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. 

Mr. Cavanaugh, The Inept

Brigit's Flame January All-Stars Contest, Week 1
Topic:  Erudition
Title:  Mr. Cavanugh, the Inept
Author:  Graham Smith (chuck_the_plant)
Wordcount:  1250

This piece is near and dear to my heart, because it is loosely based off of the very first novel I ever wrote (by the same name).  I have yet to sell it because it so happens that it's pretty terrible and needs rewritten.  Even so, it'll always be my baby. Enjoy! 

My palms start to sweat as the bell rings and my first class enters the room.  I'm nervous, because this isn’t just my first class of the day, or my first class of the school year… it's the first class I've ever taught, period.  And, of course, the other reason has me so nervous that I'm afraid my knees will start knocking together.

Once everyone is seated, I brace my feet in a confident stance and spread my palms welcomingly.  “Good morning, everyone.  My name is Mr. Cavanaugh, and welcome to first period.”  I consider saying, ‘Call me Mark, because Mr. Cavanaugh is my father!’, but I decide it’s too corny and cliché.  Not to mention that it’s the first day of school, and I’m trying to make an impression that will last all year.  

Things go fairly well.  I spend the entire class period explaining my classroom rules and procedures, then I tell a few stories about myself to lighten the air.  I get what I think are a few good-natured laughs, which I guess is the best I can expect from a room full of teenagers.  When the bell rings to end class, I’m glad I decided to wear a black shirt because I’m sweating badly. 

Second period, luckily, is planning period for my wing of the building.  As the halls fill with students, I step outside of my classroom and watch as kids pull items from their lockers for their next classes.  When the last locker is closed and the hall is empty, I slump against the wall and exhale a sigh of relief.

“Rough first class?” says a voice to my side, and I turn to see Lina Argus, another teacher on my floor, walking toward me.  She befriended me the day I was hired, and the two of us have become close since then.  I still haven’t gathered the courage to ask her out, but I will, soon.  At least I hope I will, because she is stunningly gorgeous. 

“Actually, no,” I reply with a smile.  “In fact, it went perfectly.”

She grins.  “Why are you so surprised?  I’ve been telling you for weeks that you’d be fine.  No one made an issue of it, did they?” 

She is, of course, referring to the number one reason why I was nervous about the first day of school, even more than it being my first day as a bonified teacher.  I am the only one of my kind in the building.  “No,” I said again.

“See?  It’s like I told you:  kids respect confidence.  If you don’t make a big deal out of it, neither will they.  You’re their teacher, and they want to see you as an authority figure, whether you’re an Inept or not.”

 “I guess they knew what to expect, since my class is called ‘Inept Studies’,” I add.  “By the way, have I mentioned how much I dislike that name?”

“It might have come up,” Lina says with a smirk.  “But I’ve told you, ‘Inept’ doesn’t mean the same thing to us as it does to you.  It just means you’re not an Adept, like us.  And if you’d like to change the name, talk to Elmer.”  She's referring to Elmer Cartwright, the Dean of McGrady’s Institute for Adept Youths.  “But I’m telling you, you’ve got nothing to worry about.  These kids are going to love you, and no one’s going to think you’re ….”

A scream resounds from around the corner of the hallway.  I turn to see a boy I don’t recognize, probably sixteen years old, bolt around the corner at full-speed , with a mischievous grin on his face.  A second later a girl rounds the corner after him.  She has red hair and she’s soaked from head to toe.  The boy darts behind me and Lina, using us as human shields, and cries, “No matter what she says, she’s lying!” 

The girl skids to a stop.  Her wet tennis shoes make her slide a few inches on the tile.  “Really, Charlie?!” she screams at him.  “On the first day of school?!  Really?!” 

It’s then that I recognize the girl.  Her name is Cassandra Kinney, and I was told to watch out for her.  She was suspended three times last year for fighting; not because she was necessarily a bad kid, but because she was constantly antagonized by other kids and was easy to push to her tipping point.  I also remember something about a screwed up home life. 

She grips her hands into fists and her hair blows around her face.  Steam starts to billow from her body.  Even though she’s standing fifteen feet away from me I can feel the heat rolling from her.  She glares daggers past me to Charlie, whom it seems is trying to hide his snickering.  Cassie huffs in breaths through clenched teeth, and then her hair bursts into flames. 

Oh.  And Cassie is a fire Adept.

“Control yourself, Cassie,” Lina said, taking a step toward the girl.  “You said this year is going to be different, remember?  No more suspensions?” 

“But Ms. Argus!” Cassie argues.  “He just drenched me as I was walking into gym!”

“And he’s going to get in trouble,” Lina says, and she turns and glares harder and Charlie.  The boy tries to step behind me, but I move against the wall to expose him.  “But you’re going to do better this year.  Last May, we made a pact.  No suspensions.” 

Cassie presses her lips into a thin line and closes her eyes, and her breathing slowly returns to normal.  The flames in her hair gradually die down, then disappear altogether.  Her clothes are completely dry, but her shirt seems to have shrunk from the steam because an inch of her midriff is showing. 

“Good girl,” Lina says.  “Now go to your dorm and change clothes.  Be back in time for third period.”  Cassie then notices that her shirt has shrunk and almost loses her temper again, but she simply shakes her head angrily.  Lina then whirls to Charlie.  “As for you, young man, I expect better from you!  This is your fourth year at McGrady’s, and you know the punishment for using your powers on another student!  And your parents are going to get a call about replacing Cassie’s clothes.”

Lina prods an indignant-looking Charlie toward the principal’s office.  He sprayed Cassie with a misty jet of water from his index finger as he passes.  The red-headed girl looks like she is about to snatch at him with her bare hands, but I take a brave step toward her and decide to do something teacher-like. “Come on, Cassie,” I say.  “You made a good choice.  Don’t offset it by making a bad one.” 

Cassie squeezes her hands until they shake and the air becomes warm again, but after a second she composes herself.   For a silent moment it’s just she and I in the hallway, and I suddenly brake into a nervous sweat again.  “I’m going to my dorm to get changed, like Ms. Argus said,” she says.  “Thanks, Mr. Cavanaugh.  I’ll see you for fourth period.”  With that, she leaves. 

Hoo boy.  That loose-cannon fire Adept is in my fourth period class.  And, along with her, two-dozen other children that, in addition to taking my class, arecurrently taking classes on how to turn invisible, change their shapes, and bend the elements to their whims.  Even my colleagues can do amazing things that I had only read about in comic books and seen in video games.      

Just another day for the only Inept at McGrady’s Institute for Adept Youths, I suppose. 

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.”  

"Blue, Without You" - Part 3/3 of a series

This is the third part to my story about one night in the life of a single father trying to go on a date while still caring for his eight-year-old with separation anxiety.  The first two parts are necessary to understand this weeks' entry, but I think you, as the reader, will have a better understanding of my adoration of the characters if you check them out first.
Part 1, titled, "Dependent":  http://grahampatricksmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/brigits-flame-oct-week-3-title.html
Part 2, titled, "Damaged Goods": http://grahampatricksmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/brigits-flame-november-week-1-prompt.html


After I had paid Mrs. Wallace for her time, I sat on the couch with Emer still in my arms.  Charlotte sat beside us.  The woman knew all the right questions to ask about my daughter’s favorite cartoon, and Emer finally started to come out of her shell and answer in sentences that longer than one word.  My daughter still plainly had no interest in the stranger in her home, but, hey, it was a start.

By the time the credits of the show started to roll, Emer’s cheek was rested against my shoulder and she was seconds away from sleep.  She looked like an angel.  “I’m going to put her to bed,” I whispered to Charlotte.  Emer tried to mumble something in protest, but her eight-year-old metabolism had run its course for the day.  A few minutes later I had Emer in her pajamas and tucked into her side of the bed. 

“When’re you coming to bed, daddy?”  She asked, squeezing her teddy bear.

“Soon, honey,” I told her just before I kissed her forehead.  “Good night, Emmie.”  Emer mumbled the best good-night she could as she rolled over, and I took a wistful glance at my daughter before heading back into the living room.

“She’s beautiful,” Charlotte told me as I joined her on the couch again.

“Thanks,” I replied.  I sighed and sent Charlotte a sideways glance as I practically deflated against the couch.  She scooted closer to me.  “You want a beer?  I have Hoegaarden.”  I asked her. 

 “Ooh, beer snob,” she commented with a sly smirk.  “If you had offered me anything less, I might have been insulted.  You can’t get me liquored up on cheap booze.” 

“Look who’s calling who a beer snob,” I retorted, imitating her smile. I stepped to the fridge, pried the lids off of two bottles of beer, and returned to the couch.  Charlotte held it with one finger around its neck, like an old pro, and stretched her feet across my lap on the couch as she took her first drink.

The events of the night rolled over in my head again.  “Thanks again, Charlotte, for coming back here with me,” I told her.  “I’ll be honest; when you asked if you could meet Emer, I was nervous.  She’s sort of… discriminatory when it comes to me bringing a woman home.  Specifically, she never likes any of them. I’m really sorry if she said anything that offended you.” 

“Just how many women do you bring home?” She asked.  My jaw dropped and I sputtered like an idiot for a few seconds, but then she laughed and her eyes softened as she lowered her bottle.  “Relax, I’m just teasing.  Your daughter is a wonderful little person, David.  She couldn’t offend me if she tried.  I don’t blame her for wanting you all to herself.” 

I smiled and tentatively laid my hand on Charlotte’s bare ankles.  She jumped a little from my cold palm, but then smiled as I caressed the smooth skin of her feet and legs.  Her eyelids fell and she took another drink from her beer as I touched her.  “So, Pinkie Pie is your favorite character?” I asked.

“We both like to party,” Charlotte cooed, laughing a little as she set her bottle on the floor. 

I allowed my fingers to walk their way along Charlotte’s leg, to her knee.  She made no move to stop me.  “Oh, do you now?” I said in my most smooth voice. 

Holy cow, was I out of practice.  How many years had it been since I had tried to seduce a woman?  Two?  Three? 

My fingers touched her thigh, and a need awakened inside of me, the likes of which I hadn’t felt in ages.  Come to think of it, how long had it been since I had been laid?  I had very nearly gotten lucky on a date about eight months ago, but a frantic call from Mrs. Wallace about Emer having a panic attack had sent me running home. 

I wanted Charlotte.  Badly.  And, if my skills at reading women hadn’t completely atrophied in the time I had been celibate, it looked like she wanted me, too.

 I leaned down to her, and she sat up far enough to wrap her arms around my neck and pull me into a kiss.  Just as I thought they would be, her full, heart-shaped lips were warm, and excellent for kissing.  As her lips parted and her tongue appeared, the bestial need inside me howled to be released.  I pulled her closer to me with more strength that I thought I had in my right arm.  My left was still on her thigh.  The two of us wallowed in the kiss, each one drawing on the emotions of each other, and my hand crept ever further up her leg. 

“DAD-EEEEEEE!”

Emer’s voice shattered the mood like a baseball through a picture window.  My limbs seized as adrenaline filled them when my daddy-defenses instantly kicked in.  Charlotte slipped from my arm and bounced on the couch, her eyes wide with surprise. 
“DAD-EEEEE!  WHERE ARE YOU?!” 

My mouth worked uselessly for a second as my brain caught up to reality.  The urge to run to my baby girl’s side and the need to be with the woman on my couch fought for control.  Charlotte blinked for a few seconds, then a defeated smile crossed her face and she chuckled. 

“Charlotte,” I said, my breath huffing as if I had just run a marathon.  “Charlotte, I… I….”

“Go to her,” she said with that beautiful, placid smile.  From the couch she stretched as far as she could and stroked my cheek gently with her fingertips.  “She needs you.” 

I blinked stupidly again, wondering if I should make an excuse for being cock-blocked by an eight-year-old or unapologetically run to my daughter’s side.  Still smiling, Charlotte motioned for me to go just as Emer cried out again, “DAD-EEEEEE!” 

After I meandered from beneath Charlotte’s legs I trudged to the bedroom and opened the door.  Inside I found my daughter sitting cross-legged on the bed and clutching her teddy bear to her chest.  The bedside lamp basked the room in yellow light.

“I woke up and you weren’t here,” Emer said.  She batted her big, blue eyes at me.  “I thought you were gone.”

I did my best to resist my little girl’s siren’s song.  “I’m still here, honey,” I told her, brushing back a silken strand of her golden hair.  “Why don’t you try to go to back to sleep?  I’ll be to bed soon.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around her teddy bear.  Its limbs splayed out like she was going to squeeze it in half.  “I can’t sleep without you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. 

As it does so often where Emer is concerned, my heart broke, and she became that much more difficult to resist.  “How about I get you a glass of water?” I asked.  “That might help you get to sleep.” 

Her little forehead knotted together, clearly displaying her distress, but she replied with, “Okay.” 

When I left the bedroom, I found Charlotte standing by the door with her shoes and jacket on and her purse in her hands.  I froze so quickly that my socks slipped on the hardwood floors.  “Charlotte,” I managed to choke.  “What’s going on?”

For a moment everything I thought Charlotte might have been, every positive vibe I had gotten from her that evening, turned into a spear and stabbed me in the heart.  But just as the cold feeling started to creep into my chest, she smiled her beautiful smile again and stepped to me.  “Maybe we should call it a night, David.”

“But…” I stammered.  “But I’m just getting her a glass of water.  Then… then we…”

She laid her hand on the side of my face, and the tension that had been building in my shoulders was gone.  “It’s okay, David.  She’s wonderful, and you’re wonderful.  And right now, she needs you.  Let’s see where things go from our next date.”

I visibly shook.  “Wait.  You’re not breaking up with me?  This isn’t our last date?”

“No, goofy!”  She laughed.  “Why would it be?”

 I rolled my shoulders.  “More than one woman has turned tail because of how dependent Emer and I are of each other.  I thought you were going to be one more on the list.”

She slipped one arm around my waist and I wrapped my arms around her back.  “I am not most women,” she whispered. 
“Thank God,” I told her, just before I leaned down and kissed her again.  Just before the two of us stepped away she lowered her hand and grabbed my butt fiercely. 

She popped up on her tiptoes and whispered, “Next time, dinner will be at my place.” 

"Anonymous"

For those of you that don't know, LineByLine is a prompt-based online writing community.  The prompt phrase must appear in it's entirety somewhere in the piece.  This week's phrase is 'long before now'. 

This piece is entitled, "Anonymous". 

The chair is hard under his butt and the smell of magic marker is making him sick.  He regrets putting the name tag so far up his shirt; if he had put it on his pocket, or waited for the marker to dry before sticking it on, he wouldn’t be getting high from fumes.  Better yet, he should have stuck it to his sweatshirt instead.  That way he could pretend to be too warm, remove the sweatshirt, and suddenly become the Man Without A Name.  No one would ever call on the Man Without A Name.  No one would ever ask him to answer questions or try to engage him in awkward conversation.

His cousin had advised him to write a fake name, and he berated himself that he hadn’t remembered the advice until after he had written his own on the name tag.  He couldn’t very well throw the name tag away and make a new one; everyone would have seen him write a different name on the second tag, and then everyone would know that he was a great, big phony.

Was he a great, big phony?  Robert wasn’t sure.  He felt like the fact that he had agreed to come proved that he wasn’t, proved that he understood that it was time to take action and change his life.  Be he, of course, didn’t think his life needed changing; it had been his friends and family that though his life needed changing.  From Robert’s perspective, he was fine.  Did being at the meeting when he didn’t feel like he needed to be there make him a phony?

Maybe he should have risked throwing out the name tag and making a fake one, after all.

Of course, no one in the room would even know that the name on his tag was really his.  They were probably already assuming that he was using a fake name, so it didn’t really matter that he had written his own.  Robert was a common enough name; they would probably think that he had come up with it off the top of his head. 

But if he DID decide to stick with it, the graduation certificate with his real name on it – ‘Robert has successfully completed blah blah blah’ – would be infinitely sweeter than one with a pseudonym written on it.  If he were to go to his wife’s mother’s house with a certificate with someone else’s name on it, his mother-in-law would probably assume that he had mugged some unsuspecting sap and stolen his diploma rather than sit through all the sessions.

He sneers. 

His mother-in-law.  He had never really liked her.  But if there was one thing he had to give to the old bat, it was that she had birthed a wonderful woman.  Laura had agreed to marry Robert against her mother’s advice, and Robert had only imagined the sadistic glee that she had rubbed in Laura’s face when the fights started.  Robert couldn’t understand how such an even-tempered, well-intentioned woman could have descended from such a vindictive old crone.

Any other woman would have followed her mother’s advice and left Robert outright.  Not Laura.  But, despite her indomitable patience, she still had her limits.  It had been days since she had given him the ultimatum and gone to her mother’s house.  He had only talked to her once since then, and he was given explicit instructions not to call her until he pulled his butt from the hard plastic chair at the end of the two hours.  And every two hour session after that.

As the depression sets in again, Robert suddenly doesn’t feel so much like a phony anymore, at least by his definition.  His friends were right, and his family was right, and Laura was right.  This was where he belonged, and he knew it.  The true irony was that the onset of his depressions usually caused what got him in this hard plastic chair in the first place; but since he had actually dragged himself to the first meeting, his usual panacea wasn’t within arm’s reach.  It was something he wished he had done long before now. 

When he shakes himself from his daydream, Robert finds every eye in the room on him.  He had been so absorbed with his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed that it was his turn for introductions.  So he stands, straightens his shirt, inhales deeply (taking in another lungful of magic-marker-laced air) and says, “Hi.  My name is Robert, and I am an alcoholic.”