Thursday, March 14, 2013

Who doesn't love a leprechaun? Happy St. Pat's, enjoy . . . 
Sunday afternoon and the bar was empty. Audrey sighed as she sipped her wine, tucked into a window booth overlooking the antique shops on Royal Street. She wished Declan hadn’t left so soon.
A glint of gold caught her eye and she peered around the dusty drapes.  Was that an earring in the corner?  Something green moved just out of sight and she turned suddenly to see a small, fat hand poised over her wineglass.
“Hey!” Audrey snapped and grabbed the arm of a tiny man wearing a soiled emerald jacket and a sour expression. 
“Damnit!” The little man cursed as he slumped into the seat opposite her.  He had a whiskery red face with untidy eyebrows and sharp, yellow teeth.
“Who are you – and what’s in my drink?” Audrey demanded, looking into her glass, where a suspicious powdery substance left a filmy white trail.
“Just call me Frank.” He growled in a nasally Brooklyn accent.
“And my drink?” Audrey pressed.
Frank shrugged. “Hey, my lucky charms ain’t what they used to be.”
 “You’re a leprechaun?” Audrey looked skeptical.
 “Well, I ain’t Santa.” Frank snorted. Wiggling a scruffy brow, he rasped, “Wanna ride my rainbow?”
 Audrey shuddered. “I’ll pass.”
Frank scowled. “Your loss, girlie.  Not all my parts are pint-sized.”  He leaned over the table. “That ain’t what I want, though.”
“Then what do you want?” Audrey asked.
“I’m . . . hungry.” Frank looked at Audrey with wet, rum-tinged eyes.
She shoved a silver bowl of snack mix across the table.  “Help yourself.”
Frank shook his head. “I’m an Atkins man, girlie.  Meat only.” He licked his lips and stared longingly into the v-neck of her sweater. “Tastes just like chicken.”
 “Whoa!” Audrey grabbed her purse to her chest.
Frank’s rubbery lips curved in an unconvincing smile. “Aw, don’t be that way.  Just a taste?”
“No!” Audrey hugged her bag tighter.
“How ‘bout a toe,” Frank pleaded, “you got ten, you won’t miss one.”
“No!” Audrey shoved her feet under the chair rung.
“Come on!” Frank moaned, his nails scraping the table.  “I’ll give you a pot of gold for your pinkie.”
Audrey scooted to the edge of the chair, eyeing Frank’s greedy fingers.
 “Don’t make me beg, girlie.”
But Audrey wouldn’t budge.
“Bitch!” Frank hissed. Suddenly he was beneath the table, sinking his sharp teeth into Audrey’s ankle.
“Ow!” She cried, feeling Frank bite down harder, scraping bone.  Blood spurted onto her jeans as Frank’s strong, fat arms tugged on her legs.  Panicked, she smashed her wineglass over Frank’s head and he shrieked, relaxing his grasp.
“Let go, you little troll!” Audrey kicked him hard and he rolled into the dark space beneath the piano while she ran out the door.
Under the piano, Frank the leprechaun sat up slowly, rubbing his jaw.  He picked a strand of Audrey’s flesh from between his pointy teeth and pocketed a gold earring from the floor. Straightening his vest, he grimaced.
“Next time I pick a fucking blonde.”
Like Audrey? Want to see her kick some flesh-eating scavenger tail?  Click here to read the first chapter of my book, The Getaway Girls: A New Orleans Tale of Monsters, Mayhem and Moms for free!

Saturday, March 2, 2013

First, I wanted to write a little post-Oscars recap, but the week got away from me.  I'll just say two things:

1.  My Mississippi peanut-butter brownie mud pie turned into Mississippi cardboard, due to my miscalculations on the baking time. That's what I get for trying to turn it into pie in honor of Life of Pi.
Math. It always gets you in the end.

2.  Say what you will about Seth McFarlane - the boy can sing.  Yes, he sang a very dumb, offensive song about boobs, but if you're going to offend people it helps to have a nice voice.

3.  Sorry - I know I said two things, but what can I say?  Math.  Anyway, my South Philly meatballs kicked ass.

Enough about movie awards - I won something myself this week.  My short story, The Closet won February's Darker Times flash fiction award.  And another story, The Runaway, received an honorable mention.  Check out the awards page for the full list:   (But of course, please read mine!)  The Runaway is actually a rough excerpt from my second Getaway Girls book, as yet untitled. I'm still noodling with it, but it does have a nasty flesh-eating scavenger scene, so enjoy!
(Note - the site is having weird paragraph spacing issues to be fixed, please ignore)

It's Irish-fest weekend here in Dallas.  Normally we go every year and attempt to listen to music while chasing after our children who only care about the dogs and the bounce house.  This year, with everyone recovering from sinus infections we're skipping the festival.  So I've come up with a little top five list in absentia:

The Getaway Girls New Orleans Top Five Reasons Not to Take a Flesh-Eating Scavenger to the North Texas Irish Festival:

1.  The Cleavage. Attire at the Irish festival is like the Renaissance Faire meets Hooters. You can't take a flesh-eating scavenger to a place chock full of women sporting busty corset tops on full display.  It's like taking someone on Atkins to a cake pop party, and it's just cruel.

2.  The Kilts. For some reason, the Irish festival brings out a bizarre impulse among otherwise normal-looking men to wear kilts without anything underneath.  And I know this because their t-shirts tell me so.  That's right - somebody's dad's walking around with a shirt that says "What's under my kilt? How warm are your hands?" Euwwwww.  Bump into a couple of these guys and you'll be tempted to let your scavenger pal eat one, just to put the silly shirt out of its misery.

3.  The Beer. After you've walked around and seen all the Irish wolfhounds and step-dancing you can stand, you'll want nothing more than a patch of grass and a nice cold Harp.  But flesh-eating scavengers are like children - take your eyes off them for a minute and it's mass destruction.  Sit down with that beer and I guarantee there'll be one less wolfhound on the fair grounds. Just say no.

4.  The Bagpipes.  Little known fact: scavengers hate bagpipes. That impressive-looking line of men in kilts (again, why?) marching down the aisle will drive your flesh-eating friend into a frenzy before you can say Amazing Grace.  

5.  The Plaid. If there's one thing scavengers loathe more than bagpipes, it's plaid.  And you couldn't find more plaid in an L.L. Bean catalog than the North Texas Irish Festival.  Unfortunately, as we've already established, most of it's in kilts.  But there's also plaid skirts, plaid shawls, plaid blankets, plaid ponchos, plaid dog sweaters with wee little plaid dog berets.  That folksy green and black pattern will drive your scavenger into a flesh-eating fashion intervention faster than you can say Project Runway.  Not only will he rip out throats, he'll rip a lot of perfectly good ponchos in the process.  And that's just wasteful.

So - in conclusion, I say either go to the North Texas Irish Festival sans-scavenger or stay at home and get your Gaelic fix watching The Commitments.  Again.

Or you could watch my video or buy my book, The Getaway Girls: A New Orleans Tale of Monsters, Mayhem and Moms.  I can guarantee there won't be any plaid.