Confetti, Capes & Catastrophes

Timothy “Tumble” Blake wasn’t born heroic. He was born sideways, fell off a hospital table, and kept toppling from there. His powers—limited flight, mild telekinesis, and an allergy to shellfish—were neither impressive nor reliable. But in Pinegrove, a sleepy town tucked into a fog-kissed valley, Tumble was the only one who could sort of fly and maybe throw a lawn chair with his mind.

The forest’s wispy breath was filled with a crisp and clean pine fragrance. Tumble inhaled deeply, nose twitching. He stood on the edge of Hollow Hill, branches creaking underfoot, overlooking the quiet sprawl of Pinegrove below. A subtle hum crackled in his ear—his crime alert earpiece, which he'd super-glued to a 1998 MP3 player that still occasionally tried to play the Backstreet Boys.

“Three suspects. Gas masks. Covered in glitter. Near City Hall.”

Tumble grimaced. Glitter meant The Spritzers, a ridiculous trio of former children's entertainers turned low-level villains. Their latest plot involved dyeing the town’s water supply pink to “boost morale.” They’d also stolen municipal blueprints and replaced them with origami swans. And they once robbed a bank using sock puppets.

Tumble tried to launch skyward with heroic flair. Instead, he yanked a pine branch, tangled his scarf, and face-planted into a bush. A squirrel watched with judgment. He could swear it shook its head.

At City Hall, The Spritzers—Dizzy, Fizz, and Glenn—had somehow disabled security by dancing interpretive jazz. Town workers clapped, unsure if it was a protest or performance art.

Tumble stormed (stumbled) in.

“Stop right there!” he shouted, brushing pine needles from his forehead and yanking his cape out of a recycling bin.

Glenn, the leader, waved a sparkler. “You again. Didn’t you trip into a storm drain last week?”

Tumble squared his shoulders. “I meant to do that. Recon.”

The confrontation turned into chaos. Dizzy slipped on a confetti cannon. Fizz dropped his coloring book of plans. Glenn tripped on his cape and accidentally turned on the fire sprinklers. Tumble reached out with his shaky telekinesis, aimed for the pink dye vat, and… threw a trash can at himself. Again.

The dye exploded, covering everyone in fuchsia sludge.

But the plan failed. The town’s water was untouched. A toddler in the crowd shouted, “Yay, Pinkman!” And that’s all it took. The nickname stuck. Unfortunately, so did the glitter.

Local journalist Ada Lin, usually unimpressed by superhero antics, had been investigating City Hall's funding of questionable arts programs (including The Spritzers’ former TV show, Sippy Hour Madness). She noticed Tumble’s effort, if not his effectiveness. Her article, “The Clumsy Courage of Pinkman,” went mildly viral, which in Pinegrove meant it got printed and laminated at the library.

Weeks later, Tumble stood once more in the pine forest. He’d started wearing knee pads and carried antihistamines. He still tripped. But now, kids asked for selfies. Even the squirrel seemed less judgy—although it still crossed its arms a lot.

Ada appeared beside him, holding coffee. “Nice throw, by the way.”

He squinted. “Which one?”

She smirked. “All of them.”

Some heroes soar. Some stumble forward until the world catches up.