The tail end of Chapter Five of The Man on Little Creek Drive. Happy Friday.

Amy tossed and turned in the too-hot quilt, Dan’s words flashing in her brain.

CLICK.

A cool wisp of air blew over Amy’s toes and she stopped moving. The visions from the fight disappeared as she slipped into sleep.

Amy sat a park bench. Huge trees towered overhead, creating a cool green canopy, and the sweet scent of honeysuckle hung heavy in the air.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

A man wearing a leather jacket sat down next to Amy. His face turned slightly away from hers, obscured by chin-length dark curls. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

Amy shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

The man perched on the bench and darted a quick glance at her. “I used to know an Amy Mullins – that wouldn’t be you, would it?”

Taken aback, she scooted slightly away as she asked, “Who wants to know?”

He ducked his head. “A friend of a friend, you could say.” He nodded around the park. “I don’t mean to bother you. Just came out to enjoy this lovely day.”

His voice was warm, friendly, and Amy relaxed. She nodded, enjoying the breeze blowing across her cheek.

“I hear things are a little tricky at your house right now.”

Amy’s face burned. She didn’t know how to reply, but that didn’t seem to bother the man.

“It’s all right, Amy. I know. It’s rough when your husband loses his job and takes it out on you, isn’t it?”

Yes, she thought, and she could tell the man understood.

“You’re hoping someone can tell you what to do, how to help your husband and make everything better again, aren’t you?”

Amy could only nod.

“I wish I could be that someone.” He sighed, running his hands through his hair. Amy noticed that his nails were edged with greenish-black, and an odor drifted from the air around him. Like the spoiled scent of a flower left to rot in a vase.

A shiver ran through her, and she wanted to pull away again, but there wasn’t any room left on the bench to move. And there was something oddly peaceful about him. What did dirty fingernails say about a man anyway? A gardener might have those nails.

“What’s your name?” Amy asked, but the man shook his head.

“You don’t need my name. You need my advice.”

“Fine,” she replied, curious what words of wisdom this odd stranger might have for her. “Go ahead, advise me.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Amy,” he leaned in close, as he tilted his head to the side as if telling her an important secret he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Dan’s weak.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” she protested, choosing to ignore the tiny voice in her head that agreed with the man. “Dan is not weak, and you shouldn’t talk about him like that.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s true, and he isn’t going to improve anytime soon.”

“Sure he will. He’ll find a job and things are going to be back to normal. Better than normal, even.”

The man lowered his head and slowly turned toward her. He reached out a dirty-nailed hand to place over hers. His palm was cool and damp. She didn’t pull her hand away.

“He won’t get better, Amy. He’ll just keep drinking and before you know it, you’ll become your friend Jean, waiting and watching for him to turn violent.”

“No! No, Dan would never hit me.”

The man’s voice was soft and low, but insistent. “Amy, do you really want to take that chance? What about EJ? Is this how you want her to grow up?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Amy snatched her hand back and quickly shifted her body away from his.
She jerked her chin and looked straight ahead at a large live oak tree, staring at the heavy, knotted black branches curling into a cloud of green leaves.

The air felt heavy, earthy and hot. Amy’s eyelids began to close. She was so tired. And his words, despite upsetting
her, had the strangest effect on her; almost hypnotic. All she wanted to do was drift into a long, dark sleep.

The man slid closer, whispering, “I know. I’ve seen it too many times before. I know what you’re going through, Amy. I only want to help you.”

Amy blinked through the dull fog of fatigue, and jumped to her feet. “No. You’re wrong. You have to be.”

“Mama?”

Amy reached out her hand as the man faded from her sight. The park disappeared, and all the lovely trees and quiet green. She was left standing in a carpeted hallway, looking at a ten-year-old girl.

“Mama? Were you sleepwalking?”

Amy felt such an instant wave of sadness, she almost fell over.

“Mama!”

Amy sighed. “Sorry, EJ, I was just… I was just coming out for a glass of water.”

EJ stared up at Amy, her hands on the hips of her purple polka-dot pajamas. “But you always bring water to your room, so –”

“I ran out.” Amy cut her off, patting her daughter’s shoulder. “Good night, EJ.”

“Mama, can you come into our room for a second? I need you to check the closet door.” EJ bit her lip, hoping desperately that Amy would come into the bedroom, check the door, and discover some funny little problem with the lock that made it open and close without anyone touching it.

Amy shook her head. “I need to go back to sleep, EJ. Busy day tomorrow. You, too.”

“But Mama, I really need you to look at this –”

“Go back to bed, EJ!” Amy pointed to the bedroom door. “In your room. Now!” Then Amy headed back down the hall.

EJ watched as her mother disappeared, and she returned to her bed, feeling sick to her stomach. She closed her eyes.

CLICK.

The closet door closed.

Atkins hasn't bested me yet, back to the book! Another quickie from The Man on Little Creek -- work in progress...

“Damn it, Amy, just leave me alone!”

Loud yelling echoed down the hallway, waking me up, sticky and hot. My pajama top was damp with sweat. My heart was beating so fast, for a moment I couldn't place who was hollering; I thought Daddy must be back in the den and had fallen asleep with the TV on too loud.

“Dan, please be quiet, you're gonna wake the kids!” Mama's voice sounded just like it did when she was trying to be calm, but really wasn’t. That’s when I realized it wasn't a movie I was hearing.

“Be quiet, you'll wake the kids!” Daddy fake-whined in a lousy imitation of Mama's voice. “I'm so sick of you trying to blame me for everything, Amy! You just jab, jab, jab, and then pretend you didn't start the argument every time.”

“Dan, come on –” Mama tried, but Daddy cut her off again.

“No, you come on! You know, I almost think you're glad I lost my job just so you can say 'I told you so' and complain about me to your friends!”

“Dan, you cannot honestly believe –”

“Really? Really? You think I can't believe that about you? You love being right. You want me to be the bad guy. Well, I'm done, do you hear me?”

The whole house can hear you, Daddy, I thought, squashing my hands so hard over my ears that my head hurt. I didn't hear what Mama answered but Daddy's stomping through the house and out the garage door was plain as day.

SLAM!

I heard Mama mutter, “For the hundredth time, Dan, don't slam the door!” Then she started to cry. Out loud. My stomach was doing flip flops now and I felt really hot. Should I get out of bed and go find Mama, or should I pretend I hadn't heard a thing?

Her footsteps outside my door made the decision easy and I quickly closed my eyes and curled up on my side. I heard her come into the room and pull the blanket back over Bailey and then she tugged my sheet up onto my shoulders. As she walked back out the door, I opened my eyes and looked across the room at Bailey. His eyes were open, too, and his bottom lip stuck out in an upside down half-moon. I put my finger to my lips and he nodded his head, pulling in his lip and sniffling quietly.

“It's OK, Bailey,” I whispered when I was sure Mama had gone back to her room. “Daddy's just mad 'cause of his job.”

Bailey shook his head, and pointed a chubby, shaking finger at the closet door. I turned to look and saw the tiniest beam of orange light coming from inside and then, with a click so quiet I almost missed it, the door shut.

I turned back to Bailey and we looked at each other for the longest time.

“Monster in our house,” Bailey whispered.

I didn't say a word.

Why Atkins Sucks

I told myself I'd write another chapter this week, but lethargy (ahem, laziness) got in the way. I blame Atkins.

Disclaimer: I am not a dietician. I am not an expert on anything. I only care about losing 5 pounds before my vacation, so that I can gain it all back eating Cuban food in Florida. But that being said, here's why I think (as of Day 5) that Atkins SUCKS:


1. I got tired of meat by dinner on Day 1, and the sight of grilled chicken made me gag. I'm more of a "meat flavors my carbs" kind of girl.

2. Any diet that says a steak is better for me than a whole tomato is stupid.

3. Burgers wrapped in lettuce are impossible to eat. Especially in a movie theater. Especially when taking in a special showing of the 1986 classic, "The Lost Boys" at the Alamo, where they served yummy-sounding vampire-themed cocktails that I had to forgo, because they are "not approved" in Phase I of this lame diet.

4. I'm sick of eggs. Eaten them the first 3 mornings, and then on Day 4 I skipped breakfast because I lost my will to eat another egg.

5. It's not even that I'm craving bread or anything, I just want a damn orange.

6. This must be how people get scurvy. See above.

7. If you can explain to me how pure cream in my coffee is better than milk, you should probably invent something because you are a DAMN GENIUS. Don't get me wrong - I love cream. But come on, how's taking the teaspoon of sugar out of my coffee and replacing the milk with cream possibly a good idea? That sounds like a one-way ticket to cholesterol town.

8. The diet has made me too tired get out of bed early to exercise. I've read all the message boards about how it's just the first few days, and my body is going into withdrawal, blah, blah, blah. But still. Doesn't that seem intrinsically wrong? And the whole "withdrawal" argument, frankly, isn't very convincing. It's not HEROIN folks, it's just bread.

9. Failing a magical transformation over the weekend, I'm thinking if I just cut out grains, rice and potatoes that should work just as well. And not worry about how many tomatoes, veggies or fresh fruit I consume. Or having a glass of wine. Before Christmas, I was following the "glass of wine and handful of pecans for dinner" diet (patent pending) and that seemed pretty effective (sure, it also leads to alcoholism, but sacrifices must be made). I fell off that wagon between Christmas and New Year's and never got back on, but I think it's worth reviving.

10. The only reason I am doing this is to feel cuter in a swimsuit in Florida. The second I get there, I'm eating whatever the hell I want. Because life is too short to go without Cuban bread. :)

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.”