More Monster Monday ... on Wednesday. Another excerpt from The Man on Little Creek Drive:


A strange noise woke me. Metal on metal, like the time Mama’s brakes almost wore out and the mechanic told her if she’d waited one more week to bring in the car, she could have been killed.

I glanced at the clock; 3:30 a.m. I looked toward the closet door, but it was closed. I got up and tiptoed down the hallway.
Daddy was still passed out in the den, but I could hear the noise getting louder. The kitchen light was on, and I peered around the corner.

“Mama?”

She was standing with her back to me, at the back stretch of the counter where she kept the crock pot and the toaster. And the knives.

“Mama?” I repeated, but she didn’t answer. Still wearing a tank top and pajama pants, she must have just gotten out of bed. Her hair twisted around her shoulders like messy brown ropes.

I walked closer. The noise, I realized, was coming from the automatic knife sharpener build into the back of the butcher block, the block that held the sharp knives me and Bailey weren’t allowed to touch.

Who would sharpen knives in the middle of the night? Martha Stewart, maybe, but not Mama.

Something told me to make as much noise as possible as I walked across the cold tile floor. Whatever the reason for early morning kitchen duties, I wasn’t looking to get stabbed by accident if I surprised her. Despite my stomping around, she didn’t seem to notice. Her head cocked at an angle, she stared at the sharpener and she didn’t pay me the least bit of attention.

She held the big knife; the one she used to slice tomatoes, and pressed it to the metal wheel of the stone. The screech made my ears hurt. How could Daddy possibly sleep through this?

“What are you doing?” I finally reached out and tapped her on the back.

My mistake.

She whirled around, holding the knife by its wooden handle out in front of her. The blade was shiny in the bright kitchen light…And about six inches from my gut.

I jumped backwards, waiting for her to say something. But her mouth was closed and her eyes stared right through me, blue and empty.

“Mama, be careful!” I watched as she touched the edge of her finger to the blade, drawing a tiny bubble of blood. She didn’t even blink. She walked past me, holding the blade out at an angle, exactly the way she’d taught me never to walk with something sharp.

I followed her as she headed into the den. Toward Daddy.

“Mama, don’t you want to put that knife away before you hurt somebody?”

She stopped, turned and, this time, she looked in my direction. Not exactly like she was looking at me, but like she’d heard a noise and was trying to find out who made it.

“It’s really late. You should put the knife away and go to bed. You’re working tomorrow, remember?”

Her eye twitched.

Daddy groaned in his sleep.

Wake up, Daddy.

He snored instead, and Mama’s head jerked at the sound. Ignoring me, she took three steps across the carpet.
“MAMA!” I screamed and knocked a vase from the end table, whacking it into the corner of the brick fireplace, where it shattered into a million little green pottery pieces.

“Dan?” Mama glanced down at Daddy, asleep on the couch. Then she saw me and the broken vase.

“EJ! How could you? That was my mother’s. What were you doing?” She started to kneel down, but I pointed to her hand.

“Don’t you want to put that away first?”

Her eyes shifted down, and she gasped at the sight of the knife.

“I don’t…” She stared at me, maybe hoping I could fill her in on what just happened. Yeah, right. She’d never believe me, and she still had a weapon.

“It’s OK, Mama. I’ll clean this up. Just put the knife away. Please?”

Her eyes moved from me to Daddy and back again. She backed out of the room, whispering to herself.

I cleaned up the vase, picking green slivers of pottery from the carpet so Bailey wouldn’t cut his feet in the morning. I hated to break Grandma’s vase, and Mama was going to be way angrier at me tomorrow when she remembered all of this.

Or maybe she wouldn’t remember a thing, I thought, as I heard her crying in the kitchen.

“What’s happening to me?”

If only you knew, Mama. If only you knew.

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.”

Haikus from Corporate America. Because it's Tuesday...

I am so sleepy
Power Point makes my eyes bleed
Oh snap – clip part porn!

My email just crashed
But my internet still works
Hmmm, what’s on Twitter?

My email still down
Oooh, who viewed me on Linkedin?
Mom – stop stalking me

My boss is angry
She is yelling on the phone
But – phew - not at me

Conference calls suck
They make me suicidal
What are we talking about?

I have a deadline
But Pinterest sent me Brad Pitt
They know me so well

I missed my deadline
But I need to check Twitter
Oops, missed it again

Deadline is so screwed
But a Duggar is engaged
Quit distracting me!

Deadline was last week
But LiLo is on Oprah
Am I not human?

This form is boring
Ten bucks nobody reads it
Filled out in Chinese

Turns out I was wrong
Newsletter team not amused
My Mandarin sucks

Thank God it’s Friday
Wait, what? It’s only Thursday?
Well-played, God. Well-played

Call at 3 o’clock
Right now it’s 2:42
Plotting my escape…

I may not like you
But if your kid’s a girl scout?
Yeah, I’ll take thin mints

I talk in questions?
So you? Don’t Know? What I mean?
And nothing? Gets done?

Oh! There’s that weird guy
The one who roams the hallways
His stealth intrigues me

The weird guy is back
He stalks the marketing girl
They speak of yogurt

He looks exotic
I will call him Eskimo
And I will track him

Eskimo walks again
He looks kind of hungover
Does he drink at work?

Eskimo came by
Turns out he does drink at work
And now? So do I

So this isn't Easterish at all, but after wiping key lime pie filling from my hair, I needed a break from the holiday prep. Here's a little something from a book I'm working on...


Amy filled the coffee maker for the next morning and swiped the kitchen counters with a damp rag. She looked around the kitchen one last time before turning off the light. “You coming to bed?” She poked her head into the den, where her husband sat on the couch, hunched over a laptop computer.

Dan shook his head. “Gotta finish this report for tomorrow’s meeting.”
Amy walked over to her husband and kissed the short graying hair on the top of his head. “Sounds fun. I’m subbing at Bailey’s school again, so we’ll be up early. ‘Night.”

“Good night,” Dan replied without looking up.

Amy walked down the hall, stopping at her children’s bedroom. She tiptoed inside, picking up stray Matchbox cars from the floor and dropping them into a plastic crate. She bent over EJ and kissed her forehead. Then she bent over Bailey and went to tug the blanket back over his legs, when something hard poked her in the leg.

“What the –” she whispered, staring at a large gray plastic baseball bat Bailey clutched tightly in his hand. The bat stuck out at angle; almost, Amy thought, as if Bailey had intended for it to strike anyone who leaned in close to his bed.

She tried to tug it out of Bailey’s grasp, but his fingers curled even more tightly around the handle. She sighed and pulled the blanket over both her son and the baseball bat, before giving him a quick peck on the forehead.“Sleep tight,” she whispered, then walked back out of the room and closed the door.

Twenty minutes later, Amy was asleep in her own bed, a paperback novel abandoned across her chest.

In the den, Dan turned off his computer, rubbed his eyes and leaned back against the couch. He switched off the lamp and told himself to get up and go to bed, but the couch was so comfortable.

The sun-and-moon clock in EJ and Bailey’s bedroom ticked loudly and slowly into place at twelve ‘o’clock. Outside, a heavy cloud bank drifted over the moon, covering up its yellow light. Inside, the bedroom was silent and dark.

CLICK. The closet door slowly opened.

CLICK. Something shadowy stepped out of the closet.

CLICK. The shadow moved across the bedroom, pausing at Bailey’s bed.

The bedroom door handle began to turn.

From the inside.

CLICK.

Bailey shot up out of bed, and saw the sliver of a tall, dark shadow on the threshold of the door. He opened his mouth, and screamed, “MONSTER!”

The shadow whisked past him so quickly he could see nothing more than blackness as he waved his baseball bat around. Footsteps sounded down the hall as Amy and Dan, running from opposite directions, headed to the bedroom. Just before they reached the room and his sister woke up, Bailey sat alone on his bed and watched in horror as the closet door closed all by itself.

CLICK.

After an hour, Bailey was finally asleep again, his parents having thoroughly searched the closet to prove that no imaginary creatures lurked inside. Amy tiptoed away from his bedside, and returned to her own bed.

“Monsters,” she murmured to herself as she pulled the quilt over her shoulders. Right now the only thing scaring her was the prospect of waking up in a few hours, and she slipped quickly into sleep as her head met the pillow.

“Amy?” A quiet, masculine voice called her name. Amy stirred and sat up in bed. She could feel the presence of someone close by, but she couldn’t see anyone.

“Who’s there?” She peered into the shadows. A faint earthy scent drifted beneath her nose, and the air seemed to shift as if the person who spoke had moved closer.

“A friend,” the voice said again.

“What friend?” Amy knew she must be dreaming, because she wasn’t the least bit afraid, only curious. “This isn’t real, is it?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“What do you mean?” Amy pulled her knees up to her chest and looked from side to side.

Then she saw him.

At the foot of the bed sat a man. His back was toward her, his face toward the door. A tangle of chin-length hair grazed his neck, but beyond that she couldn’t make out much else.

“Why are you looking away from me?” she asked, tilting her head for a better view.

Jerking his head, he let out a low laugh, and Amy caught the faintest glimpse of a pale chin and sharp, white teeth. “Because I don’t want you to see me yet.”

“Oh? Are you hiding something?”

“Maybe. Are you, Amy?” he asked, and the lilt in his voice when he said her name sent a flash of heat across her face. “Are you happy?”

“That’s an odd question,” she replied. “I mean … it’s the middle of the night, who’s happy to be woken up?”

“Thank you.”

She sensed a change, and leaned forward. “Thank you for what? That wasn’t an answer. Of course I’m happy. I’m fine. Or I will be as soon as you turn around –it’s very disconcerting to talk to someone’s back.”

He shook his head. “Are you sure you want to see me? Because once you do, you might be sorry.”

Nervous laughter filled the quiet room. “Well, how bad could you be?”

At the sound of her laughter, he slowly turned his head, hair waving slightly as his chin turned to the side. He swept his arm across the length of the bedcovers and a shaft of moonlight pooled through the window, falling across his hand. It was filthy, splotched with mud, the nails black-encrusted.

She scooted backward, as a chill crept across her arms.

“Who are you, really?”

The dirty, long fingers stroked the fabric of the quilt as he loomed closer, his face still hidden. The odor of something rotten seeped from his skin. “I’m the man of your dreams.”

Amy opened her mouth to scream, but he held up his hand, silencing her. “Shhh. Don’t be afraid. Go back to sleep, Amy. And dream.”

2014 Oscar Menu

It’s almost here; the evening when I sit glued to the television ogling glittering gowns while wearing yoga pants and a Cubs’ t-shirt. Yes, the glamour, the glitz, the glory of Matthew McConaughey in a tuxedo (shirtless, please? “It’d be a whole cooler if you did.”)

It can only be … The Oscars.

Each Academy Awards season, I try to concoct a meal based on the Best Picture nominees. This year, I said I wasn’t going to – too busy, scrambling to finish the manuscript for another novel and wiped out from work/kids/the looming threat of a dog everyone in my family keeps lobbying for … I had all the excuses ready and I just said not this year.

I lied. Credit goes to my husband, who despite LOATHING award shows was appalled when I declared 2014 to be the year I didn’t make my Oscar meal. Declaring, “If I’m going to sit through your stupid 3 hour show, we’re not half-assing it,” he then proceeded to download Nebraska from Netflix and proposed his own Oscar menu:

Captain Phillips: Fish sticks from Long John Silvers
Dallas Buyers Club: steak
Nebraska: corn on the cob
Gravity: Pop rocks
Philomena: English biscuits
12 Years a Slave: “cotton” candy
American Hustle: a wig
Her: blowup doll
The Wolf of Wall Street: fried wolf

I had to admire his ingenuity, but Long John Silvers for the Oscars? Not on my watch, pal. Not to mention the difficulty of obtaining fresh wolf meat in Dallas this time of year. Sure, we could probably pick up a blow-up doll and a wig off Central Expressway, but I’m certainly not dining with one. Though it does have a certain Wolf of Wall Street ring of excess. . .

So, having decided against rubber dinner companions or semi-frozen seafood, I had no choice but to come up with my own Oscar menu. Admittedly, it includes a lot more components I don’t actually have to cook – which I feel is a fitting nod to JLaw’s domestic skills in American Hustle.

Without further ado, may I present the 2014 Oscar Menu:

Starters
Champagne (Wolf of Wall Street)
Samosas (Captain Phillips)
Irish cheddar (Philomena)

Entree
Salad with Dorothy Lynch dressing (Nebraska)
Garlic bread (American Hustle)
Pizza (Her)
Llano Estacado TX cabernet (Dallas Buyers Club)

Dessert
Moon pies (Gravity) & blackberries (12 Years a Slave)

Bon appetit - and keep your fingers crossed for good ol' Matthew Sunday night -- because wouldn't it be awesome if 2 years in a row, the Academy Awards went to guys who got their start in Dazed & Confused?

"You just gotta keep livin' man, L-I-V-I-N."

Yesterday morning at 7:53 a.m., I received an email from Ashley Madison.

The subject line read as follows:
Life is short. Have an affair.

Whoa, y’all. Buy a girl some Starbucks first. After I stopped laughing, I did a little research. For those of you who don’t know, Ashley Madison is a website for people who want to have affairs… but I guess, lack the time or the right contacts to make that happen on their own?

Is that a thing now? Are we so lazy and impersonal as a society we can’t even find people in real life to cheat with? Back when Grandma was a girl, they didn’t have websites. They had the milkman.

And who came up with the name? It sounds like a furniture store. Maybe that’s the point – so spouses don’t see those emails and suspect a steamy rendezvous; they just think you’re just buying a new ottoman.

There were so many things about this email that brought up questions I never knew I had, like how did I get on that email list? Usually when you get on the list for something, it’s through something you purchased or signed up for. So that really got me thinking. Was it the lime green personal organizer I recently purchased on Amazon that revealed an as yet-untapped proclivity for looser morals? Or maybe it was the array of summer sausage I recently purchased from Bavaria Smokehouse. (Feel free to insert your own meat joke here). The last thing I signed up for was the homeowner’s association, and I’m pretty sure if our ‘hood was a hotbed of swingers, the dues would be more than $50.

And what’s with the early roll call, Ash Mad? Is 7:53 am the prime time people make the choice to cheat? Like 11:15 is too close to lunch, and after 8pm people are too busy watching Mad Men? Me, I’d need some coffee before entertaining thoughts of adultery.

Then I opened the email. And laughed even more.

How can a company organize an entire site devoted to illicit relationships, yet not figure out how to send emails that actually work? Here’s what I saw: two broken links. That’s it. Can you imagine the letdown from someone who was actually thrilled to get this email, and possibly would have been swayed into a new lifestyle of cheap motel rooms and late night sexting? (Or whatever it is the kids, ahem, grownups, today are doing).

Heads up, Cheaters: Learn HTML.

DISCLAIMER: This has zero to do with my book, New Orleans, flesh-eating scavengers or anything remotely supernatural. This is the result of me sitting through a particularly nonriveting meeting last week at work. But rest assured, there's suspense and a certain degree of horror. Because conference calls? Pretty scary stuff.

The following is a transcript of a monthly team meeting. The team in Texas is gathered in one conference room, speaking via Webex call to the team in Chicago.

Lisa (on the phone): Blah, blah, blah (introduces meeting). So you need to enter the PDR in the GPS Blue and ACA and DOA …and a bunch of other acronyms everyone pretends to understand.

Random lady in orange sweater sitting in the back of the room: PDR? What’s PDR? Who said that?

Laura: (leaning over table to address Random lady in orange): We’re on mute; they can’t hear you.

Random lady in orange: I’m taking notes for someone, I need to know.

Laura: (sighs, unmutes speaker)

Random lady in orange: What’s PDR?

Laura(muttering): they can’t hear you if you are talking from the back of the room. You need to sit near a speaker.

Random lady in orange: (shouting) WHO SAID THAT? WHAT’S PDR?

Someone on the other end of the phone: random shuffling of papers, no one answer RLIO, who furrows brow.

Elisabeth: blah, blah, blah (talks about entering timesheets)

RLIO: HOW DO YOU SPELL YOUR LAST NAME?

Elisabeth: (surprised) Spells name.

RLIO: WAS THAT A ‘U’?

Laura: (shaking her head): Yes. It was a ‘U’.

Mary: Blah, blah, blah (talks about coding time and expenses).

RLIO: WAS THAT A ‘P’ CODE OR A ‘Z’ CODE? Z LIKE ZEBRA?

Mary (wearily): A ‘Z’ code.

RLIO: HOW DO YOU SPELL YOUR LAST NAME?

Mary: (looking across the room at RLIO, who is sitting roughly twenty feet away): B-A-T

RLIO: WAS THAT AN ‘E’ OR A ‘T’?

Half the people in the room: try not to make eye contact so as to not laugh and incur wrath of RLIO.

RLIO: I’M TAKING NOTES FOR SOMEONE. I NEED TO KNOW

Laura: (gritting teeth) E. It’s an ‘E.’

Mary: So when you enter a P code, please don’t forget your Z code, blah, blah, blah

RLIO: WAS THAT ‘P’ OR ‘Z’? I’M TAKING NOTES.

Mary: (pretends not to hear, stares at the table)

Lisa: Think it’s time to sign off. Thanks everyone.

RLIO: HOW DO YOU SPELL YOUR NAME?

We never did learn the difference between a P code or a Z code, or the true identity of the mysterious RLIO, but rumor has it she works on the web team.

And her contract just expired.

And it isn’t being renewed.

But if I meet her again, I’d like to express my gratitude for her determination and relentless refusal to let her questions go unanswered, even if it meant yelling in the middle of a meeting no one’s really sure she should have been attending in the first place.

Because thanks to her? I can spell everyone’s name.