and tried to regain his composure. “What,” he began before clearing his throat, “what brings you here?” Flitter shrugged before holding up her bag. “Cloudchaser and I got a call today that our Halloween costumes were in, so we came to pick them up. Then we split up and decided to browse around. I wanted to swing by here and check if any new Daring Do books were in.” She looked over at Stoutheart’s bag. “I see you’ve been at Spook-o-Rama too.” Stoutheart nodded and looked down at his own bag. “Yeah, I needed one more piece to complete my own costume.” He set the book down on the table, and pulled his hat out of the bag to show her. “Oooh!” she said moving in to get a better look. “Looks like something a private eye would wear! Are you going as one of those this year?” Stoutheart gave a chuckle that did little to hide his nervousness. “No uh…not exactly.” He looked down at the fedora for a moment before speaking again, “I’m going as a vigilante called The Wraith.” “Never heard of him,” replied Flitter. Stoutheart met her gaze once again. “Not surprising. He’s kinda’ forgotten these days.” With her free hand Flitter gestured over to the other chair. “Is it alright if I sit? My feet are getting sore and I wanna give my arms a rest after hauling this thing around.” She held up the bag and Stoutheart could see the hem of a dress peeking above the brim. “S-sure,” stammered Stoutheart. “What are you and your sister going as anyway?” “Well, Cloudy chose a ninja outfit this year, and I’m going as an old west saloon girl.” Flitter took a seat and gave a relieved sigh. “Geez, I forgot how comfy these chairs are.” “Indeed. I remember dozing off in one these a few months back while waiting for my mom to pick me up following my shift,” admitted Stoutheart with a chuckle. Flitter giggled. “I believe it.” At that moment Stoutheart’s mind lewdly teased him with a mental picture of Flitter in that saloon dress—replete with garters and fishnets—dancing upon a stage to a raucous crowd, her gorgeously made up face winking seductively at him before blowing a kiss. You have issues dude, he thought to himself with some disgust. He got rid of the image from his mind and looked around. “Where is Cloudchaser anyway?” he asked with curiosity. “If I know my sister,” said Flitter with a hint of sarcasm, “she’s probably either in the music store or in the arcade trying to beat Thunderlane’s score at Killshot.” Then she changed the subject. “So this Wraith guy…” “First appeared in 1930 at the height of the Great Depression,” Stoutheart began. He was calmer now. “The creation of a Manehattan writer named Silver Script, who wrote his stories for Amazing Tales Magazine under the pen name Flint Ironstag.” “Nineteen thirty?” Flitter sounded incredulous. “Yep,” confirmed Stoutheart. “And the stories kept on coming until 1949, when they were cancelled due to low sales. All told, 325 stories were published, most by Script, but several other authors helped out with the workload, all of them using his pseudonym.” “I see,” said Flitter. “What’s the Wraith’s backstory? Is he another rich guy playing hero like Nighthawk?” Stoutheart laughed. “If anything, the Wraith set the standard for the ‘wealthy crimefighter’. He’s the alter-ego of a Gilded Venture, who’s not only the wealthiest man in the city of Bridleton, but also a veteran of First World War.” “Army?” asked Flitter. Stoutheart nodded. “Though commissioned as an officer, he earned the respect of his peers by sneaking out into No Man’s Land to rescue wounded and trapped soldiers.” “It’s almost as if he had something to prove,” mused Flitter. “You’re not far off,” said Stoutheart. “In addition to his missions of mercy, Venture also volunteered for and led raids on enemy trenches and fortifications. Over time, his skill, ferocity, and bloodlust struck fear in the hearts of countless Teuton soldiers, so much so that they put a bounty on his head—fifty thousand marks—and gave him a nickname: Der Höllehund. “What’s that mean?” “The Hellhound,” said Stoutheart, his face displaying a crooked smile. “Charming,” replied Flitter with an eye roll. Stoutheart chuckled as he went on. “Eventually the war ended and Gilded Venture went home, working hard to become Bridleton’s favorite son. But as he adjusted back to his rich playboy lifestyle, he witnessed the city going into a downward spiral of crime and violence. Murderers, thieves, and maniacs stalked the streets. Various gangs waged their turf wars, not caring who got caught in the crossfire. Cops and city officials either struggled against the tide or savored their payoffs.” “Kind of an exaggeration don’t you think?” said Flitter skeptically. Stoutheart made a so-so gesture with his right hand. “Some of it was. A madman threatening the city with some doomsday machine is pure fantasy, but in real life big cities like Manehattan, Chicacolt, and Vanhoover were all hotbeds of crime and corruption in those days. Old Silver Script saw it splashed across the papers and radio on a regular basis, so he couldn’t resist transplanting what he heard and read in the media into his work.” “Anyway,” Stoutheart continued, “Gilded Venture got fed up with criminals running roughshod over his city and decided to do something about it. He trains both his mind and body to peak performance, uses his wealth and influence to establish a network of agents to aid him—” “Hold on,” interrupted Flitter. “Agents? Like…spies?” “Yeah,” said Stoutheart matter-of-factly. “The Wraith didn’t wage his war on crime alone. Over the course of the books, he recruits countless men and women into his organization, forming an intelligence network rivaling any government agency. The majority of them are folks he saved over the years.” “So is it just the books that The Wraith appeared in?” “Oh no,” said Stoutheart with another shake of his head. “There were some short lived comic runs during the seventies and eighties, and a TV series.” “TV series?” asked Flitter curiously. “Animated or live action?” “Live action,” Stoutheart replied. “The episodes were a mish-mash of stories taken from the pulp books and radio show as well as some original ideas. It was pretty good too. Stuck to the source material quite closely.” “Is that what got you interested in The Wraith?” asked Flitter. Stoutheart gave another nod. “First saw it a few years ago being re-run on one of those stations that broadcasts old TV shows. The books came later, followed by some newer works recently published by Ka-Blammo! Comics.” Flitter gave a nod of her own in understanding but before she could speak, a faint rumbling sound emanated from her abdomen turning the girl’s cheeks red. Embarrassed, she averted her eyes from Stoutheart and her arms crossed her belly. “Stupid stomach,” she groaned. “That’s what I get for skipping breakfast today. Sorry you had to hear that.” Stoutheart laughed. “Don’t be. I’ve experienced that feeling a lot of times too so I know how it feels.” Rising from her chair, Flitter stretched her arms and legs before picking up her bag. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you later Stout. Is…is it alright if I call you Stout?” “Not at all,” Stoutheart said with a shrug. “Most of my family and friends call me that anyway.” He smiled and she returned the favor, causing his heart rate to rise slightly. Then they exchanged waves and Stoutheart watched as Flitter turned away and headed back toward the mall. There she goes, he thought resignedly. Another chance and you blew it. Well done. Stoutheart took in a deep breath and looked away with sadness as he eyed the book he had been reading when the object of his hidden affection surprised him. He sighed as he picked up the tome and flipped through the pages. But no matter how hard he tried, his brain cruelly refused to let him concentrate. Flitter had shot to the forefront of his attention and she refused to leave. Stoutheart closed the book once again, placed it on the table as gently as if it were priceless artifact, hung his head, and silently cursed to himself. He cursed his timidity around her. He thought about that reassuring pat he gave her on Thursday and winced. He did the same thing when he remembered looking away from her in the cafeteria. Then, for added measure, he cursed Flitter herself for being so damned attractive. Don’t blame her for your inaction you asshole, snapped his mind. With the speed of a nuclear fireball blossoming across a desert floor, more regret surged over Stoutheart for saying such a stupid thing. Though he felt no headache, he began massaging his right temple. “Stout?” came Flitter’s voice from behind. Stoutheart snapped up his head, shifted his body and turned to face her. He could plainly see her wringing her hands. The strap of her shopping bag hung from a wrist. “Something wrong?” asked Stoutheart. A new feeling—confusion—overtook his mind. “No…I mean…well…y’see…” Flitter’s voice trailed off before she took a breath and spoke once again. “I looked back and saw you all hunched over there looking upset and I was wondering…” another intake of air followed and behind that, a string of words that were spat out with the speed of a machine gun. “Wouldyouliketohavelunchwithme?” Stoutheart scrunched his face. “I’m sorry, what was that last bit?” “Lunch with me,” repeated Flitter in a more normal tone but with her face blushing in embarrassment. “How ‘bout it? I mean I know it sounds weird and all, but I just figured you could use the company.” She offered a hand to him and smiled. “What do you say?” For a long, tense moment Stoutheart looked at the outstretched hand, his face morphing into a look of incredulity. He then looked up at Flitter, his amber eyes meeting hers. He couldn’t believe this was happening, but soon the incredulity passed and Stoutheart’s lips quickly formed into an appreciative grin as he took the hand in his own and Flitter helped him up. “Sounds good to me,” he said as he gathered up his bag and walked side by side with Flitter out of the bookstore.