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!

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.

I’m taking a break from my book, The Getaway Girls: A New Orleans Tale of Monsters, Mayhem and Moms this week in honor of The Academy Awards.  Because nothing stops a flesh-eating scavenger in his tracks like goddess-styled chiffon and diamond-studded heels.   

The Oscars are to me what the opening day of baseball is to my husband – a holy day of television, food, wine and fashion-ogling. (OK, perhaps the last one is not quite the same for my husband, but you have to admit those Rangers uniforms are striking.  Especially when worn by Nelson Cruz).

I love movies. My husband and I have almost nothing in common – I’m a Democrat, he’s a Republican.  I prefer dark chocolate, he’ll take milk.  He likes sushi, and I think if you’re going to serve me fish the least you could do is cook it.  But we both love Midnight in Paris.  We may argue politics till we’re blue in the face (much like Mel Gibson in that movie all guys love and I can’t ever remember the name? There’s a bunch of fighting and stuff – you know what I mean). 

But we’ll always have movies.

Every year, I concoct a special menu for the Oscars in tribute to the nominees for Best Picture.  Used to be only five films and those were the salad days.  Asian pork chops for Crouching Tiger, no problem. Risotto for Gladiator?  Piece o’ cake. French bread or wine for anything remotely French?  Duh.  (And there’s always something French. Trust me).

But then the Academy went and added a bunch more nominees just to screw with me.  Like, come on – it was bad enough trying to whip up 4 courses with 2 kids underfoot, but now I gotta fix five more? Am I running a buffet?

So I slid downhill.  First I tried only picking the movies I’d actually seen (sorry Academy, you pick 9 movies, I pick which ones are worth precious babysitter time).  Then I picked the ones I liked.  Some years, when the movies are especially dreary, this list got real short. Then there was the year I flat out gave up, made pasta and claimed each ingredient represented a nominated film.  Black pepper was Black Swan.  Weak. 

But no more.  This year, I’m putting on my big girl apron and bringing Oscar back into my kitchen.  Here goes:

The Getaway Girls New Orleans 2013 Oscar Menu

• Beasts of the Southern Wild – Hush puppies (of course!)
• Lincoln  – bourbon. Yes, I am aware Lincoln didn’t actually drink.  But he was born in Kentucky, I grew up in Kentucky – it’s like we’re related.  So I feel entitled to take a certain Bluegrass liberty here.  However, like Lincoln was reported to have done at state dinners, I will only put the glass of bourbon to my mouth without actually drinking any.  And then I’ll have a beer, which probably goes better with hush puppies anyway.
• Argo – Hummus with pita chips.  Because I like hummus and I like Ben Affleck. Match made in heaven, really.
• Zero Dark Thirty – Middle Eastern salad.  Maybe not so historically accurate - for all I know, terrorists might all be on Atkins, but something in this menu needs a vegetable.
• Silver Linings Playbook - South Philly meatballs with rigatoni and vodka sauce. Because really, any excuse for meatballs is good by me.
• Django Unchained – Mississippi peanut butter brownie pie
• Life of Pi – same thing.  But wait, I’m not cheating! The brownie recipe isn’t actually for pie, so I have to do fancy magic to figure out how to adjust the cooking times for a pie pan.  That’s math, people.  Like Pi.  
• Amour – French bread (told you!)
• Les Miserables – Fat Bastard Cabernet.  Because Doomed Prostitute Chardonnay just didn't sound that appealing.  

And hey, if you get bored during the Oscars or just want to tune out a spouse who periodically pops in to say “they’re all fixed!” (which I have heard every year since Russell Crowe didn’t win for A Beautiful Mind), you could always read a little of my book, The Getaway Girls: A New Orleans Tale of Monsters, Mayhem and Moms.  Or watch my video, The Getaway Girls New Orleans Rap.

After seeing that some virus thingy sent an annoying tweet about losing body fat in 2 weeks from my Twitter account, I just wanted to clarify that wasn't me.  In case you don't believe me, may I present:


The Getaway Girls New Orleans Top Five Reasons I would Never Send a Dumb Tweet About Losing Body Fat

1. Seriously?  If I knew the fastest way to lose body fat, I would live on red wine, dark chocolate with sea salt, and spaghetti.  Instead of trying endless diets where I only eat soup.

2. If I knew the fastest way to lose body fat, that’s such a kick-ass nugget of knowledge I’m sure I would find a way to work it into every single thing I wrote.  Like instead of flesh-eating scavengers, maybe my book would feature a fat-sucking incubus.  Which sounds awesome, but Melissa Marr’s already sort of covered that in a terrific short story called “Flesh for Comfort” in the book Faery Tales & Nightmares.  Which I got for Christmas. I love short stories.  Flannery O’Connor and Dorothy Parker rule.

3. I’m not tech-savvy enough to tweet anything with one of those super short “bit.lyz whatever” links.  I’m really not.  It took me two weeks of tweeting before I figured out you could actually put URLs into a tweet because I thought oh man, this is gonna be longer than 140 characters. Two weeks.  Yeah.  Someday I hope to decode Tumblr.  Or at least figure out what the hell it is.

4. A tweet from me at 9 pm on a Saturday?  Please.  At 9 pm on Saturday night I better be tucked under an afghan watching Downtown Abbey or Dallas. (Damn right – in our house, we watch both the big Ds).

5. I hate changing passwords. Because somebody sent out those lame tweets I had to change my password on Twitter and I can barely remember any password, so I. Did. Not. Appreciate. That.  I realize the smart thing would be to keep track of them all somewhere but I don’t, so every time I try to download a song from the iTunes store I am so screwed.  Like, come on Apple – I just want that damn Imagine Dragons song, do I have to give you some bizarre combo of uppercase letters, numbers, and my percentage of body fat?

Which, as we all know, is zero because I know the fastest way to lose body fat.

Happy Sunday!  Check out my book, The Getaway Girls: A New Orleans Tale of Monsters, Mayhem and Moms.  Or my video, The Getaway Girls New Orleans Rap.

Happy Valentine's Day from The Getaway Girls New Orleans!  Nothing says romance like a top five list,  so in case you're considering accepting a date from that gorgeous, potentially murderous dude with an appetite for blood and filthy nails, may I present:

The Getaway Girls New Orleans Top Five Reasons a Flesh-Eating Scavenger is a Bad Valentine

1. Sharp, bloody claws mean someone desperately needs a manicure and it’s not you.  Guess who’s getting the spa certificate this year?

2. If you think getting a table is tough now, wait till your date eats the hostess.  Forget dinner reservations at that cute little bistro you’ve been eyeing – you can’t even risk Red Lobster. That’s okay, you think – lots of couples opt to stay at home on the busiest restaurant night of the year, which brings us to Reason #3 . . . 

3. Nothing kills a romantic meal at home like homicide.  And when you bring home a scavenger, your date thinks you’re on the menu – and that’s not a euphemism for anything sexy unless you’re into having your leg gnawed off.  In which case, I guess we know who doesn’t need a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey this year.

4. Flowers and candy? Think again.  You can’t trust this guy to cross the street without killing someone – you think you can trust him to pick out anything decent for Valentine’s Day?  Please. He’ll show up at your house with a chewed up foot and expect you to ooh and aah like it’s friggin' Godiva.  I’m so over it.

5. And the number one reason a flesh-eating scavenger is a bad valentine – he’s bad in bed.  Sure, he’s hot and hung like a hippo, but seriously?  Necrophilia is so 2012.   

Want more?  Check out my book, The Getaway Girls: A New Orleans Tale of Monsters, Mayhem and Moms or my video for The Getaway Girls New Orleans Rap

Happy Mardi Gras, y’all!  I’ll be honest – I’m having to work at my Mardi Gras mood this morning, looking out at the cold, grey Texas rain with a cup of coffee and a chunk of grocery store king cake.  A girl’s gotta summon a little imagination on a day like this.  And what better way than to dive into my book, The Getaway Girls: A New Orleans Tale of Monsters,Mayhem and Moms?  Sure, Tolstoy it ain’t – but if you’re up for a quick, wild ride through New Orleans with some kickass ladies, a cocky Irish actor, a crew of petulant vampires – and of course, flesh-eating scavengers – then this book’s for you!  It’s a little bloody, a little bawdy – but it’s fun.  Really.   Check out my video if you don't believe me: The Getaway Girls New Orleans Rap.

So to keep up a NOLA spirit, I’m thinking about one of my favorite places in the Big Easy – the Hotel Monteleone. As Syd says, “nothing bad could ever happen to you in the Monteleone.”  Or could it?  Read on . . .

___________

Evie had been tapping furiously at her phone when she noticed a tattooed man standing too close and staring at her through a heavy curtain of black hair. 

He towered over her by at least a foot and his greasy hair fell past his shoulders.  Skin-tight jeans that needed washing clung to his thick legs and he wore a battered leather jacket over a mud-colored t-shirt.  Although Evie couldn’t make out his face, she caught a glimpse of tribal tattoo designs wrapping around his neck, his hands, and presumably the rest of his flesh.

“Can I help you?” Evie asked in a snotty voice.

“No,” he answered in a deep, scratchy grumble, “But I can help you.”

Evie raised her eyebrow.

“I know Carl’s after your friend. And I saw who’s in the bar with you. Declan. That stupid movie star’s telling you crap about how he’s gonna save you, I bet.”  He leaned closer and whispered, “He’s lying.  You should call the cops.”

Evie peered at his face, but still she couldn’t see a thing but the hair. “I’m trying to, but my phone won’t work in this damn lobby.”

The man pointed to a hallway, “You can get service over there.  Come on, I’ll show you.”

Evie hesitated. “Why don’t you just tell me, and I’ll get my friends.”

He shook his head, muttering, “You can’t let Declan know you’re gonna call the cops, he’ll try to stop you.  Come with me now.” He grabbed Evie’s elbow.

She jerked it back out of his grasp. “No offense, but I know you even less than Declan, and he at least has manners.  Thanks, but no thanks.”  She tried to walk past him but suddenly he was pushing her down the hall.

“You gotta come with me.  Call the cops before Declan sees you’re gone.”  He shoved her around a corner and disappeared into a doorway.

She peered into the room, a small windowless enclosure fronted by a wooden counter guarding suitcases and empty wheeled luggage carts.  The creamy white paint peeled just a little and the carpet was green and musty; it was not a room meant to attract attention.  A slight vibration stirred the hot air but the man was nowhere in sight. 

 “Hello?” She called out, and stepped one foot inside the space. She held up her phone and with trembling fingers, pressed the 9 and then 1.

Suddenly, thick arms jerked her off her feet, quickly hustling her behind a stack of bags where her struggling body was hidden from sight.  A hot, hairy hand covered her mouth, and bristly whiskers brushed her cheek as the man whispered, “Shut up!”

Scared, she did as she was told.  The stench of English Leather and stale cigarettes filled her nostrils and then she smelled something fruity.  A Styrofoam cup sloshing with icy red liquid was at her mouth.  “Drink it!” The man ordered, lifting his hand off her lips to yank open her jaw and pour the sickly sweet hurricane down her throat.

“Good girl,” he snarled, as she gagged.  “Drink it all down.”  She gulped as much as she could, until the cup was empty.  The man tossed it to the ground and leaned over her, his jacket shadowing her eyes. She could feel his stubble pressed against her neck as he laughed.  “That should keep you quiet till the others come for you.”

“My  friends?” Evie asked, panicked.

He laughed again, coldly. “Not your friends.  Someone’s looking for you, and they asked me to babysit.  I slipped something nice and strong in that drink, honey. You won’t even know your name by the time they get here.”

Then he shifted so she could see his face.  A thick silver ring pierced his septum and the tattoo Evie had spotted on his neck curved around his cheeks and chin, framing his face in permanent black ink.  He brushed hair back from his forehead and Evie gasped.  His eyes were bright, traffic-signal yellow. The pupils on the colored lenses were narrow feline slits. He stared her without blinking, looking less like a man and more like a shaggy black panther.

“You’re cute,” he said.  “Too bad for you.”  Then he cold-cocked her in the chin and all the lights went out.

__________

Want to read more?  Click here to read the entire first chapter or buy the book.  It's only $4.99, folks - cheaper than a bowl of gumbo!

Wishing you were in New Orleans?  In lieu of a plane ticket, enjoy another excerpt from  my book, The Getaway Girls: A New Orleans Tale of Monsters, Mayhem and Moms . . .  Or if reading's not your thing, check out The Getaway Girls New Orleans Rap.  Cause everything's better with a funky fresh beat, don't you think?
------------

Audrey stared out the window of the streetcar into the blackness of the night.  All she could see were the floodlit lawns of crumbling old mansions amid the twisting branches of live oak trees, but somewhere she knew lurked Carl.  And Chet.  Neither of whom seemed like a good option.

She turned to Declan and asked, “Why can’t I just go to the police?  Or, better yet, what if we all head for the airport and take the next flight out of here?”

Declan leaned forward.  “Well, you’ve got a bit of a problem.  First, what are you gonna tell the police?  Some guy beat you up?  You don’t have anything to show for it, thanks to me.  They’ve got their hands full with gunshots and drug deals so they’ll ignore you.  And the airport is a terrible idea.”

“Why?” Beth asked. “That seems like a really good idea.”

“No.  This time of night, the airport’s dead. With the undead.  The TSA night shift’s all scavengers. They’ll be pullin’ you out of the line for a full body cavity search that you’ll never survive.”

“The TSA’s made up of scavengers?” Syd asked.

“Did you really think they were human?” Declan chuckled before continuing, “Sorry, but I’m about your only friend in this town tonight.  Now, the scavengers around here are pretty lazy, but you’ve pissed off Carl by refusing to just lie down and get killed.  So he’ll be huntin’ you.”

“But,” interjected Evie, “if they’re lazy doesn’t that mean she’s safer?”

Declan shook his head.  “Unfortunately, no.  They’re lazy because so many stupid drunk people come into this town they don’t have to work very hard to find their dinner.  But it doesn’t mean they won’t fight when their meal’s been snatched away.  That’s where I come in.  I’ll try to steer you clear of Carl, and if we can’t avoid him we’ll lure him into an abandoned house and set it on fire and that usually does the trick.”

“Is it that easy?” Syd asked.

“Not really,” Declan answered, somewhat cagily Beth noticed. “But we’ll do our best to outsmart him.  We need to stay in public places till dawn.  Carl does have a reputation around town, so he’ll be discreet.  If we can make it through the night, you’ll probably live.”

“And if we don’t?”  Audrey asked in a small voice.

 “Then let’s hope it’s not Chet,” Declan answered.

At the sight of Audrey’s ashen face, Declan continued in a cheerful tone, “Oh, don’t worry. Carl is much stronger and smarter than Chet, there’s almost no chance Chet’d get you first.  Let’s look on the bright side – you either live, or you get killed by the necrophiliac.”

“Fuck.” Audrey said as she slumped into her seat.

“Ah, why not?” Declan said, standing up and offering his hand to Audrey.  “Might as well get in there before Carl wrecks you.”

Audrey narrowed her eyes.  “You’re disgusting.” She looked at Declan still standing there with a smirk on his face and she spat out, “Oh, sit down!”

“I was kidding again, you know,” Declan retorted as he took his seat, “Just tryin’ to lighten the mood.  But now I see why Carl’s after you,” Declan continued, pointing at Audrey, “he likes them brunette and cranky.”

“Canal Street!”  The conductor’s voice startled the five of them as the streetcar hurtled to a stop.

Syd stood up and motioned toward the steps.  “Come on,” she said, “let’s get off here and go to the Carousel Bar.”

Beth looked at her strangely. “Hello?  That’s in a hotel, too, remember?”

Syd shook her head.  “You heard Declan, we need to stick to public places. The hotel’s packed this weekend with the burlesque festival and the bar’s too small for Carl to hide.  We’ll be safe as kittens.”

 “And they mix an excellent cocktail,” Declan noted. Beth glared at him, so he added, “Not that I’m thirsty or anything.”

Beth followed Syd down the steps into the street as Evie, Declan, and Audrey hurried behind. 

“Plus,” Syd insisted with a confidence she didn’t really feel, “nothing bad could ever happen in the Hotel Montelone.”

A chilly breeze flickered over Audrey’s bare arms as she stumbled down the steps of the streetcar. She stood rooted to the dirty sidewalk as happy tourists stumbled against her on their way to the Quarter.

Declan nudged Audrey. “Come on, let’s go.” When she resisted, he whispered in her ear, “You’ll be fine.” 

Audrey turned around to glare at him.  “No I won’t.   How can you say that?”

Declan shrugged and said, “OK, you’ll be fine, or you’ll die.  Either way, you’ll be somethin’.”

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Want to read more?  Click here to read the entire 1st chapter for free or buy the book for only $4.99 - cheaper than a daiquiri to-go on Bourbon Street!