This short story was written for the Verdant Owl Spring challenge of 2026.
Rules: Create a 2000 word story in the genre, using the character and the object.
Pain gives me knowledge. I numb the pain with beer.
“Prost!” The swath of drunks at my pub table egg me on, offering their toast for the spectacle. The amber liquid foams in front of me and I chug a third of it.
The thick piece of ivory paper, already stained red at the edges, slashes between my index and middle finger, next to the last paper cut. I cry out my useless fact.
“Pogonophobia is the fear of beards!” I shout through the pain, sputtering the remnants of foam from my bottom lip to the raucous laughter and cheers of the crowd. One burly German blushes, running his fist down a cluster of wiry hairs sprouting from his chin.
As I watch Mister Coy stroke his oily beard, and the crescendo of unruly fists pound the table prepping for another Prost!, I chuckle to myself at how I got here, performing for drunks at Schneithorst’s Pub. By day I’m a Librarian, by night I’m a boozed party clown.
I’ve always wondered whether this supposed ability would fade, but after almost three years, it’s still holding strong. The day it all started, I remember distinctly that it was sunny and ordinary. No tumult of sketchy weather or cinematic storms. The library received a package. The parcel we had been expecting arrived without a hitch; a historical cache of random treasures that were not worth much. But they’d be great for display and learning opportunities for roving patrons and students.
“Prost!” Fists bang mercilessly, vibrating up my mug. Another third goes down and I shudder before blowing out a hot breath.
The blood-stained paper shriks! through my middle and ring fingers. “Oh God!” I shout, “Almonds are part of the peach family!” I belch, feeling a remnant of the cold brew crawl back up my throat.
Some of the men boo, and some cheer through their laughter.
Anyway, it’s not like I can control what comes out of my mouth. It’s not like I knew what waited for me in that cursed shipping crate. I later heard the crate came from some native dig in Utah. Piled inside (and not packed well), were sets of old dishes, broken arrowheads, and some prints of primitive graffiti. There was an old tobacco box that I opened out of curiosity, and I was greeted with a leaping beetle, a scarab perhaps... small and shiny with nefarious pincers. I never caught it after it bit me, but I hope it died somewhere in the walls of the library. I know what you’re thinking, but the beetle isn’t what sealed the deal. That’s a typical superhero story for sure—hero-person gets bitten by a radioactive whatever and they end up saving the world. Or they’re an alien. Or something. For me, the sinister beetle bite was just an ornery stowaway. This buffoonery, this clown show... It actually started with a book.
“Prost!” More women join in, pounding their thick and pale fists against the table with the men. My mug nearly topples.
“Okay, okay, one more!” I say, swigging the remaining third and steeling my woozy head for the next banger of a useless fact.
Zip! through the tender web between pinky and ring finger.
“Chainsaws were first invented for -hic- childbirth...” I wince at the red dribble leaking from the small cut.
“That explains Gregor’s dome,” The patron I know as Eric says, clapping the beard man across the back while everyone chortles heartily in their drink.
Most stories about superheroes are fantastical, and usually involve something useful, like super strength, flying, or shooting webs to acrobat between buildings in some big city somewhere. Not here. Not in Black River, Missouri... It’s a small town in the middle of nowhere, populated mostly by fourth-generation Germans and their love for social drinks. I can’t complain, really—I’ve made friends through the spectacle.
“Prost!” Comes the carnival war cry.
“No, no, guys -hic- seriously, I can’t. I’ve had four and I have to pee again,” I tell them. More groans and boos, but they’ve acquiesced and reconvened into their social silos, leaving me in peace to stumble to the washroom.
Nights like these are entertaining enough. I’d usually end up waking up the next morning hungover, with the crust of blood dried between each finger. Why paper cuts? It was easier than getting punched, stabbed, or God forbid something worse. They heal fast, offer their quick hit of entertaining dopamine, and are easily numbed by excess alcohol.
In fact, I still have the paper cut scar from the mysterious book that was in that shipment with the beetle. It’s there, always to remind me... of just how useless it was. The book is now in a sealed case at the library (and the beetle dead in the walls) for the grade school kids to rest their greasy fingers on, breathing their viruses over the surface to be thoroughly cleaned every day. I’ve volunteered to do this only because it gives me an excuse to visit it. I can still see the dull spot of scarlet on the fated edge that bestowed upon me its ridiculous gift.
The dirty pub basin collects the leaks from between my fingers as I rinse the drying blood from them. Each one burns as the hard mineral water invades, and I learn the first sixty-four digits of pi.
Saying goodbye to everyone, then closing out my tab for the night, I finally start the walk home. The first step down is tricky, but I’ve done this drunk before. Many times before. Yet, I really knock my toe against a crack in the sidewalk, stumbling hard enough almost to fall. As the throbbing swells in my middle toe, I learn that Edgar Allan Poe had a crush on his childhood friend’s mother. Saucy.
Anyway, the book... It came in the same crate with the beetle, so it came from the same spot in Utah. Who knows what kind of ancient burial magic lives in the grounds in the United States, seeping into the pages of the book in the case. It has an aura about it, which is why I like to visit it. Seeing that red stain makes me a part of it, as much as it is a part of me. I can see it in my mind’s eye now: pressed bronze-colored filigree decorates the black leather cover, complete with a small, long-broken padlock to hide its secrets. I may or may not have been involved in the breaking process, but I think the phrase, “you reap what you sow” kinda fits. Curiosity killed the cat. Or embarrassed the Librarian. Or something.
The pages have a hum about them. Sort of like the incessant buzz of fluorescent lighting, illuminating the uncanny yellows of a liminal space. Sometimes I can still hear that hum through the display glass. If I place my own greasy hand on the surface, I can almost feel it, as if my very blood vibrates to the tonal pitch.
It’s sort of fitting, really... I mean, a book manages to taint a keeper of books? Like a serendipitous wash of irony. I ponder this, pinching the smallest bit of skin on my middle finger as I close the door to my apartment. As the burgundy blister swells, I learn that technically it’s considered illegal to be drunk in a pub since 1872. Well, consider me a lawbreaker. I resolve to pop this blister later and learn something new.
Now, I lie down, for tomorrow is another day of entertainment. It seems a little unfair, considering all the useful outcomes from the comic books and movies.
I don’t think I’d be able to save anyone in a dark alley by breaking a finger and shouting out a fact. Unless, of course, that fact happens to be the exact thing needed to fight off the attacker without the use of muscles. Because I don’t have those either. Plus, the pain must be significant enough to trigger the response. No swift flick to the inner wrist will educate anyone on the widest circumference of the largest ketchup bottle in the United States. Consequently, it’s a little over seventy-eight feet and located in Collinsville, Illinois.
I suppose the plus side to this is the fact remains in my head. An endless storage of sorts, however many terabytes of memory a brain can hold. Unfortunately, none of my paper cuts or toe stubs have enlightened me on that yet. I once hit the back of my head on the edge of the sink cabinet and learned that the giraffe has a tongue long enough to clean its ear. Practical? Maybe. In the right context. I usually don’t consider it at the time I’m icing whatever wound the world throws at me. In fact, I’m usually grumbling about how I don’t get any real tips on stock trading, or something I could use.
Enough pondering, my eyelids are heavy. I close my eyes and dream about the book. I always dream about the book.
Yes, I go to the pub on Sundays. My reflection grows as I approach the glass door, my modest stack of uncoated eighty grams-per-square-metre paper tucked under my arm, and patrons inside already ready for me. My usual spot at the table in the center of the pub has a tall mug with a fresh, foamy head and condensation trickling down the sides. Gregor, the beard-man, chose the seat next to me this time, smiling under his neatly groomed and trimmed facial hair. I smile and shake my head. That’s one thing these guys don’t always understand... fear facts sometimes pop out of my mouth. That doesn’t mean I’m afflicted by them. But his beard looks nice, and I tell him so.
“Prost!” Comes the war cry.
First, a modest swig, then a wild shudder. I’m not tipsy yet—the first always hurts the worst. My gleaming virgin piece of paper shriks! between thumb and forefinger, next to the thin scab of yesterday.
“Son of a—gah!” I hiss, shoving the wound in my mouth, tasting the warm iron. “Henry the second’s farting fool was given a manor in Suffolk...” I mumble out the words.
They laugh, whether or not they understood the fact; the word “fart” always got them. I chuckle a little, still feeling the resident sting.
The paper collects its tithes, a growing red stain on all four sides with each cheer, jeer, and prost! that echoes in Schneidhorst’s. Before I came along, the pub was dying, probably near the edge of closing. Now it’s packed with all types—drunks, non-drunks, some children (much to my chagrin), and curious onlookers. The pub has regulars and a steady weekend crowd. If anything, that little leather library book with its mysterious pages of bygone magic has reignited a failing hole in the wall, using me as its vessel.
I’ve made new friends, and the pub has new patrons, so I can’t complain.
Overall, maybe the real useless superpower is the friends we’ve met along the way.
~END