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.”
