Monday, May 19, 2014

Who doesn't need a monster on Monday? A little excerpt from The Man on Little Creek Drive...

She sat on a wrought iron chair outside the art gallery, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. The sounds of jazz spilled out from the white stone building. The opening had been a huge success – as she peered inside, she could see her assistant beaming as he counted the paintings sold.

“Excuse me, Amy?” A man walked out of the gallery, right behind her. She turned, and so did he, leaving her with a glimpse of curling black hair slipping from a ponytail and an expensive-looking suit. As he ducked away, Amy caught a flash of sharp white teeth.

“Yes,” Amy answered, slightly irritated by the interruption.

“May I join you for just a moment?”

Amy nodded.

The mystery man pointed toward the gallery. “You arranged this show?”

Amy felt her face flush. “Yes I did. Did you like it?”

The man laughed. “Like? I loved it. I could hardly tear myself away.”

“In that case, let me introduce you to the artist,” Amy started to stand, but the man averted his face again and gestured for her to take her seat.

“Oh,” she gulped, confused by his furtiveness, “I just thought you might like to meet the person responsible, since you enjoyed it so much.”

The man shook his head, and a few more stray strands of hair came loose, falling over snow-pale skin. “I’m not interested in the artist. I came here to admire your work. The skill and the work you poured into arranging this – it’s obvious how gifted you are. Every little detail was perfection.”

Amy was flattered, but a little thrown by the compliment. Was she good at her job? She couldn’t remember. She used to be good at doing things. People told her so, didn’t they?

The man circled around behind her, murmuring, “You should be complimented all the time, Amy. You were so smart, so clever. Talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted.”

Amy peered at him, and stepped closer. “Who are you? And what do you mean, wasted? Do we know each other?”

The man deftly stepped to the side and began to walk away. But not before Amy reached out, grabbing the soft fabric of his suit jacket. He stopped and turned partially, a pointy white chin and straight nose visible in profile. Then he twisted his head further, his neck swiveling in a movement that looked almost unnatural, and just for a moment, he raised his eyes.

They were red, almost glowing through the tangled strands of black hair falling across his face.

Like headlights in a dark forest.

“Oh, I know you, Amy.”

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