Trigger Finger

Brigit's Flame - February 2012, week 1 entry
Prompt:  Thank you
Title:  Trigger Finger
Wordcount:  ~1700, rated PG-13 for mild language and violent imagery
Author:  Graham Smith (chuck_the_plant)

My ears filled with thunder when she pulled the trigger.  She blinked involuntarily against the sound and her shoulders moved less than they did the last time, but all five cans still stood along the fencepost.  “You missed again,” I told her. 

Sasha spun to me with venom in her eyes.  “I know that!” she screamed.  “You don’t have to rub it in my face!” 

I felt my back straighten as I stared at the twelve-year-old.  “Look, do you want to learn to shoot or not?”  I asked her, my voice like iron.  “Because I don’t have to teach you, you know.”

“If you’re going to keep being an asshole about it, then no!” she screamed back.

I pressed my lips together in frustration and kneaded my hands together, trying to repress my own shouting.  I definitely was not being an asshole about it, but screaming at her wouldn't prove it.  Besides, she had already fired off three shots, and that, combined with her screaming, was going to bring the flesh-eaters from miles around in the next hour.  We had to move. 

“Pack your stuff.  Were leaving,” I told her, shouldering my backpack.  I held out my hand for the gun.  She glared hatefully at it for a second before handing the gun over.  Sasha then gathered her meager belongings, hoisted them on her back, and followed me out of the open field, where we had camped the night before. 

The zombie apocalypse hadn't been what the movies made it out to be.  It wasn’t an exciting slug-fest against the forces of the undead; it was everyone you’ve ever known and loved, suddenly losing their minds and becoming overwhelmed with the desire to eat living meat. 

The biological agent had hit a little over a year ago, as near as I could tell.  In under a week, the phrase “We are the ninety-nine percent” became redefined to describe those that contracted the agent.  I was lucky; I had been pretty much a loner my whole life, and my southern upbringing meant I already had a sizable stockpile of guns.  Even luckier, I was one of the one percent of Americans that seemed to be immune to the agent. 

Sasha hadn’t been so lucky.  Sure, she was immune, but because she was adopted, she was the only one in her family.  I found her when she was eleven years old, hiding in an upstairs closet in her family’s home, when I had gone inside scavenging for food and weapons.  The bodies of her family had been in the living room, where they apparently had ripped each other to shreds looking for their next meals.  I never asked Sasha if she had witnessed the grizzly scene, but judging from how little she talked about it, she had. 

She was a little too old to be my daughter and a little too young to be my sister, but regardless I had dedicated myself to protecting Sasha.  We quickly became friends and learned to depend on each other, but lately we had been fighting a lot.  Especially since food had become scarce.  Now both of us were almost constantly hungry, which made being on the move from the flesh-eaters very difficult. 

“Where are we going?” Sasha asked after we had walked a mile, south, in silence. 

“Wherever there’s food,” I said, “and ammunition.”

“Because I throw so much away every time I pick up the gun?” she accused.  “Because I’m such a terrible shot?”

I gritted my teeth.  “I didn’t say that.  We just need more.” 

“That’s what you meant, though!  If I’m such a waste of ammunition, why are you trying to teach me to shoot?”

Sasha’s bad attitude was getting on my nerves, and the growl in my stomach was doing nothing to help.  “Because you need to know how to defend yourself.  I might not always be around to protect you.” 

“So I’m just a defenseless little kid?  Something you have to constantly look after?  A burden?”

After traveling with a pre-teenager for over a year, I should have known not to get into a argument volley with her.  If I would have ignored her she would have gotten over it.  Pushing the subject was the worst thing I could have done; she was younger than me, and I would tire before she did.  “Well, just judging by how you handle the gun, I’d say yes!” 

I didn’t mean it.  She and I were both hungry, and I knew that our words were more based on empty stomachs than real emotions.  Not to mention that I was the adult and she was the child, and I had a responsibility to watch what I said. 

When Sasha replied, her voice was a husky whisper.  “I hate you." Then she sucked in a great breath of air and screamed, “If you don’t want me around so badly, why don’t you just feed me to the zombies?  Then you’d have all the food and bullets to yourself!”

We had to get at least five miles away from the gunshots to lose the flesh-eaters that would be attracted by the sound, and even further if we kept screaming.  “What food?” I screamed back at her.  “In case you haven’t noticed, we haven’t eaten in a day and a half!  Now how about we shut up and keep walking!” 

Sasha turned and started walking to the west, toward the setting sun.

“Where are you going?” I demanded. 

“Anywhere away from you!” she screamed back.  “I’ll be fine on my own!”

I glanced to the south and noticed a large barn a few miles away.  “Sasha, get back here.  Look, we’ll stop in that barn tonight, and when we wake up tomorrow we’ll both feel better.”

“No!” she screamed.  “I’m getting away from you!  You’ve done nothing but be mean to me since we met!  I hate you!”

After all I’ve done for her, that’s what she says to me?  Hunger filed the edges of my response into sharp blades.  “Fine!”  I screamed at her back.  “When I find food, I’m going to eat it all myself, for once!” 

Sasha didn’t respond, but kept walking west.  I huffed an exasperated breath out of my nose at the infuriating girl, then turned and trudged south, toward the barn. 

I didn’t find any food in the barn.

It looked like there had been some seed corn there, maybe a few months ago, but it had been scavenged.  Now only the bare wood remained.  As the sun set I climbed into the loft, dropping my bag of guns by the ladder in case I had to make a hasty exit.  As I spread out my sleeping bag I thought about Sasha, but when I looked out toward the horizon she was nowhere to be seen.  I thought about going out to look for her, but I had no idea where she had gone.  If I was lucky she’d remember that I said I was headed for the barn and she’d find me. 

After a few hours of moping and worrying, I put my small handgun by my side and slipped into my sleeping bag, feeling just like the asshole she claimed I was. 

It was still dark when my eyes snapped open to the nearly inaudible sound of feet creaking on the loft.  My instincts instantly surged at the thought that I was surrounded by flesh-eaters, but then I remembered that flesh-eaters couldn’t climb ladders, and I had left the loft’s ladder down in case Sasha tried to find me.  Even so, I slowly slid my hand out of my sleeping bag to my side, where I had laid my gun. 

It was gone.

And it was then that I heard the small, angry, muffled whimpers of a twelve-year-old girl, and the familiar click of the safety being switched off on my favorite gun.  

It was dark and I was laying on my stomach, so I had no idea where Sasha was.  But, wherever she was, I was completely at her mercy.

Fear and adrenaline flooded my senses as I realized what was happening, but I managed to keep them under control.  If I jumped up from my sleeping bag and tried to tackle her, she might panic and fire.  My breathing quickened, but I tried to still it.  She was twelve years old; if she knew I was panicking then she’d panic, too, which would increase my chances of being shot.  Even if she merely wounded me and didn’t kill me, there was no way I’d be able to get five miles away before the smell of my blood brought the flesh-eaters out of the woodwork.

I laid there, waiting for Sasha’s next move.  After what must have only been minutes but felt like an eternity, I heard her take a few steps toward me, click the safety back into place, and gently set the gun back where she had found it.  She fell to her knees beside me and her whimpers turned into full-blown sobs.

I had no idea what to do.  A little girl that I had basically adopted had nearly killed me in my sleep, and was now crying her eyes out.  But just as I was deciding whether or not to be furious, terrified, or pitying, Sasha stretched out onto the floor and curled into my side, desperately pressing herself against me. 

Even after what I had said to her, even after seeing her family butcher themselves, even after surviving in our living hell of a world for over a year with a relative stranger, even though she'd have twice as much food without me around ... Sasha still wanted to trust me.

I acted like I was stretching in my sleep and draped my arm over her.  The girl wriggled closer, and I pressed my face into the top of her head.  She stunk like little girl sweat, and I couldn’t imagine how badly I must have smelled, but we laid like that until her sobbing stopped and her breathing became heavy and steady. 

When I was sure Sasha was asleep, I whispered to her softly, “Thank you for not giving up on me.” 

Johnny Jackrabbit and the Treasure of Mad Badger

Brigit's Flame All-Stars contest, week 2
Topic:  Transcendent
Title:  Johnny Jackrabbit and the Treasure of Mad Badger
593 words, rated G
Author:  Graham Smith (chuck_the_plant)

“Who’s that, daddy?” asked a small voice from my lap.  A little hand pointed to the screen. 

“That’s the main character, as a kid,” I whispered to Tucker. 

Tucker turned around and blinked two huge brown eyes at me.  “But I thought that he was a grown-up.” 

“He was.  I mean, he is.  This is a flashback.”  I ran my fingers through my son’s silky blonde hair.

“Oh.”  Tucker turned back to the screen and focused on the cartoon characters for another moment, then turned back around in my lap.  “What’s a flashback?” 

In front of us, a teenage girl turned around and sent an acidic look to Tucker and me.  I could have returned the gesture, since I had been ignoring the blue glow from her cell phone since the movie started and plainly wasn’t interested in the movie through which she was babysitting the two kids next to her.  Instead I ignored her and whispered to Tucker, “It’s when someone thinks back to something that happened to them in the past.  See?  That’s why Johnny Jackrabbit is smaller, here.” 

Tucker looked back to the screen, as if just seeing it for the first time, and then turned back to me.  His seven-year-old eyes were wide.  “Oh!” 

Tried as he might to keep his voice down, his last word had come out louder than he had intended.  Through the darkness of the theater I saw several more heads turn our way, and I stifled a laugh as I pressed my finger to my lips and made a shushing motion.  Tucker’s hands flew to his mouth like he had just discovered his transgression, and he turned back to the screen. 

Jonathan Jackrabbit’s flashback ended, and the grown-up version of the character appeared on screen again.  With his band of other cartoon animals, he set off on a quest to find buried treasure.  During a musical montage that showed the characters traveling by boat, plane, and hot air balloon, Tucker turned back to me.  “Is that why he’s looking for treasure, daddy?  Because he remembered reading about it in his flashback?” 

“You got it,” I told him.

This time, the teenage girl actually turned around and shushed at us.  Tucker jumped from surprise, nearly dropping his popcorn, and the girl turned around before either he or I could confront her.  Tucker beckoned me with his finger, and when I leaned down he cupped his hands around my ear.  “That girl’s mad, isn’t she?” he said, his voice almost silent. 

Imitating my son, I cupped my hands around one of his tiny ears.  “I think so.”

It was Tucker’s turn again, and I didn’t even mind that his hands were oily from the popcorn.  “Maybe we should be quiet so she won’t get madder.” 

Instead of replying I merely winked to my son and gave him a thumbs-up.  As he turned around and stuffed his cheeks with more popcorn, I realized that it wouldn’t bother me if everyone in the theater shushed us, pelted us with Raisinettes, or tried to blind us with their cell phones.  I had never enjoyed a movie as much as Johnny Jackrabbit and the Treasure of Mad Badger.

“I love you, Tucker,” I said softly into his ear. 

Tucker turned, shushed me much louder than was necessary, and then looked back to the screen.  A second later he turned and whispered, “I love you, too, Daddy.”  He then quickly added, “Are they going to use those shovels to dig for treasure?” 

I shushed my son, nodded, and squeezed him tightly. 

The Other White Meat

"It smells funny," Lupus said. 

Nubilus sniffed. "It does. But it's not an unpleasant smell, is it?" 

Lupus nudged the small bundle with his nose again. "A little like flowers.  Flowers that have soiled themselves." 

Nubilus rolls her eyes at her husband. "It smells better than that.  Why don't you open it and see what's inside?"

Lupus stalked around the wrapped bundle and examined it from every side. It didn’t sound or smell like anything deadly, so he took a corner of the little pink cloth in his teeth and pulled it back.  He jumped backward at what he saw.  "What IS it?" Nubilus asked as she stepped closer.

"Don't touch it!" her husband warned. "We don't know what it is or where it's been!" 

"Oh, please, Lupus!" Nubilus teased. "You worry too much!  Look how pink and lumpy it is! It's not going to hurt us." She took an appraising sniff, which encouraged Lupus to stalk toward it.

"It looks like one of the baby pigs we snatched from the barn last week.  Only uglier."  He licked his lips. "I wonder if it tastes the same." 

Just then, the thing in the bundle started to squirm, and some feeble sounds escaped its mouth.  As its two tiny eyes squinted to the sky, it threw its mouth open and screamed until its face turned red. 

Lupus opened his jaws and lunged for the thing, but Nubilus stepped in front of him. "What do you think you're doing?!"

“How else are we supposed to get it to shut up?!” Lupus argued.  “It’s crying is going to draw the entire rest of the pack, and then we’re going to have to share!”

"You are NOT eating this creature, and we are certainly not sharing it with the pack!" 

Lupus lowered his ears and whined. "But I love pork!" 

"Lupus, this isn't a pig!" Nubilus barked.  “Look, no hooves! It has ... fingers.  Like a human."  Nubilus lay on the ground and wrapped herself around the small thing, placing her nose and tail close to its face. A second later it stopped crying. 

Lupus, on the other hand, had backed away from it again. "What are you doing!?" he cried. "If that thing is a human pup, we need to be gone! Do you know what humans pups come from?  Big humans.  Do you know what big humans have? Guns." 

"I think someone left her here," Nubilus said.  Her eyelids drooped pleasantly as she nuzzled the baby with her nose. 

"How do you know it's a ‘her’?" Lupus asked. Nubilus took the edge of the blanket in her teeth and lifted it, and lupus turned away, disgusted. "Okay, I get it.  But why do you think someone left her here?" 

"She's too small to have run away on her own, and she was wrapped in this blanket," Nubilus rationalized. "Plus, look at this." Gently she dug around inside the blanket with her snout, and emerged with a piece of paper gently clenched in her teeth. On it were several lines of human writing.

"So some human heard I liked pork and wanted to leave me a piglet. I mean, a humanlet. Either way, I don't want it. Let's go." 

"Let's keep her, Lupus." 

Lupus tripped over all four of his legs. "I told you, I don't care how much I like pork, I'm not giving some human more excuses to take shots at us!" 

"Not to eat!" Nubilus said, outraged. "As our pup." 

Lupus' face fell. "Please, Nubilus, we've been through this.  We can't have pups.  We've tried."

"But what if she was meant for us, Lupus?"  Nubilus pushed.  "What if she's the pup we've always wanted?" 

"I've never wanted a human pup!" Lupus cried.

Nubilus' eyes became fierce. "It wasn't a mistake that we found her. It can't be. You are not going to eat her, and I am not going to leave her for something else to eat her."  She nuzzled the baby lovingly with her snout.  "She needs us. All we have to do is get her back to the den.  We can decide what to tell the pack later."

Lupus crept closer to the baby and put his nose inches from her face.  For a moment her tiny hands reached for him, but then she snatched a whisker and plucked it from his snout.  Lupus yelped and skittered backward. 

"See?  Our pup already takes after you!  Ferocious from the start!" Lupus shook his head, and when he opened his eyes he found a look in his wife's eyes that he had always hoped to see, but had never appeared until now from their inability to have their own pups.

 "I can't believe I'm doing this," he grumbled.  Lupus knelt, took the edges of the blanket in his teeth, and gently picked the baby up from the ground. Nubilus grinned at him in a manner than only wolves can distinguish, and the two trotted to their den to plan a way to convince the pack that what they had found was their pup and not a humanlet.    

Nubilus licked her husband’s snout.  “I love you.”

“I luff you, too,” Lupus replied, his mouth full of blanket.

Hail the Victor

Brigit's Flame competitive writing community:  November Week 4 

Compulsory prompt:  The End 

Title:  "Hail the Victor" 

Wordcount:  498

There are still impressions in the carpet from the couch.  He steps around where it used to sit and drops into his recliner, one of the remaining pieces of furniture in the room that now seems much too big.  The coffee table is still there, but its matching end tables are gone.  Their impressions in the carpet frame the couch’s void, making the empty space seem all the larger. 

Of course the television is gone.  He knew he had no chance of keeping that.  Not that it matters; if he still had it, he wouldn’t feel like watching it.  So instead he takes in the rest of the room, much darker now that the lamps that sat on the end tables are gone. 

There, in the drywall, is the patch that doesn’t quite match the rest of the walls.  That’s where he once became so angry at her during one of their fights that he punched a hole through the wall.  He was never able to find the proper paint color to cover the hole, and so the mismatched spot was born, a scar to remind of the wounds inflicted in that argument.

He actually forgot about the spot on the carpet.  Once she got so angry at him that she smashed her wine glass over the edge of the coffee table and threatened him with the stem.  Days later, when things cooled down, they rearranged the furniture to cover the stain that wouldn’t come up. 

Funny.  Now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember what either of those fights had been about.  Actually, now that he’s sitting in the empty room, with the peace and quiet that he spent so many nights hoping for, he doesn’t remember what any of the fights were about.  He supposes that it doesn’t matter, now, what caused the fights, only that they happened, and he and she both fought dirty.  Neither one of them was ever willing to give up ground, to admit defeat, to compromise.  It seems silly that the things that seemed so important then are so pointless now. 

What he does remember is the origin of the small smudge on the otherwise perfect ceiling.  When they finally saved up enough for the down payment on the house, they splurged and bought a bottle of moderately-priced, non-vintage, domestic champagne.  Neither one of them knew how to open it, so the cork had hit the ceiling and nearly put his eye out.  They had laughed so hard. 

Don’t forget about the fights, he reminds himself.  Remember how bad they were.  How loud and violent each of you became.  Life wasn’t nearly as happy as that night with that champagne, so don’t bother kidding yourself. 

The fighting is over, now.  There are no screaming voices, no accusing shouts, no blame being thrown around like sharpened knives.

No happy laughter.  No squeals of joy.  No come-and-get-me teasing.

He presses his face into his hands and his chest shudders.  “Hail the victor.” 

Nov. Week 3 Prompt- Conflict. Title: "Man Overboard"

Lom had seen many things on his hobie.  But this was new.

There had been days when he’d been out all night and seen schools of fish that glowed in the dark.  He had once pulled up his line and the fish on the other end had spoken to him, told him that he’d be given a wish if he only threw the fish back (which he had done, and he had been dismayed to find that the only talking fish he had ever met was also the only lying fish he had ever met).  There had been mornings when the bay turned orange with the sunrise and then stayed orange all day for no reason, only to change to indigo with approaching dusk and return to normal the next day.

He pulled his goggles from his eyes to his neck.  They did wonders to block out the sun and salt but were so old that their scratched lenses sometimes played tricks on him.  He squinted against the midmorning sun and saw it again.  A figure bobbed up over the placid waves, like it was trying to swim, but then dipped back below the water again. 

Lom’s pet mudshark, Munchie, dunked his head over the side of the hobie and under the waves for a few seconds to keep his gills wet.  When he was done, Munchie shook his wide head and scattered water over Lom’s legs.  The boy sent an irritated glace to the mudshark, but the creature’s wide mouth seemed to grin wider than normal as he yawned and settled his head on his front legs.

“What do you think, Munchie?” Lom asked his pet.  He squinted again and shielded his eyes from the sun.  “Do you think we should investigate?”

Munchie burped. 

“Yeah, me either,” Lom conceded.  “If it was someone in trouble, they’d be making all sorts of racket.  I know if I was drowning I’d be screaming my head off.  What kind of drowning victim doesn’t try to call attention to themselves?” 

Further in the bay, the form dipped beneath the water again.  This time it took it much longer to emerge, and when it did it didn’t fight nearly as hard or reach nearly as high. 

Lom knew that if he wasted time investing, he’d be in for another long night on the hobie trying to make up for lost time.  That, or he’d be taking out more tourists this weekend to make up to the harbormaster for the catch he hadn’t pulled in.  But, still, he couldn’t just stand there while it looked like someone was drowning.

 

With his feet braced on hobie’s scratchy board, Lom raised the craft’s small sail and twisted it slightly into the wind.  Slowly he drifted toward the struggling figure.  As he approached, he tried to think of where the figure could have come from.  He had been on the bay all morning and only seen a few other crafts:  one or two other hobies encroaching on his territory, and a larger yacht, obviously owned by a rich sklar.  Not that he’d been paying much attention, but there hadn’t seemed to be anything out of the ordinary going on, and he certainly hadn’t seen anyone flying a ‘man overboard’ flag. 

“Hey!” Lom yelled when he got within a few dozen meters of the figure.  “Stop struggling!  If you keep fighting, you’re going to tire yourself out and drown!”

Two arms thrashed in the water, and Lom thought he heard the figure say something, but it just came across as “Glub glub blub mlub.”

As the hobie approached the figure, Lom slipped the ring of the buoyant rope around his ankle and prepared to jump into the water for a daring rescue.  He hadn’t actually performed a water rescue since his hobie license class when he was ten, three years ago, but he was pretty sure he still remembered how to do it.  If nothing else, the buoyant rope would keep him afloat and attached to his hobie.  But just as Lom lowered his sail and took his jumping stance, the figure’s head broke water enough to yell, “Go away!”

The voice belonged to a girl.  And now that he was within four meters, Lom could see her dark hair billowing in the water around her.  It stuck to her face and hands when she struggled.  “What do you mean, go away?” He cried.  “You’re drowning!”

The dark-haired girl struggled some more, and when she finally got her head above water again she simply cried, “Leave me alone!”

Lom rolled his eyes.  Something in the Cosmos was intent on making his day difficult.  He couldn’t simply turn his back, because the girl was very plainly losing strength.  And she was very plainly not going to be rescued quietly.  Some days it just didn’t pay to get out of bed.

Munchie gave Lom a bored look as the boy jumped into the water and paddled over to the struggling girl.  He touched her flailing hand, and, just like he predicted, she shirked away from him.  “What’re you doing?!” She cried when she could breathe.

“Saving you!”  Lom cried as he snatched the girl’s arm and pulled her toward him.  She tried to pull free, but he held her tight and let the buoyant line hold him aloft.  “Now stop fighting!  Give me your arms and kick with your legs!”

“Stop!” She cried.  She again tried feebly to pull away, but Lom could tell that her limbs were almost out of strength.  The girl choked on a mouthful of salt water before continuing, “I can’t!”

“Yes you can!” Lom yelled.  With a great tug he pulled the girl closer and slipped one arm around her waist.  “Hold on around my neck and kick with your feet!” 

Though he couldn’t figure why, the girl was clearly conflicted on whether or not she wanted Lom’s help.  After tugging her like a dead weight for several meters the girl finally wrapped her arms around Lom’s neck, though he still felt almost no help from her legs to get them to the hobie.  Her damp hair bobbed in the waves like the feelers of a jellyslug and stuck to his face and neck.  

After what felt like years in the water, Lom grabbed one of the handholds on the hobie and pulled himself on board.  He then grabbed the girl beneath the arms and hauled her, sputtering and hacking, out of the water.  Once she was safe Lom collapsed onto his back and let his screaming muscles and lungs rest.  “What’s your problem, anyway?!” He cried to the girl.  “You’re drowning and you don’t call for help, and when someone comes to your rescue you try your darnedest not to be rescued, and then when you decide to be rescued you don’t even kick your legs!” 

The girl said nothing.  Lom could hear her making frantic sputtering sounds and then wretch a few times over the side of the hobie.  It sounded like she was crying.  Lom hated to see anyone cry, especially girls, so he sat up and tried to find something polite to say.

He instantly discovered why she hadn’t kicked her legs.  It was because she didn’t have legs.  She had leg.  Singular.  And the one she had was long and sleek, and as pale as if it had never seen the sun.  The other one ended in a scarred stump, just above where her knee should have been. 

When she finally got her breath, she pulled her long, matted hair out of her face and turned two dark, bloodshot eyes to Lom.  “You fool,” she said with a sob.  She gasped for air before continuing, and her face scrunched with anguish, like she couldn’t believe that she had allowed herself to succumb to the temptation of being rescued.  “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”  

Brigit's Flame - November, Week 1. Prompt: Introduction. Title: "Damaged Goods."

This is the follow-up piece to a short story I wrote about a week ago, titled, "Dependence".   Reading the first isn't necessary to understand the second, but I feel that the characters are really defined in the first.  The first piece can be found here:  http://grahampatricksmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/brigits-flame-oct-week-3-title.html

Maybe it was the wine.  Maybe it was the Muscles Josephine I had ordered.  Maybe it was Dean Martin crooning softly through the sound system.  Or maybe it was just her.  No matter what was to blame, I was having a wonderful time. 

“Did you have any cute patients this week?”  I asked Charlotte as I took the last sip from my glass.  Charlotte was a veterinarian, I had learned on our first date. 

“Two Saint Bernard puppies,” she said with a smile.  She, too, took the last drawl from her glass of wine, and it showed in her quickly-reddening cheeks.  “The Bob Barker standard: neuter, flea and tick prevention.  But you should have seen how they whined when I put the cones around their necks!  It was precious.”

Charlotte was precious, too.  She was short – shorter than any girl I had ever dated, at 5’2” – and she had beautiful, full lips that made a perfect heart shape as she puckered to raise her wine glass to them.  When she remembered that it was empty she laughed at herself, and gorgeous dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth.  When she set down her glass and turned two blue, hazel-ringed eyes at me, a lock of her sandy-blonde hair fell in front of her face. 

“I wish I could have made it in to see those little guys,” I replied.  “Emer would have loved them.  She wants a dog so badly.”

The waiter stopped by our table with the bottle of wine, and Charlotte and I each took an eager refill.  When the waiter left she turned those beautiful eyes back to me.  “Do you realize you’ve done that all night, David?”

  

I swallowed my sip of wine, but didn’t set down my glass.  “What do you mean?  Done what?” 

She smiled dreamily and her eyelids lowered pleasantly.  “Brought Emer into every line of our conversation.”

My cheeks suddenly warmed, and I looked shyly to the top of the table.  “Oh.  Um.  Have I really?” 

“It’s okay,” she replied.  “I understand.  She means a lot to you.”  Charlotte laid her hand gently in the middle of the table, and I tentatively laid my hand atop it.  She made no move to retreat. 

“She’s means more than a lot to me,” I said a soft reply.  “She’s my whole world.  When her mother left, it left her broken.  She was so hurt, and every time I leave her she has this little look in her eyes like she’s afraid I’m not going to come back.”  Finally I raised my eyes to Charlotte.  “And even the thought of her feeling that way makes me want to wrap my arms around her and protect her from everything the world could ever throw at her.  It feels like my purpose in life is to protect that little girl.”

On our first date, I obviously hadn’t gone fully into the story of Emer’s mother, Amanda, leaving us.  I had kept the conversation simple, only telling Charlotte that I was a single dad.  It was only our second date, for crying out loud!  Did I want to scare her off?  I might as well have told her that I would never have time for her and she shouldn’t even bother with me.

Charlotte stroked the top of my hand gently with her fingertips.  “When Emer’s mom left… Emer wasn’t the only one that was damaged, was she?”

 Why was I paying so much money to see Dr. Sparkman?  A veterinarian had analyzed me and my daughter after only two dates, and she hadn’t even met Emer yet.  All it had cost me was the cost of dinner and drinks.

Though there was no happiness in the gesture, I smiled and shook my head a little.  “I guess not.  I’m sort of having a hard time recovering from it, too, even though it’s been three years.”

She raised her palm, and as if on instinct mine followed.  Our fingers laced and then rested comfortably back on the table.  “I’d really like to meet her, you know.”    

When I finally looked up to her, I noticed the small diamonds in her ears.  The silver chain that hung around her neck positioned its blue pendant, which matched her dress, seductively between her breasts.  A hint of red had crept across her chest and collar bone.  My God, she was so beautiful.   

Her smile was infectious.  It seemed that she could always find an excuse to smile.  “There still might be some homemade pizza, if you’re hungry.” 

Charlotte finished her glass of wine.  “No, thanks.  I ate the whole appetizer myself, remember?” 

We both laughed.  I finished my glass of wine, paid the bill, and then Charlotte and I left the restaurant, arm-in-arm, with plenty of time to catch a few episodes of My Little Pony before Emer’s bedtime. 

When we arrived at my house, I found Mrs. Wallace sitting on the couch quietly working on a knitting project while Emer lay in the floor, a coloring book and an entire pack of crayons spread out before her.  My Little Pony was playing on the computer, and even though it looked like my little girl wasn’t paying attention I knew that she could tell me exactly what episode she was on and exactly what was happening.  They both looked up at the sound of the door opening.

Mrs. Wallace greeted me with a hello and started gathering her things.  Emer leapt up from her spot on the carpet and charged at me full-speed.  I barely got to my knees in time to take my little girl into my arms, and I cradled her beneath her bottom and clutched her to my chest. 

Yes, I had been apart from her for a little more than an hour.  But I still missed everything about her; he smell, her weight, the sound of her voice.  Of course Charlotte was right about Emer not being the only one that Amanda damaged when she left. 

I spun once with my baby in my arms, and when I faced the front door again I found Charlotte, who had entered behind me.  Emer noticed her, and the little blonde girl almost instantly buried her face shyly into my shoulder. 

“Dad-eeeeee…” she mewed into my ear, plainly distressed. 

I kissed the top of my daughter’s head, which seemed to calm her a bit.  “Emmie, this is Charlotte,” I whispered, loud enough for Charlotte to hear.  “Will you welcome her to our home?” 

Emer squeezed me tighter, as if she could possibly bury herself deeper into my shoulder.  “Hi,” she peeped.

“Hi, Emmie,” Charlotte said in her most welcoming voice.  She was quick; I hadn’t explicitly told her Emer’s nickname.  “I’m very happy to meet you.” 

I bounced Emer’s weight in my arms a little, and the girl tried to rub her face deeper into my shoulder.  “Dad-eeee,” she whimpered softly.  “Why is she here?” 

As much as she tried to hide it, Emer was loud enough for the whole room to hear.  If her comment had hurt Charlotte’s feelings, she didn’t show it.  Instead she gently approached Emer and said, “I heard that you like My Little Pony.  Which pony is your favorite?” 

Emer clutched me a little less tightly, but only a little.  “Twilight Sparkle,” she murmured. 

“Really?”  Charlotte asked.  “Why do you like Twilight Sparkle the best?”

“Because she’s purple and purple is my favorite color,” Emer said, a little louder than before.

“That’s why I like Pinkie Pie the best,” Charlotte replied, taking another tentative step toward me and my daughter.  “Because she’s pink, and pink is my favorite color.  That, and because she likes to party, because I like to party, too.”        

Had I let it slip that Emer liked My Little Pony on our first date?  If I had, had Charlotte been reading up on the show so she would have something to talk to Emer about?

Charlotte glanced at me with a twinkle in her eye when she mentioned partying, and a little smile played at the edges of her lips with her double-entendre.

Ladies and gentlemen, I might have found a keeper.

Brigit's Flame, October Mini-Contest. Prompt: Costumes and Disguises. Title: "Seeing Through the Mask"

Seeing Through the Mask

“Who’re you?” I asked.

I thought I was the only one who used the old oak tree in the middle of the cemetery as a muse.  In the four Halloweens I had been venturing there I had never seen another person.  It was the perfect place to focus on my dark poetry, and Halloween always felt like the perfect time to immerse myself in the macabre.

The tree sat at the top of the hill, overlooking the headstones like an ancient sentinel.  I had created (what I thought were) some truly amazing pieces there, so I could see what it had drawn this newcomer.  Even so, when I crested the hill and found someone sitting at my usual place by the tree’s twisted roots, I was less than pleased. 

Even if she was really cute.   

She was striking.  Her skin was even more pale than mine but her eyes were stunningly blue, like two stars in her face.  Her brown curls were full of body and framed her narrow face nicely.  But the first thing I noticed about her, even quicker than I did her small, heart-shaped mouth or the school uniform she wore, was the fact that she only had one leg.  On her left she wore a long, white sock that came up over her knee and a black-buckle shoe; her right leg was simply gone.  There was only a stump showing slightly below the hem of her skirt.

 

“I’m Jenny,” she said politely.  She put both hands into the pockets of her pea coat shyly.  “Who’re you?” 

I lowered the hood on my sweatshirt but didn’t take off my backpack.  I didn’t know this girl yet, so I didn’t know if I would be able to create with her around.  “Claire.”

Jenny looked confused.  “That’s a weird name for a boy.”

Yes, I cut my hair short, wore unflattering clothing, and wore almost no make-up in an effort to look as un-girly as possible, but that didn’t mean that being mistaken for a boy didn’t sting.  “I’m not a boy!” I cried.  “I’m a girl!”

At least Jenny instantly looked sorry for her faux-pas.  “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry!  I’m so sorry!  I didn’t mean to… I’d never…”

I tossed my hood back on my head.  There went my Halloween inspiration this year.  “Don’t worry about it,” I grumbled, turning.  “Catch ya later.”

“Wait!” I heard her cry behind me.  “I’m sorry, I really am!  I didn’t mean to offend you.”  When I turned I found her teetering unsteadily on her one leg, using the tree for support.  “Please, stay.” 

A blush crept into my cheeks and I hoped that the shadow from my hood would hide my red cheeks.  Without a reply I unshouldered my backpack and Jenny scooted over on the tree’s roots to make room for me.  Though I wasn’t sure how I was going to get any writing done with this girl looking over my shoulder, I settled next to her and put my backpack in my lap. 

“So what brings you to the cemetery tonight?”  I asked her.  My voice cracked halfway through.  Ugh, I hate being nervous.  Especially around people I thought were cute.

“The creepiness,” Jenny replied.  “It’s Halloween.  It just feels right.”  She turned to me, and her curls bobbed.  “What about you?”

I wrapped my arms tighter around my backpack.  “It’s sort of a tradition of mine.  Fourth Halloween in a row that I’ve come out here to write.  The creepiness, as you call it… it inspires me.” 

“Would you read some of it to me?”  Jenny asked, hunching her shoulders against a sudden, stiff breeze.  “I mean, if you have any of your Halloween stuff on you.  And if you don’t mind.”

I found myself smiling at Jenny.  No one had ever asked to hear any of my stuff before, especially the creepy stuff.  Most of the time the disguise of the unapproachable, independent girl made people leave me alone, and that was the way I liked it.  But I found that mask quickly falling away as Jenny showed interest in my creations, and by proxy, me. 

I started with some poetry I had written the year before.  I saw it as a commentary on the juxtaposition of the simultaneous meaninglessness and importance of life when compared with death, but most people would probably just call it creepy.  I was fully prepared, and okay with the idea, that Jenny wouldn’t fully understand it and would just be a little unnerved. 

She surprised me when she looked up to me after it was finished and murmured, “Wow, that was beautiful.  And deep.” 

I blushed again, and I was certain that she saw it this time.  “Thanks.  That means a lot.”  I shyly lowered my face, and my eyes unwittingly landed on her amputated leg, which I had actually forgotten about while I was reading.  “Can I ask you…”

“How it happened?”  Jenny finished.  “It’s okay, I don’t mind talking about it, now.  But… are you sure you really want to hear about it?  It’s not a pretty story.”

Though the story wasn’t pretty, the girl telling it was, and the more we spoke the more I wanted to know about her.  “Of course I want to hear it.” 

She nodded pensively.  “Do you remember a story on the news, last February, about a criminal the police called Doll Parts?”

I blinked slowly.  The story Jenny was referring to was about the Doll Parts killer, a serial killer who had killed seven girls along the east coast.  Each body was found with a missing limb, and even after the police caught him last May he never admitted where the missing pieces were stored.  My eyes widened as the reality of what Jenny was trying to tell me settled upon me.  “You’re shitting me,” I whispered. 

Jenny nibbled her bottom lip nervously.  “Please don’t run away,” she muttered nervously.  “I really don’t want to scare you, but I didn’t want to lie about my leg, either.”

My breath quickened, but from excitement or fear I couldn’t say.  As my brain was trying to process whether or not it wanted to believe Jenny, a cold hand gently slid atop mine and gave it a small squeeze.  I looked down and found Jenny’s hand, as cold and pale as the rest of her.  There was dirt under her fingernails. 

“This is the easiest time of the year for us to come out,” she began.  “I’m still sort of new at the whole thing.  I couldn’t even dig myself up.  The gargoyles had to help me.”

I looked into her piercing blue eyes and my fear ebbed.  “Is… is it because it’s Halloween?”  I asked. 

Jenny smiled.  “Actually, no.  Tomorrow is the day we’re actually allowed to roam, although it’s sort of tradition to get an early start.  Haven’t you ever heard of Day of the Dead?”

Some of my Mexican friends from school had told me about it, but I had never put much stock into it because it wasn’t part of my culture.  I guess I need to pay more attention to the cultures of my friends and not dismiss them immediately.  My heart rate slowed.  “So… are you the only one walking around?  If this is real, where is everyone else?” 

“Look around,” Jenny said.  “You mean you haven’t seen them before now?” 

I looked away from Jenny and toward the cemetery.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see shapes, like people, moving around the tombstones.  But when I tried to focus on them, they disappeared.  Trying to look at one was like trying to see one particular star, visible out of the corner of your eye but invisible when you try to pick it out of the night sky.  It was no wonder I had overlooked them for so many years.  They were like dreams that I had forgotten. 

“You’re not scared, are you?”  Jenny asked.

For being a dead girl, Jenny had a beautiful complexion.  Her face was smooth and pretty, and her eyes shimmered as she looked expectantly to me. “A little,” I admitted.  “But… I’m okay. I’m going to stay.”

Jenny smiled again, and her hand tightened a little on mine.  It was a welcome gesture.  “I’m glad.  Would you mind reading to me some more?”

“Of… of course not,” I stammered.  “But, would you mind if I did some writing?  I promise to read it to you once I’m finished.  I’m feeling… particularly inspired this year.” 

  Jenny nodded and removed her hand from mine, but slipped her arms loosely through my elbow and settled against her head affectionately against my shoulder.  I didn’t mind that the undead girl was reading over my shoulder as I wrote; normally I couldn’t create if someone was watching me, but I didn’t know how long it would be before I could see Jenny again, so I was willing to put up with it.  My pen flew across the page and created line after line of poetry as the ghostly figures in the cemetery below us became more and more clear.