Sunny with a Chance of Superpowers
Sunny with a Chance of Superpowers
Some days the sun shines just because you showed up ready -
umbrella flipped, shapewear on, and punchline in hand.
In National City, where the coffee was strong, the streets sparkled after it rained, and the weather was almost as unpredictable as your internet connection, lived a woman named Marlee Quinn—known to the city (and her group chat) as Superwoman.
By day, Marlee was the Director of Emergency Preparedness at City Hall. By night, she stopped runaway food trucks, rescued cats from suspiciously tall trees, and once prevented an actual meteor from crashing into the stadium during the fourth quarter. She was smart, sparkly, and stubborn. Her catchphrase wasn’t “Up, up, and away!”—it was: “Yeah, I got this.”
And she always did. Mostly.
Except on Tuesday mornings.
This particular Tuesday, the weather was having a full-on breakdown. Rain. Wind. Hail the size of reusable makeup pads. It was also the day the mayor had asked her to give a live televised speech about emergency preparedness. "Keep it breezy," he said. "Just a cute little five-minute segment."
Marlee stared at her closet like it owed her money. Capes were too dramatic. Dresses too breezy for a wind advisory. Leggings screamed “school pickup,” not “citywide confidence.” She sighed, tugged on her most structured pencil skirt, her sky-blue power blouse, and just before stepping out, slipped on her lucky shapewear shorts—the pair that hadn’t rolled down even once while she chased a stolen ice cream truck uphill in heels.
They were black. Breathable. And built like the quiet part of a Beyoncé song.
As she flew—discreetly, so as not to alarm the weather helicopters—Marlee noted how the clouds gathered like gossip above the city. The sky darkened as she landed behind the City Hall stage, her umbrella flipping inside out instantly. Her hair looked like it had opinions.
Her speech? Gone with the wind. Literally. The flash drive flew out of her tote and into a puddle the size of Idaho.
But luck, she had learned, was just preparation meeting the unpredictable with a wink.
She took the mic with a smile that said, “Try me, clouds.”
“Good morning, National City! Looks like the skies are throwing a tantrum today, but don’t worry—I’ve seen worse. I once stopped a waterspout with a bungee cord and a can of hairspray.”
Laughter rippled through the small, soggy crowd.
She continued, ad-libbing like a rom-com heroine in her third act, layering in safety tips with punchlines and using the wind as a prop: flipping papers, adjusting her collar dramatically, and once, pointing at a flying trash can mid-sentence like it was all part of the plan.
By the time she wrapped, the sun peeked out from behind a cloud, like even it had enjoyed the show.
As she walked offstage, her shapewear still holding firm, the mayor clapped. “You’re a natural.”
Marlee winked. “Nah. I practiced this speech in the mirror twelve times. And I waterproofed my mascara.”
Later that night, curled up on the couch with a mug of spiked chamomile and a rerun of Designing Women, Marlee reflected on her day. The wind hadn’t ruined anything. If anything, it had made her shine brighter.
The weather, like life, didn’t owe her sunshine. But she’d built her own forecast, one hard-earned chance at a time.
