I'm Published!

At long last, I'm a real author. I'm published!

http://www.amazon.com/Dying-to-Live-ebook/dp/B00FR2JUI4/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1383262198&sr=1-2&keywords=dying+to+live+diabolic

Storytime

A short story. This was first published on figment.com. Enjoy!

The Collectors

“Is this the end, do you think?”

 Evon, the youngest of the companions by far, asked the question in earnest, although his fellows found wry amusement in his words. The blue-black night enveloped the threesome; the soft orange glow of the dying campfire forced deep, eerie shadows into their faces. Fodir looked up from the fire to stare at the boy, a crooked smile on his face. A single, cough escaped. Or it may have been a mirthless chuckle.

 “How long you been on this job?” Marco asked. “This is, what? Two missions?”

 “Three,” Evon said.

 Fodir hissed a strange, strangled laugh. “Why, you’re a regular combat veteran.”

 Evon shot the old man a fiery look and opened his mouth to retort, but Marco interrupted.

 “So you’ve been with the Service eight pay-cycles?”

 The youngster nodded.

 A dark look came over Marco’s face. “Wait until you’ve been in for eight years. Or eighty. Or longer.” He picked up a long, leafless branch to stir the dying embers. “Wait until you’ve been on the job for as long as me.”

 Evon watched the embers as they rose to join the stars. “But when I signed on, I was told that the job would only last as long as man continues to take up arms on the field of battle. Surely, he will soon see the error of his ways and there will be no more wars.”

 The older men chortled.

 “They’re still using that old line?” Fodir wheezed.

 “An old lie, but a good one,” Marco said.

 A shallow line formed between Evon’s brows.

 “What?” he asked. “What’s so funny?”

 Between gasps for breath, Fodir cough-laughed. Marco, however, fell silent, and the smile faded from his lips.

 “Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing at all.”

 Evon was certain the old men were making fun of him in some way he couldn’t understand. At times like this, he hated being the junior member of the Collections Crew. Silence fell between the men once more, and Evon, feeling that he was the butt of their unknown joke, seethed in silence. Staring first at one craggy face, then the other, resentment grew in him until he felt that if he didn’t get out of there, he would end up saying something that he might regret later.

 Pushing up from the dead log on which he was sitting, Evon announced, “I’m going for a walk.”

 “Don’t go too far,” Marco said. “It’s nearly time.”

 The boy didn’t answer, but continued walking toward the wood. “Don’t know who they think they are,” Evon mumbled as he stepped over a tree root that buckled up in the trail. “Think they’re so smart. Think they know so much. Well, I know a thing or two, myself. After all, I was Chosen. Out of all the villagers who died in the battle, I was chosen.” Another exaggerated step as he climbed over a fallen tree. “That means something. That has to mean something.”

 An arm locked hard around his chest and shoulders. The breath was knocked out of him as he was pulled back hard against a leather breastplate. His eyes focused on the blade that flashed in the moonlight. The edge settled against his neck. He knew the man could not kill him, but he could cause a great deal of pain, something Evon wished to avoid, if at all possible.

 “Speak one word and it will be your last,” came the warning in his ear. “Do you understand me, flatlander?”

 Evon nodded almost imperceptibly.

 “How many are you?” the gravelly voice demanded.

 A sharp intake of breath was the only sound Evon dared to make. He couldn’t answer, not without taking the risk that the knife would find he vein.

 “I said, ‘How many are you?’” The speaker tightened his hold, crushing the boy’s chest more forcefully.

 Evon squeezed the answer from his throat in a hoarse whisper. “Three. We are three.”

 “Three,” the voice repeated. As he spoke, his grip loosened and the tension that held the blade so dangerously close eased. “And you have been sent ahead to spy, boy?”

 “N-no. I needed some air.”

 “You lie. You sleep under the stars. Air is all about you.”

 Evon considered this.

“Maybe I didn’t need air, but a moment away from the company.”

 “Very likely. The company you keep — the company of flatlanders — is poor company, indeed.” The man was quiet for a moment. Then, as suddenly as he had been taken, Evon was released. His captor, a tall man of half-life years, stepped in front of him. When he spoke next, his eyes bored intently into those of the boy. “If you do not care for your companions, boy, you should seek company more suited to your temperament. Perhaps you would find our cause more suitable. One as young as you may not have heard the untainted facts. Shall I take you to the fire, where you can hear of our grievances against the flatlanders?”

 Finding courage now, Evon answered. “But you are mistaken, sir. I am not a flatlander. I am a Collector.”

 “A collector? On whose side do you fight?”

 “I do not fight, sir. My only job is to Collect.”

 “And what is it that you collect, boy?”

 “That which with every man must eventually part.”

 The man’s dark eyes narrowed.

 “You’re a scavenger? A vulture who lives on the tragedies of others?”

 “No. Nothing like that. I simply Collect what is lost.”

 The soldier opened his mouth to speak again, but something behind the boy caught his attention. Shoving Evon to the ground, the man screamed as he raised his blade and swung it around. The arc of his sword halted as it met flesh and dug in. The face of an attacking flatlander, so full of fury, transformed — first to surprise, then to resignation — at the blade’s entry into his gut. He fell hard to the ground, dropping his battle axe as the sword delivered his fate.

 Evon’s captor, breathing deep, stood shaking. Three deep breaths. Then, his jaw set firm, the soldier raised his weapon once more and drove it into the wounded man’s heart.

 The deed was done. Evon rose and moved to the side of the dying man.

 “Here. Boy. What are you doing?”

 “I must do my duty,” the child said as he knelt next to the man. “I must Collect.” With that, Evon’s tiny hand touched the forehead of the man, who released his final breath and was gone. When Evon pulled his hand back, golden motes floated upward. He watched as they rose to join the stars.

 The soldier stared at the boy, the boy at the soldier.

 “I Collect,” was all that he said.

 ***

“This has to be it, right? They’re calling it the War to End All Wars. This has to be our last assignment,” said the new recruit.

 The old men sitting around the campfire chortled. The small boy, who was standing beyond its glow, stepped forward.

 “Why don’t you tell me that one again in about a century,” said Evon.

The Wait is Over...

Last weekend, I blogged about how my novel had been with an agent for over four months and that I was just waiting for some kind of replay. Well, the reply came in today, and the search is not over. The agent passed. It was a personalized rejection note with a couple of pointers as to why she didn't accept it. I'm going to take those pointers into consideration. If she took the time to give me advice, I should definitely consider it.

And so, it's back to the list to find a new name and start all over again. For those of you who are keeping score, that's five rejections and no acceptances. But I'm okay with it. Really. There are so many agents out there and such a broad range of tastes that I'm sure someone is going to love it!

Reflections on a Tragedy

September 11, 2001. I remember it as a crisp, slightly overcast day. Of course, my memory may be playing tricks on me. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that it was raining, or that it was sunny and 105F, or that there was a blizzard and twelve inches of snow. Some of the details are fuzzy.

But other things I remember as clearly as if they happened yesterday. I was teaching class at Emerson Alternative High School, in my very large classroom on the second floor. In my English class, a group of misfits and mischief makers of all ages and abilities from all over the city were working on their individualized assignments while I was discussing the history of computers with a group of more-or-less enthusiastic academic team members. A perfectly normal start to a perfectly normal day.

Until one of my students arrived late. I started to ask her for her admit slip, but when I looked at her face, I could see something was seriously wrong.

She looked at me and the first words out of her mouth were: "Why did they drive that plane into that building?"

I had trouble processing what she asked. Plane? Building? What?  Nothing she said made any sense. I found my voice and asked, "What building?"

"The building. The big building!" she said, gesticulating wildly. She was obviously shaken, and she wasn't the sort of girl who was easily ruffled. "It's on the TV," she added, pointing to the wall-mounted television in the classroom.

So we turned it on and watched. Watched as the live feed showed the aftermath of the first plane hitting the first tower. Watched as the second tower was hit. Watched as the reports came in from the Pentagon and from a field in Pennsylvania. Watched as a man jumped to his death. Watched as the buildings tumbled to the ground, again and again, on what seemed to be a continuous instant replay loop. Watched in stunned silence. Watched in horror.

We watched with tears in our eyes and pain in our hearts.

Because we knew what this meant. Better than most people in the country, the people of Oklahoma City knew what it meant to be attacked by a terrorist. We had lived through the pain and the chaos and the months and years of rebuilding our lives. We knew what the people of New York were facing. And we knew that our tragedy was miniscule compared to theirs.

It's September 11th again and I find myself trying once more--and failing miserably--to ignore and forget and hide away from the obvious. Try as I might to ostrich, the elephant sneaked into the room, and now I have to deal with all its leavings.

On this day, as on all days, I wish for peace.

Waiting...

I'm going to share a little secret, something I haven't told many people in the electronic world. As most of you know, I am trying to break into the writing business--trying to become a publish author. Preferably a New York Times best-selling author with a huge bank account, a comfortable home with an indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool, and multiple bidding wars over my next project. (Hey. A girl can dream, can't she?) But for now, I'll just settle for published.

As most of you probably know, the publishing world is undergoing some growing pains, with drastic and sometimes frustrating changes occurring on a near-daily basis. Traditional publishers are changing the rules to try to keep up with the invasion of e-books. Traditional bookstores are failing left and right. E-pulishers, while the new kids on the block, seem to be the current Big Dogs, and everyone is scrambling to get on the bandwagon.

One of the changes that has been lurking in the background for the last few years has come to the fore recently. Namely, that most traditional publishers will not even look at unsolicited manuscripts. A lot of editors don't keep slush piles anymore. They prefer that the manuscripts they look at have been vetted by agents, and preferably by agents who know the editor's needs and tastes.

For the last several months, I have been in search of an agent for my completed manuscript. I've sent out the query letter and waited for the response, hoping to be able to send the entire manuscript. An author has to hope that he or she has written the Magic Query Letter--one that will entice the agent to invite the author to submit the entire manuscript. The first agency I sent it to was having a strange, but fun, little contest and my manuscript was a part of that for ten days before it was eliminated. The second agent had my query letter for a week before she declined. Potential agents three and four each rejected it within 24 hours.

Then, back in May, Agent Number Five invited me to send my manuscript to her. I sent it immediately. And then, I waited. And waited. And waited. At the nine-week mark, I sent a follow-up, just to make sure the manuscript had arrived and was in the queue. Yes, I was assured, she had received the manuscript. Her reading pile was simply overwhelming at the time, but please be patient and she'd get back with me.

As of today, I'm still waiting for a reply. I'm not sure how I should feel about this.

Part of me thinks it's a good thing: a first time writer whose manuscript is good enough for an agent to keep for over four months. I would like to believe that the agent has a minion who has read and recommended it, and that it's just sitting on the pile, waiting for the agent herself to okay it. At least, that's what I want to believe.

Another part of me wonders if this is normal. How long is too long? How long does a writer have to wait on average? Is this agent a bit overworked, and if so, will she be able to represent me well if she decides to take me on as a client? Or does she already have so many clients that she can't represent any by the high-profile authors well?

Still another part of me wants to just sit back and let nature take its course. If it's going to happen, it will happen. If not, well, there are a lot of other agents in the sea.

And there's always e-publishing.

The Devil's in the Details

I was reading a galley proof this week for a collection of short stories, and a single detail in one of the stories stopped me in my tracks. 

The character went to a Starbucks in Beatrice, Nebraska. 

That’s it. That’s the detail.

In a rather unlikely twist of fate, the authors of this story made their story memorable to me, but for all the wrong reasons. I happen to be familiar with Beatrice, Nebraska. My grandparents lived there. I still have family there. And I know one thing for certain: there is no Starbucks in Beatrice. 

I know. I know. Poetic license, and all that. If the situation were slightly different, I would never have thought twice about it. If she’d walked into a non-Starbucks coffee shop in Beatrice, or if she’d walked into a Starbucks in Lincoln, I’d have been okay. But the Starbucks in Beatrice made me stop and do a Google search.

Which brings me to my topic: authenticity of place. Because I’m such a stickler for details, I regard that as part of the author’s job: to make the details as real and as rich as possible. I often research the ‘small stuff’ that an author brings to his work. More often than not, they get it right.

The tenth anniversary edition of one of my favorite books, Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, was released last month with an expanded text. As I read news stories about the new edition, I found myself remembering the details of place that make that book so special. It’s been easily seven or eight years since I read the book, but I clearly remember two places from the text: the House on the Rock, near Spring Green, Wisconsin, and the Geographic Center of the Contiguous United States near Lebanon, Kansas.   

I’ve been to the monument marking the center of the Lower 48, and Gaiman’s description comes pretty close to the memories of my 12-year-old self. But it’s the descriptions of the House on the Rock that really stand out, because any fairly decent internet sleuth can find hundreds of photos of all the details Gaiman describes. In my opinion, Gaiman’s authenticity of place holds true for at least two of the locales in the book.

That’s important, especially in books that ask the reader to leave so much of this world behind. Modern fantasies — urban and otherwise — ask us to walk in this world, and yet to suspend our disbelief and to embrace the impossible. The ancient gods walk among us. Vampires exist. The zombiepocalyse is real. A living child is raised by a village of ghosts. Any and all of these things can happen in the pages of a modern fantasy, and so much more.

Because the stories are grounded in the here-and-now, they must be true to the details of place. My current work in progress is a young adult paranormal/gothic romance. As you can tell from that description alone, I’m asking my potential readers to leave reality very, very far behind. But I can’t leave them with a touchstone, without something familiar and real.  

The details are real. I’ve been to those places. I have memories and photos and stories of real people and real events that happened there. To me, those places are a real part of my life. And it’s my job to make them real for my readers, as well. Because if I don’t make those places real, I’ve failed to give them a foothold in the world I’ve created. And without the foothold, the work may crumble into a pile of rubble before the end.

Writing.

Writing. Writing. Writing. 

I don't really want to stop writing because thing words are flowing, but I need to get back into the habit of blogging regularly. So here's a compromise: a short story. Enjoy!

Daddy’s Girl

“Daddy!”

Nature endowed adolescent girls the ability to produce a vocal tone calculated to turn the spinal cord of any adult in hearing range into a substance with the density and consistency of Jell-O, thus rendering the adult helpless while scoring the youngster her heart’s desire, fleeting though that desire might be. Monica Wellstonecraft had perfected that nasal, whiney timbre and was currently deploying it against her father.

“Daaad-dee-ee!” 

Although Monica had not entered her father’s workroom, he knew that tone all too well. Monica, it would seem, was not happy. Although Tyrone the Malevolent was recently named “Wizard to Watch” in Evil Magic Weekly, his daughter seemed oblivious to his growing status in the magical world. To her, Tyrone the Malevolent was merely “Daddy: Granter of Wishes, Dispenser of Cash.” 

The mage closed his eyes and sighed against the disruption. “What is it, Princess?”

“Daddy! Why do you hate me so?” 

Tyrone gritted his teeth and muttered a quiet curse, which he immediately regretted as the pot containing a sprout of vena rutilus vertebrae effractum exploded, scattering shards of pottery and clods of dirt all over the lab, and in the process, releasing one particularly vicious shoot of foliage. With a lazy wave of his wand, the pot mended itself and dirt swept itself into the mended pot. The Red Veined Spine Snapper, however, climbed up the wall and fled through the open window, hell-bent on world domination.

Making note of the escaping flora, the wizard felt a certain obligation to retrieve and contain said Snapper; however, he was too preoccupied with more pressing matters. Specifically, the whims of an unhappy twelve-year-old child.

 At that precise moment, the door to his workroom banged open and the object of his consternation burst into the laboratory. 

Most of the world saw Monica Alexis Nichole Wellstonecraft as an exceptional child, one with the delicate bone structure of a fairy, the grace of a ballerina, and the countenance of an angel. Pale with striking violet eyes, pink Cupid lips, and gently curling shoulder-length raven hair, Monica was the storybook picture of sweetness and innocence, with the promise of poise and confidence blooming just below the surface.

To those who knew her, however, Monica was as delicate as a tank, with the voice of a banshee and the demeanor of hungry tiger. A very angry hungry tiger with an excessively nasty attitude. When her temper got the better of her, Monica showed some of the rough edges that were supposedly being smoothed out at Miss Falconi’s School for Girls, one of the finest finishing schools in all the land. Currently, the normally self-possessed and precocious young lady seemed completely possessed by a disagreeable, dark humor. 

Screwing up her face into a most unattractive expression, Monica unleashed a screeching accusation at her father. “Drusilla Cuthburt’s daddy loves her more than you love me!” Before her father could respond, Monica continued her tirade. “And Livia McCartle’s daddy loves her more than you love me! And Felicity Phelps and Sinead Price and Evan Sainte-Cloud. Even that fat cow Courtney Stuart’s father loves her more than you love me!”

Completely exasperated, Tyrone removed the cauldron from the flame and turned off the Bunsen burner. It was obvious that he would not complete his award-winning special blend of Mind-Control Potion anytime soon. At times like these, he regretted having turned Monica’s mother into a newt. 

Today, he almost envied her, the amphibious life suddenly having taken on tremendous appeal.

Gritting his teeth, Tyrone pulled his mouth into something resembling a smile and, turning to face his daughter, asked, “Pumpkin, whatever do you mean? Of course I love you, Precious.”

“Then why don’t you show it?” Monica demanded, stamping her foot for emphasis.

Tyrone’s right eyelid fluttered rapidly, although not from any conscious effort. Medically, this flutter would be referred to as a spasm, or possibly a tic, an involuntary reaction to the foot-stamping. Drawing in a steadying breath, Tyrone took a moment to center himself before he began to speak. “Why, Angel, I believe I do show you how much I love you. Every day.”

His mouth had very nearly said, The fact that you’re still here rather than sunning yourself on a rock is a sign of my utter devotion. But his brain quelled his mutinous tongue before the words could burst forth.

“You don’t love me. If you loved me, you’d buy me a minion!”

Ah. That’s what this little display is about, thought Tyrone. Minions. 

“Pudding, we’ve discussed this. You are too young for a minion.”

“But everybody else has a minion! I’m the only girl at school without one!” Her mouth, if possible, curled into an even more pathetic pout and her eyes managed to squeeze out some moisture that could have been tears. 

“I want a minion!”

“Lumpkins, you don’t need a minion. Why do you want a minion, anyway?”

Monica sniffed twice, then swallowed hard in an obvious attempt to control her faux tears. “Oh, Daddy,” the torrent began. “Minions are the best. They just are. Everyone has one. They bring them to class and the minions wreak havoc with the lessons and even though the teachers have registered a formal complaint, Headmistress Falconi said that minions can be a tool for learning and that we are permitted to bring them and, oh, Daddy, don’t you see why I need a minion? It’s a matter of education.” 

On that note, Monica widened her violet eyes in anticipation, then batted her lengthy black lashes at her father. This simple “smile and flutter” tactic had worked on numerous occasions in the past, and there was no reason to believe it wouldn’t work now. 

For a long, quiet moment, Tyrone the Malevolent stared at his daughter, too dumbfounded to speak. Monica said that owning an evil minion would further her education. While he was certain that was true on some levels, his Father Instinct told him that he was being played. 

Yet, he couldn’t resist the powerful pull of a spirited, well-articulated debate. The air was heavy with the promise of logic, reason, and argumentation based on sound principles. A debate such as this one would give him a chance to put her skills in the rhetorical arts to the test. Rhetorical skills for which he was paying a premium in tuition and fees to Miss Falconi’s School for Girls. This debate would allow Tyrone to gauge whether he was getting his money’s worth.

Fixing his dark, serious eyes on her bright, expectant ones, the wizard held her gaze, expecting her to back down; but the girl met his stare with no sign of weakening resolve. This fact alone was a bit unnerving, as most people who looked into Tyrone’s eyes understood his power and bowed to it. Monica, however, met his ebon eyes with confidence and a look that seemed to say, “Bring it, old man!” Locked as they were in a power-stare, each silently considered the next move. Much like players in a game of chess, each contemplated strategies, formulated arguments and counterarguments, and developed a battle plan.

Having devised his attack, Tyrone crossed the room to stand before his daughter. Drawing himself to his full height, he forced Monica to raise her head in order to see his expression as he lobbed the opening volley.

“Buttercup, we’ve discussed this before.” Speaking slowly and patiently, Tyrone brought forth what he thought was his strongest case. “Minions are dangerous, treacherous creatures with willful dispositions. I’ve know fully-trained adult wizards who have been betrayed by their minions. They cannot be trusted. Because of their unpredictably dangerous behavior, minions do not make good educational tools.”

“But, Daddy, you’ve missed the point entirely,” Monica countered sweetly. “It is precisely because of their unpredictable natures that minions are educational. How am I supposed to learn self-defense if I am never challenged? Headmistress says using minions at school is the best of both worlds: we can practice defensive magic but in a safe, controlled environment.”

Realizing he lost that point, Tyrone saw a new line present itself and seized his opening. “And yet, with so many students in each classroom and with each student having her own minion, how can any teacher be expected to provide a safe and controlled environment? Logic tells us that a single teacher cannot control a squadron of minions, should those minions carry out an organized assault.”

“Really, Father. An organized assault? By minions?” Monica practically snickered, her voice laden with amusement. “I’ve seen minions practically come to blows over whether to roast the evening’s catch or to stew it. I seriously doubt two minions could agree on a plan, let alone carry one out.”

“Aye, that’s all too true,” Tyrone sighed heavily, conceding another point but not yet surrendering the flag. His mind raced as he tried desperately to formulate just one more argument against his daughter’s foolish whim. 

At last, he hit on the perfect argument. A broad smile snaked across his lips as he said, “Cupcake, have you considered the difficulty of caring for a minion? Where would you keep it? Who will feed it and clean up after it? To make sure it gets plenty of exercise? Hmm?”

“Why, Daddy. I would take care of him. I’ll feed him and make certain he gets exercise. I’ll put his cage in my room and sing lullabies to him when he can’t sleep and leave the light on all night so he won’t get scared in the dark,” she said. 

While Tyrone was positive that his daughter intended to keep her promise, history was not on her side. His smile was colored with the slightest tint of victory. He had, he believed, stumbled onto the one truly unassailable, undeniable, and utterly undefeatable point in his entire arsenal of arguments. “I’m sure you remember what happened to your last pet, Sugarplum. You made all of the same promises then — that you’d feed him and care for him and that he wouldn’t be the least burden for anyone else.” Here, her father paused and sighed heavily for effect. “Alas, poor Tobias. Never has a Hellhound been so miserable, so lonely. So hungry.”

The self-assured smile on Monica’s face faded, replaced by a concerned little frown. Suddenly she seemed interested in the floor, as her head dropped and her shoulders drooped and she seemed altogether lost in misery.

Sensing the rising tide of triumph, her father’s voice grew stronger. “Shame that he got recalled, really. He showed such promise. Poor Tobias might have grown into quite a menacing creature, if he had only been treated properly. You know, the imp who came to collect him said that he had never seen such a thorough job of neglect in all his immortality.” Making tut-tut noises whilst shaking his head, Tyrone’s face reflected pity. “Now he will live out his life consigned to the Third Circle of Hell, serving as relief cur for the guard-dog Cerberus. Poor Tobias will have no post of his own. Not ever.” Looking down at the back of his daughter’s still lowered head, the wizard asked, “Do you know why, Lemondrop?”

Tyrone sensed this was the beginning of the end. That Monica was beginning to realize that all her planning, all her scheming, was crumbling before her very eyes. He watched as Monica stared at her shoes, as if some new line of reasoning would suddenly make itself known in their patent leather finish. 

A malicious smile settled on his lips. “All because someone forgot to feed him. Someone who had promised that she would feed him and exercise him and see to his every need. Poor, poor Tobias.” Victory was so close now, he could taste its honeyed sweetness. “And do you recall just who that might have been, Poppet?” 

Tyrone smirked.

For a long moment, the room was completely still. The sounds of the house were magnified, adding to the tension that grew between father and daughter. Tock, tock, tock the clock ticked. Somewhere in the distance, a tiny member of the order rodentia made a quiet scratchscratchscratch in a bid for freedom from the unpleasant fate that surely awaited him if he remained imprisoned in this cage. And now, adding to the faint chorus, the gentle sigh of a young girl.

Sensing Monica’s imminent surrender, Tyrone carefully arranged his face into the mask of a benevolent dictator. One who, through his good grace and kindness, was firm when necessary and generous when beneficial. Standing statue-still, he patiently awaited the words that would confirm the triumph of his superior intellect over her lesser one. Not that her efforts weren’t valiant, and such efforts ought to be rewarded. 

Perhaps he would offer her a trinket as a prize for her cleverness. Perhaps some bobble from her mother’s jewels. Yes, that would be a fine reward for a girl of her age and demeanor. As his daughter raised her head, his countenance shone with warmth, understanding, and forgiveness. He prepared to welcome his misguided lamb back into the fold.

Monica’s eyes shone bright, not with tears, but with something else. Apparently, she had no intention of surrendering. “Father, you are quite right to point out my obvious shortcomings with Poor Tobias. I cannot defend myself. All I can offer in the way of self-defense is my youth and my inexperience.”

Placing her small, pale hand on her father’s sleeve, Monica continued. “And yet, I ask you, who among us has not committed some offense in his youth? An offense for which he is now heartily sorry? An offense from which he has learned a lesson? I think none is without sin.” 

To those who did not know him, the wizard would have seemed quite unconcerned. However, minute signs of panic were present. His pupils narrowed. His nostrils flared. Miniscule beads of sweat formed above the thin line of his mouth. Tyrone the Malevolent was scared. Scared of a little girl. Worse yet, he was scared of his little girl.

Monica smiled, showing her teeth as she moved in for the kill. “Father, I was that youth.”

“Ah!” The wizard’s eyes widened and his face brightened. He was not to be skewered by the misdeeds of his youth. At least, not today.

Monica, noting her father’s apparent relief, prepared her final assault. “An entire year has passed since the Poor Tobias incident, and I can assure you, in that year, I have matured. I understand the importance of a promise. I believe I have demonstrated to you that I can be trusted. And yet, I understand why you might not trust me. My past actions prove my irresponsibility. 

“And yet, Father, how can I prove that I am worthy of your trust if give me a second chance? Don’t you see, Daddy? To you, a minion is a troublesome, dangerous creature. But to me, a minion represents your faith in me. Your trust. Your love.” Dropping her voice to a whisper so soft as to force her father to bend down in order to hear her, Monica asked, with tears sitting heavily in her eyes, “Don’t you trust me, Daddy?”

Of course, that was that. Monica got her minion. It arrived the next day in a ventilated package from Hell, via overnight express delivery. Monica secured her place at the top of the pre-teen queen pecking order by being the first student to bring a minion to Miss Falconi’s School for Girls. It seems that Monica had exaggerated the acceptability of minions at school, as Tyrone learned in a hastily called conference with Headmistress Falconi. The novelty of owning a minion faded quickly once Monica was forbidden to take him to school. After all, what was the use of having a minion if one could not show it off?  Within a week, Tyrone the Malevolent was feeding said minion, despite all the promises his daughter made. 

In less than two months’ time, there was a knock on the door. On order of the Wicked Creatures Protection Council — Minion Division, Siegfried the Imp was sent to collect the minion. Monica’s minion appeared only too glad to return to the bowels of Hell. 

As Tyrone signed the paperwork relinquishing all claims to the minion, he asked after Siegfried’s health and his family.

“All’s well with us. And you?” the imp inquired.

Tyrone sighed. “All’s well, although I’m concerned about Monica.”

“That age is always a handful. Girls is especially so,” ruminated Siegfried. “At least this minion phase passed quick.”

“Aye. But when I rose today, I found a lovely breakfast. Monica left it on the table, alongside my paper.”

“Surely, ´tis a sign that she’s grown up, then.”

“I wish I could be more confident of that.”

“How so?”

“The paper was folded in such a way that I could not miss an advertisement decorated with large red hearts. And, Siegfried, it was an advertisement for a unicorn.”