Erica Lucke Dean

"Making the world a better place, one book at a time."

death masquerades as a beautiful butterfly

That’s it. I’m moving out.

I’ve tolerated ghosts, flies, hornets, idiot neighbor kids, crazy ducks, a backed up septic system and the scariest basement ever. But I draw the line at killer moths.

I mean, what the hell? All I wanted to do was to crawl under my covers and read for a while. I didn’t ask for the monster pair of fluttering wings behind my bed, making me jump higher than I have ever in my adult life jumped…or at least higher than I’ve jumped since the last time this happened to me.

After all, it’s not the first time I’ve had this problem.

I’m a moth magnet

And trust me. Last time was bad enough.

There I was, sitting in my living room writing by the backlight of my computer, listening to Edith Piaf on auto loop for almost an hour.  The music had driven all other humans from the room, leaving just me and the dogs. In my peripheral vision, I saw a moth the size of a pigeon bashing himself against my French doors as if he knew just a few more good hits would spring the doors open.  He did this several nights in a row, so I knew he wasn’t giving up.  All I thought about was keeping that door closed.  I check the lock a few times just to be sure.  And seriously, there was no way dogs were going out, because I had no intention of opening the door and letting that giant moth in to suck the life out of me and turn me into another giant moth.  I saw this happen in a movie when I was eight, and it’s never quite left me. 

I should have known better than to move into a scary haunted farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. I mean, I am totally a magnet for these things—the flies, the ghosts, the hornets…not to mention giant bugs in the night, weird strangers in the mall, the occasional creeper online.

You would think at my age I would know better…that I would recognize the power of the flirt.

I never do.  My family tells me it’s my own fault.  I engage people in conversation in the line at the grocery store. The bank.  Or the DMV.  And apparently, you should never engage someone in conversation while in line at the DMV.  They might be there reinstating their license after years of having it revoked for vehicular manslaughter while driving under the influence of some horrible, psychotic substance…they might just have a flashback…or worse! They might still be taking it. And when you walk back to your car an hour or two later, they’ll be waiting in the backseat to take you to their hideaway where they’ll do things to you that you thought only happened in a Saw movie.

Give me a minute while I make sure all the windows and doors are locked. Maybe you should pause here and do the same thing while you’re at it.

I don’t know…I guess I always think I’m being nice. It’s nice to be nice, right? No. Apparently being nice is simply another way of inviting the masses to imagine me in my underwear.  And trust me, I don’t think my husband imagines me in my underwear…they’re usually on inside out. 

That’s just how I roll.

So in an attempt to protect myself from the dangers of the outside world, I go to Twitter.  And here I am, hanging out in the world’s biggest virtual coffee shop…no coffee in hand…talking to writers, and making friends and connections.  I’m having fun, learning new things, and maybe being a little flirty.  Not the bad kind of flirty.  And there is a difference.  I’ve spent hours explaining that difference to my husband over the course of several years.  Sometimes flirty is just friendly.  I’m a friendly flirt.  I mean no harm.  Honest.  But one day, while I’m making my writery connections and new friendships, I meet someone who decides the connection I was making was a love connection.  Eek!  Could this possibly happen to anyone but me? Am I just a magnet for moths and psychos, and online creepers?  What do I do?

I’ll tell you what I do…I run away.  Just like at the DMV.  I lock my Twitter doors up tight and I go to bed, tucking myself tightly under the covers.  So what if it’s four hundred degrees outside and my blankets are filled with fluffy down which basically turns me into a roasted duck?  I stay hidden under the covers until morning.  And when I get up and groggily check my Twitter command center I see no creepy stalkers there.  I see nothing but fun and friendship…writers and agents…and people I like.  So maybe I overreacted, or maybe it was all just a dream caused by a scary moth flitting around my bedroom like the supernatural creeper he is.

My husband says I might just be crazy…but for now, I’ll take my chances.  It’s going to take more than one giant moth to chase off Twitter girl. 

Besides…I have a WIP.

Until the next time…I’ll be fending off creepers and moths alike!

Copyright © 2000-2016, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.