Flash Day: A Short Story

For the last six months of his life, Barry Allen has been uncomfortable, to say the least. Partly, because he blames his actions for resulting in the death of Eddie Thawne; the other, as he thoroughly regrets not seizing the chance to save his murdered mother. Barry still has no clue if he even wants to be the fearless Flash, that you used to be. It was his life, but now... his life isn't worth Eddie's. Today, is no different to Barry. It's Flash day- a celebration of all thing similar to the heroic deeds of the scarlett speedster. And yet, it's the same repetance filled morning, comparable to the rest.

However many times Joe relentlessly begs him to go, the answer is still a defiant- no. Sure, the Flash could make a spectacular appearance,

What am I doing? Your a hero, so stop acting like Kanye West. Barry chastises himself, and stumbles around aimlessly, trying his best to seem serious. "Yep, this a bad idea." Barry mutters regretfully, before turning the only part of his face visible- his mouth- into a toothy grin, waving cheerily to the roaring crowd.

It was then he noticed something peculiar. Amidst the rabid spectators, is a tall man staring curiously at him, as though examining his very soul. Whereas the majority of the crowd is wearing merchandise, this inquisitive man has a flightjacket on his upper half, which appears to be a rough leather. Focus, Barry. He orders his body, which willingly obeys at his conscious beckoning.

Refocusing on the sardonically smiling major, Barry returns the forced half-smile with an equally fake one of his own. Sometimes, he wonders why he bothers to act dramatic, he miserably fails at it every time. The disdain the major is showed the speedster ends when he skeptically opens his mouth to announce the transferring of the symbolic key.

Before the politician could allow words to form, a anguishful cry erupts from the mass amount of people, causing them to splinter apart as they headlessly run amok. "Fantastic." he sarcastically rolls his eyes at the

to Hal, he doesn't look particularly gallant. In fact, he is extremely scrawny, it reminds him of chopsticks. In thorough comparison, Hal is distinctively larger, both in terms of muscle, and length. It does sound right, though. If you have superspeed, being strong is at the bottom of the priority ladder. Funnily enough, the stick has no heavenly idea what he is doing. However, he manages to maintain at least a great amount of composure.

Resisting the urge to laugh at the Flash's comical wave, Hal impatiently fiddles with his power ring. It will need charging soon. I can't have it dying on me, can I? He reminds himself of the rings power level- never 100%, but also shouldn't be descending to 0%. God, he wishes that the guardians had constructed the ring better; Kilowog would have done a better job, and he can't touch anything without it combusting on impact.

Silently, he cackles at the image. That would be amazingly amusing to see. "I love you, Flash!" a woman beside him shouts, clutching her heart