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The sun beamed down upon the young man giving him powers beyond his wildest imagination. He could feel the power flowing through him like the blood in his body. He flew, he flew! He only needed to will it and it would be true. He felt like he could save the world. And so, he did, a person getting mugged caught his eye as he flew over the city. As quick as a flash, he swooped in and pulled the women away, knocking down the mugger and scaring him off. As quickly as he had descended he was back into the air, weightless.

The bliss of those wide-open skies elated him. He felt as powerful as a god. During this bout of bliss, he closed his eyes, unaware of the increasingly darkening skies around him. It wasn't until his light was obscured that he opened his eyes and saw the golden oblong shape eclipse the sky. Opening and closing like a giant mouth to swallow the world. The sky went completely black, causing him to fall. With nothing to break it, the fall continued. As he plummeted further and further, the piercing shriek of the shape began to overpower his senses. It sounded painfully familiar. The shrieking took on a different tone as it began to form words. He would never shake this feeling.

As the shrieking grew louder, and the words became clearer, he put his hands on his ears. Load groans can be heard, trying to drown out the shrieking. "Hey Arnold," the shrieking words would say. "Hey Arnold," again. "Hey Arnold," the words became clearer and clearer. The shrieking died down to a familiar ringing.

Arnold opened one eye trying to regain his vision. The shrieking becoming more and more familiar. "What is that?" Arnold groaned to himself. His vision focusing Arnold looked over and saw the ringing chime and the plastic talking head of his old homemade alarm clock. Over and over it repeated "Hey Arnold", until he reached over and rested his hand on the stop button, deactivating the alarm. He groaned again, and flipped onto his back. Looking back up through the skylight in his bedroom, he desired the flight of his dream. If he could just close his eyes and will it true. "It worked like that in real life as well, right?" he asked to himself.

Only if he could find a way to make the force of his lift balance out his weight, and his thrust can exceed his drag. Maybe a horizontal jet pack of some kind with wings. He smiled as he realized he had just invented Sam Wilson's flying suit from The Avenger's movies. Turning his head, his eyes landed on the painting he had been up all-night painting. His anxiety lifting as he saw his work. What was before him was the painting of a young women laying down reading a book on the foreground, surrounded by rolling hills. With large mountainous ranges in the background. Great fantastical creatures almost the size of the mountains themselves walked the hills. Each creature grazing, as if the women was not there. The women wore a look of concentration and serenity, as she read. As if she was just another part of the hill. A pink dress adorned her body, to stick out amongst the hills. However, the lighter pink patches of false goat's beard and the progressively darker pink spreader roses around her again blended her perfectly into the scene. He loved this work, particularly because of the sense of calm and completeness within the work. He had to get this to his studio at some point, he needed better light to examine it.

Usually his own worst critic, he felt comfort and satisfaction with his brush work, the lines of the mountains in the back had been the hardest part. He has spent all night redoing the lines, keeping the view consistent with how far away from the mountains the frame was. It was important to him to be able to capture the depth of the scene, this needed to look like a landscape one could fall asleep where they lay because of how beautiful and calming it is. The cloudy, fog like ambiance around the farther mountains helped he thought. He would have to have his mentor look and tell him what he thought. Since he would never be satisfied with it and would continue to "improve" it until the canvas fell apart from wet paint.

Starting the process of waking up, the young man pushed his body over and swung his legs out over the bed. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning he became ambulatory. Looking back at the clock he read 7:15AM, and decided it may not be a good idea stall. Bathroom time is at a premium in The Sunset Arms a boarding house full of tenants, including his own family, that he had grown up in. Walking out of his attic bedroom he found an empty hallway, all the way to the bathroom. A quick shower to fully establish his daylight mood was what his routine called for.

The water was hot, much to his surprise and delight. The one bathroom on this floor is usually stone cold around now, due to all the other showers it's used for. He washed his body, and shampooed his hair. As the steam started to rise, he quickly finished and went the mirror to brush his teeth. Looking in the mirror he caught a good look at himself.

Arnold Shortman, an eighteen year old, deep emerald green eyed, young man looked back at him. His hair almost dry due to the time out of the shower had grown longer since his elementary school years. He tussled and held some of it down while sections of it stuck up like how it always had. Slightly disheveled is how he preferred it anyway.

Making his way back up to his room, he shed his towel and started to gather his clothes. He looked back at his homemade potato alarm and realized he never unplugged it. As he did he took notice of the shape of the alarm. The long "football" style head, as some (at least one) referred to it as, made him slightly lament his features, as it was modeled identical to him. He looked in the mirror on his door and sighed some relief. With all the changes, his body had gone through over the years, one thing he has gratitude for is that his head size stayed about the same while the rest of his body grew around it. His head looked far smaller than when he was a child. Many other changes had happened. He grew tall, bucking the name his paternal grandfather had referred to him as his whole life; growing to a satisfying six feet three inches. Basketball one of his favorite activities came a little easier when he was a little taller than most.

As he gathered his boxers and jeans, he took note of his physique. Arnold's passion for sports had always been a burning one for him. He could never imagine becoming professional, as many other passions took priority. However, he could not imagine a week going by without at least two or three pickup games, or five days or less in the weight room. Not including whichever ones, he played with the school team, which he had done since freshman year. In the last year though he had found other sports more to his liking.

Being a founding member of the school's weight lifting club, he would expend most of his physical energy there. The weight lifting giving his body mass and tone, the six pack most guys would kill for, arms like Hercules, and prominent chest muscles. Arnold loved to work out, a valid form of meditation in his mind. Once his headphones here one he was transformed into another world, allowing him to go through his strict workout regimen he had carefully cultivated, since freshmen year, without much notice. He was happy that at least he could look good, while also having his escape.

He had located his favorite light blue shirt, with the jazz trumpet and letters spelling out "Jazz Hands". He found his blue and white sneakers which best matched his shirt. The blond boy ran his hands through his hair one more time, slightly disheveled. Just like he liked it.

Down the second set of stairs he went, starting to notice the increase in noise, confirming his idea of where everyone would be. As he entered the kitchen he saw the traffic jam of bodies vying for their morning meal. Three of them turned to him as he entered. "Arnold!" he heard three voices say. "Good morning everyone" Arnold replied. His mother Stella moved forward first. Kissing her son on the head as he sat down. "Cereal alright this morning? I noticed you're running late" Stella said to her son. She was shorter than him, brown hair with his exact emerald green eyes. He had always loved his mother, when he was finally reunited with his parents at ten years old after their long illness he couldn't have asked for a better relationship. "Sure, sounds great, Mom." "Arnold, you get to bed late Short man?" he heard his grandfather Phil ask him. Arnold replied, "I was up most of the night working on something." His grandfather seemed satisfied as he went back to his paper.

Arnold's grandfather and grandmother had raised him in the boarding house as a child when his parents fell ill and were not in his life. "Here you go, Kimba." His grandmother "Pookie" as her husband affectionately called her, was sporting her usual bee keeper outfit as she handed him a bowl of cereal. "The honey is as fresh as you or me," she said. "a little closer to him I hope," his grandfather replied. "Thanks grandma, I'm starving." Arnold began digging into his food, hoping his sleeping through the alarm clock wouldn't make him late to school.

Pookie and Phil had both gotten on in years, Arnold always quick to notice when one of them struggled to move a certain way. His sadness seeing those who raised him struggle with things was always counter balanced by their zeal for life. His grandmother, shorter than him, still sporting her gray hair usually tied in a bun or ponytail. She always had some activity going, whether it was fighting imaginary foes as Don Quixote, or exclaiming her royal status as the Queen of England and using her props to bother her husband. She was always active. His grandfather, Pookie's childhood love (and victim) was also keeping his mind sharp. Chinese checkers, reading the paper, or tending to the demands of a landlord. As he got older though his son and grandson started to help with the more labor-intensive chores. A strapping six feet three inches in height, thin, with no hair, he was still the goofy and fun Grandpa that Arnold had always known.

"Where's Dad?" Arnold spat through his chewing, realizing his mess and swallowing. "He had an early morning lecture that he had to get to. He should be back later" his mother said. Arnold acknowledged this and went back to finishing his bowl. As Arnold finished, an inquisitive Mr. Hyunh asked "Arnold, are you working on something for school?" Arnold looked up, "Well, no, but it's something I've been working hard on. Last night was trying to just push through some of the details." "I would caution against over thinking this stuff, Arnie," Ernie Potts interjected. "You may end up burning yourself out, trust me I know." Grandpa without looking up from his paper replied "I don't believe thinking too much was ever your issue." "What was that old man?" Ernie sneered back. "You heard me, you're not deaf, yet," Grandpa retorted.

The bickering between the two men continued for a few moments. Same as most days, Arnold just looked on and snickered at the funny jokes. He loved the boarding house in the morning. The busyness, leading to chaos, the silent treatments, the discussions, and the fights he would try to pacify. All of it made for an unorthodox family, that Arnold had grew up around and had always loved. The addition of his parents at ten years old only added to his joy, and filled the longing for something that had been missing throughout his childhood. Except for when the pipes broke, it was a warm place to be.

"Arnold!" Ernie said. "Yeah, what?" Arnold replied snapping out of his thoughts. "I asked when we're going to start seeing some girls going in and out of here? You're about that age, right? You're a specimen, where's the fan club" Arnold eyes grew wide and a small blush crept across his face, as he had no response. Arnold had never done well with women. He'd always been a bit dense to realize his effect on the opposite gender. "Arnold doesn't need anything like that, he's got his school work and college to think about" his mother replied for him. "I'm just asking, the kid's good lookin, he should be beating them off with a pipe." Ernie continued. "I'm pretty sure you just want to him to bring eighteen-year-old girls for you to leer at" Grandpa interjected, again not looking up from his paper. Ernie glared, but did not respond, almost confirming Grandpa's suspicion.

With that Arnold stood and put his dishes in the dish washer and headed to grab his bag. Heading out the back way towards his car, he realized he may be missing something. He opened his backpack and started frantically searching for his report. He had spent days writing and researching it to turn in. He started to panic as he ran up to his bedroom and started to look at his desk. With no success, he started to head back to his backpack in the hallway to look again, when suddenly he heard "Looking for this?" His mother waved the bound report in her hand. "I took a quick read since you left it in the living room after printing everything, hoped you wouldn't mind. I didn't really care if you did, since I'm nosy anyway." Relieved Arnold approached his mother noticing that she had bound the document together and added a plastic report cover. She thought of everything. She flipped through the pages and looked up at her son "this was a fun read. Your passion for Monet is evident. Also, the prints are heavily influenced by him. At least the ones, you included. Did you paint them specifically for the paper?" Arnold smiled at his mother "yeah I did, writing about him is easy, but I can't really talk about how he influenced me. I wanted to show it. I can't help but look at his landscapes and get lost in them. The brush work and the color really come together in a sense of harmony that's hard to emulate. There's tons of details in every stroke despite the impressed simplicity. His process was almost scientific, and he never really considered a canvas completed until it had been through his rigorous process. It's like looking at a well built machine, when it's working perfectly. Each part almost completely autonomous but working in this great cohesion", Arnold's mother closed the report and handed it to him. "This is an A, I know it." "Thanks Mom" he replied.

"So… Tell me. Why are there no obvious females in your life besides myself? You're not planning on keeping it that way until it becomes creepy, are you?" She looked up at her son seeing a blush starting to form. "Jeeze mom!", laughing Arnold looked down at her. "Well… I don't know, I've liked a couple. None of them seem to really like me, and none them really seem to get me. Maybe I'm just weird." "Really? That's it?" she asked. "Yeah I guess so…" responded Arnold. "So what are you panning on killing me and talking to my corpse while you kill all the new boarders that come through here?" Arnold, horrified, began laughing, Stella with him. "I don't believe that for a moment," she said. "You're a bright, passionate, a gentleman, and you're not completely gross looking." He laughed at her frankness "Thanks Mom, it doesn't mean anything when you say it, but thanks anyway." An apprehensive grin formed on her face, and an eye brow was raised, "I just call it like I see it, that's all. Don't come down on me because you can't take a compliment." She started to adjust his hair as he backed away. "Come on mom I like it this way." He said to his mother. "In all seriousness, try to keep your eyes open, and try to live outside your head, for once. You might find someone you didn't even know was there."

She smiled and wrapped her arms around his large chest. He hugged her back with a tight squeeze, "Go to school, cave artist," she said. "Thanks again, Mom. Love you!" With that he was out the door and heading to his car. She lingered in the doorway and watched him pull away. She bowed her head slightly, and took a large breath. Should could only smile as she brought her face back up, welling with pride. She turned and thought "if that boy's arms get any freaking larger he'll break someone's neck trying to hug them. Then women will be the least of his issues."