8 PTS BUT PLS ANSWER CORRECTLY NOT SOMETHING RANDOM AND A PROPER STORY THAT IM SAYING NOT A RANDOM EXPERIENCE OR STORY OR COPY PASTE FROM THE INTERNET just make a story, the character has to be an existing superhero but u cant tell me the superhero just explain him/her and make conflict and plot in the story

If I were a superhero, I wouldn’t wear shiny suits and silly masks. I’d wear jeans and my favorite hoodie and my hair in a ponytail. I don’t understand when superheroes just let their long hair flow free. Doesn’t it get in the way? My hair would be stuck to my face in five seconds, what with all the jumping and kicking and flying and sweating.

If I were a superhero, I wouldn’t have a scary name like Red Scorpion or Poison Oak either. I’d have a name that made people feel safe, made them feel like they weren’t alone. And I definitely wouldn’t hide my identity. I’d tell the entire world who I was. I know there is that whole protecting-your-loved-ones-from-supervillains thing, but I think that’s hyped-up drama for the movies.

In truth, I don’t think the world has many supervillains. I think most of the terrible stuff in the world is just regular people forgetting themselves.

Like how yesterday, my dad and I were in line at the grocery store, and when he went to pay, he fumbled with the money. He couldn’t grasp the bills in his wallet because he has a degenerative disease that makes it hard for his fingers to bend and straighten sometimes. It’s as if his fingers decide to go on strike. When it happens, he gets deeply frustrated.

But he is also proud. I know not to help him. That only frustrates him more. So I stand there and watch, and I get this strange feeling in my gut, as if I woke up to find that everyone in the world had vanished but me.

Well anyway, this woman in line behind us was apparently in some kind of rush. She only had a banana and a carton of chocolate ice cream, which was starting to sweat all over the conveyor belt. This woman began sighing loudly and muttering to herself about how people should hurry up or get out of the way. She pulled out her phone and started texting someone, her fingers jabbing at the screen—as if that would help convey Just How Irritated she was.

The lady at the cash register gave my dad a sympathetic look and offered to help, but he said, “No, I’ve got it.” And he kept digging in his wallet with his gnarled fingers.

Finally the woman in line behind us exploded. “C’mon!” she wailed. “Some of us have lives to live!”

Lives to live. What a thing to say.

If I were a superhero, I would use my superpowers to zap that woman into my dad’s body. Then she could experience what it feels like to have your fingers go on strike. But I don’t have superpowers.

So I turned to her. “Are you having an emergency?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Because if not, well, we are doing the best we can.” I took a deep breath. “I just . . . wanted to say that,” I added.

The woman’s face contorted into shock, as if she hadn’t realized we could actually hear her. Then she got quiet. I don’t know if she was still mad; I didn’t look back to find out. Instead, I watched my dad as he finally handed the bills to the cashier.

“Have a nice day,” the cashier said.

As we walked out, I turned back to look at the woman. Our eyes met. She gave me a timid smile, and I thought maybe I have superpowers after all.

Explanation:

b and d

explanation:

it was surely an odd creature that one made up by reading the historians first and the poets afterwards a worm winged like an eagle; the spirit of life and elegance and charm,   in a kitchen chopping up suet. but these creatures, monst'r however entertaining to the imagination, hast no existence in fact. what one might doth to bringeth h'r to life wast to bethink poetically and prosaically at one and the same moment,   thus keeping in toucheth with fact—that the lady is mrs martin, ag'd thirty-six, did dress in blue, wearing a black coxcomb and brown shoeth; but not losing sight of fiction eith'r—that the lady is a vessel in which all s'rts of spirits and f'rces art coursing and flashing p'rpetually. the moment, howev'r, yond one tries this method with the elizabethan mistress, one brancheth of illumination fails; one is did hold up by the scarcity of facts.   one knoweth nothing detailed, nothing p'rfectly true and substantial about h'r.   hist'ry scarcely mentions h'r.   and i did turn to professeth'r trevelyan again to seeth what hist'ry meanteth to that gent.   i hath found by looking at his chapt'r headings yond t meanteth.