I'd like to treat you to a little excerpt from my upcoming novel, entitled These Cities Are Not Golden and published by MasterBooks Ltd.

From Chapter 12, page 114:

When I came in from the barn, I was surprised at the amount of eggs that Leah had left strewn about the kitchen. Apparently she had made good on her promise: to leave a large amount of eggs haphazardly displayed on every possible inch of surface space. There were eggs on top of the toaster, eggs on every misty shelf of the refrigerator, and eggs in the bread box. It gave a whole new meaning to "walking on eggshells", and I felt myself beginning to get frustrated at the whole idea, which was obviously an attempt to upset my already fragile state of mind. After the debacle at the flea market, I was in no mood for silly games. That "leather hat" incident had fouled up my disposition since, and I was still far from the point where it becomes simply a "humorous story" instead of an "emasculating disappointment."

But the honest truth of it was that is wasn't a game for her. True, her obsession had always bordered on madness, but now it was beginning to bubble over into pure insanity. It was enough to give one pause, to make one stop short and give a quick, halting inhale as you survey the scene; you almost lost your balance and try to rapidly compute what you're seeing. A kitchen overflowing with fresh eggs. Like on Easter morning, ten minutes before painting them in pastel yellows and blues and pinks. The implications of her descent into madness were troubling. Perhaps it was her all along, you begin to think to yourself, unfairly ascribing to her a motive for your father's untimely death, that sunken rowboat, or the true reason behind the President's resignation. It doesn't seem to make sense - you try to convince yourself of her obvious innocence - but this woman's behavior was on the verge of becoming simply obscene. Imagine, such a large amount of eggs and no one to eat them.

"What is with this?" I asked, still holding my muddied boots in my hand before lightly setting them on the towel just inside the back porch. She had returned to the kitchen at that moment to retrieve a dishrag.

"What is with what?" she shot back, defensive but trying to sound accusatory. It was obvious she was caught a little off guard. She had finally relaxed from our afore-related conversation about the coming visit from her sister, after I was finally able to convince her that Shelia wasn't stupid, but that I had merely misspoken: she was uneducated but poignantly simple. But upon my entrance through the back door, and when posed a fairly straightforward question, she was quick to return to her defensive posturing, for fear of being conversationally assailed.

"I just meant..." I began, trying to rephrase my words in a gentler manner; "It's just... why are there so many eggs, Leah? Beyond being wholly unnecessary, it's just plain weird. This place is full of eggs," I said, motioning with one hand to the overrun kitchen. "We've no need for this many eggs. You don't even cook eggs."

"Well," she replied, also softening, and one might say imperceptibly succumbing to the notion that she might be losing it after all, "you know how they say you should store up for a rainy day? Or remember when all those folks went crazy around the year 2000, buying cartons of water and canned goods? Like there was going to be some sort of crisis or something? I figured this was just a smart idea, Ross. You never know."

I raised my eyebrows and looked at her quizzically. "You never know what? You're not starting to believe all that mumbo-jumbo about a nuclear war are you? You know that's absolutely ridiculous. The administration just issued a statement discussing the misinformation that has the media has been propagating. We've nothing to fear from those frog-eaters."

I paused, expecting a response, but her subtle and slow nodding only confirmed in me the suspicion that she did believe it, she did believe that Bertrand d'Étienne was capable of pulling the trigger.

"And besides, eggs will never keep that long, Leah. It's just silly."

Her sigh told me it was clear we could never agree on this issue, and I stood for a moment longer, surveying what was left of our blue and yellow kitchen, now barely visible through ovals of off-white. Slowly I walked into the living room and sat down in my chair. The brown stain of chocolate on my cream chair only frustrated me further; I was weary from the past few weeks, and my quick temper was the first outward sign of my inability to cope with what I was slowly realizing what just might be a lost cause.

What did Martin hope to achieve? What was his angle? He had always been such a decent friend to me - I say "decent" because we were never more than acquaintances, but we were always civil and respectful to one another in social situations: at the market, in the monthly town hall meetings, or when we saw each other at Fran's Pit Grill on Thursday evenings. But yet, he all of a sudden seemed to harbor some deep grudge against me. As one does in these situations, I begin to pick at my own brain for a possible explanation for his attempted sabotage of Earth & Grain's economic stability. The company had taken a large hit in the past few weeks due to his loose-lipped "gossip", and I was determined to know what had caused the schism between us. Could Rachel have told him of my backhanded (but still fairly innocent) comment about the ineffectual nature of Martin's relationship with Sherman & Sons? It was merely a jest, and besides, what purpose would it serve Rachel to repeat such a trifle to a near stranger? Whatever the reason, and although I was utterly dumbfounded by Martin's unforgivable actions, I still only had one thing on my mind: eggs. Why did she have so many?