…and on the 8th day, micro fiction was published on some dude's blog.


As Carter put the finishing touches on everything, he had a revelation: He was OK with his place in the group.

It doesn’t sound like much, but it was huge. There was a time–a span of several years, to be exact–when he would have been bitter about the way things had gone down earlier in the evening. He would have been bitter about being asked to stay behind and get dinner ready while the rest of the group went out and did their thing. He would have sulked, then raged, then convinced himself he was going to quit this stupid group.

And then, he would have been talked out of it by the nagging voice in his head that kept saying “Quit? Really? And go do WHAT, exactly? Strike out on your own? Yeah, right–like anyone would want you back or would even care if you left. Who do you think you are?” And he would stay, not sure if he hated himself or the rest of them more for doing so.

But months of therapy had put him in a better head space. As he stood in the kitchen, secreting into a bowl the guacamole that James liked so much and always requested–and thinking about how angry that request used to make him, and no longer recognizing that version of Carter, the one with the huge chip on his shoulder–he thought about how hungry his pals were going to be when they arrived back at headquarters after defeating Dr. Volt and his minions, and he smiled.

He smiled thinking about how James’s face would light up when he saw the guacamole, and how happy all of them would be once they realized he’d spent the evening putting together an EPIC Cinco de Mayo party for them featuring burritos smothered in his own mole sauce which was TO DIE FOR.

For he was Carter Wallace, mild-mannered accountant by day, and by night: Condimento, the man who can shoot condiments out of his fingertips. And sure, guacamole was never going to bring down an evil genius bent on destroying the city, but if what Carter could do wasn’t a super power? Well then, he didn’t know what was.

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