All six of her sisters had been forced to take Carl to their beds; he was their father, and it was his right, he told them. They all knew that he was a foul, evil bastard, but out here in the middle of nowhere, what could they do? Marjorie could not bear the thought of his sweaty hands touching her naked skin, his breath as rotten as his teeth as he loomed over her. She would rather die. This plan had to work.
"You ain't gonna charm gators by glaring at them, girl!" Carl hollered at her from the front porch, his huge belly quivering, his face hideous in the shadows. He had big plans for a gator wrestling arena, and Marjorie claimed to have a gift. "Git to it! Don't make me get off this porch!"
Marjorie warily eyed the alligator in front of her, her mind full of images of half-eaten severed limbs. The twenty foot gator stared back, implacable. His jaws could swallow her whole, if he had a mind to do so. He hissed at her, and she realized that his teeth were longer than her fingers. She pulled the sack dress over her head and flung it to the side, then performed a quick high kick that got Carl's undivided attention. Moving her hips in what she hoped was a sexy manner, she approached the alligator, swirling and pirouetting around him. Occasionally she swung a hand down to sweep across the gator's rough skin, and the reptile seemed to hum with energy. Her chest heaving in a quick rhythm, she finally fell, enticing Carl off the porch. Marjorie waited for him to extend that arm toward a bared breast, and was rewarded with the heavy snap of an alligator's jaws. Carl's screams ricocheted around the trees. The gator let go of Carl's arm long enough to clamp down on his head until the screaming stopped.
Problem solved, Marjorie thought, as the alligator dragged Carl into the swamp.
The prompt is the third definition of the word CHARM.
And, lucky ducks you are, you now get to write-up to 500 words of
fiction or creative non-fiction by 11:55 p.m. PST on Thursday night
using one or both of the following images.
And this is my pal Spike who, by the way, was a fantastic listener.
As I stroked his head and drank my wine, it did occur to me that he
could bite my arm off.