Effing Feline gives thanks

Fart-Fueled Flying Feline, Effing for short, writes the Weekend Writing Warrior / Sunday Snippet posts on Mr. V’s behalf. Click the pic for info.

I, Effing Feline, am looking forward to the U.S. Thanksgiving next Thursday. I can’t wait for that first bite of mince-mouse pie! But my pet human Ed, aka Mr Valentine, insists that the holiday is a time for giving thanks for our blessings, so here goes. I’m thankful for:

Being a cat.
Twiggles the Dog. More specifically, for the fact that Twiggles has no tail, which is something I can always and easily tease her about.
Being such a smart, cuddly, all-around great cat.
Mr V, for giving me this writing gig even if he insists I talk about his writing rather than my beautiful fur.
Being meeee!
Cat food companies.
Being such a superior cat that I’m famous on the Internet —  which I totally deserve, of course.

And now another excerpt from Newborn, Mr V’s newest science fiction romance. The narrator is a clone designed to kill her alien nation’s number one fugitive, then kill herself. When an injury (falling down a scree slope) forces her to outlive her planned lifespan, she flirts with Darby, a bodyguard, and worries whether she’s really a human being.  But at night, the urge to fulfill her bloody Destiny nearly overwhelms her.

As the window of my room darkened toward evening, the need to seek my Destiny grew inside me until I wanted to run, to lash out, to strike. Yet all these outlets were denied my battered body. I needed to do something, though, anything, to assuage the guilt about postponing my Destiny. I rose and paced the room so fast my legs protested.

When I’d felt this compulsion before, I charged down the scree slope. With that warning fresh in my mind—and my bones—I tried to relax despite the impatience harassing me with the rude abrasiveness of a raven, squawking lesser birds away from a delicious rotting salmon. As though in a memory, I could picture that noisy bird of darkness. And not just the raven: a riverbank, fish guts, quarrelsome birds. And overriding everything, like a pink blanket covering an irritable baby, the stench of salmon swimming upstream even as their flesh rotted, compelled by nature to seek their death.

Just as I was compelled by my raucous Destiny.

Effing Feline here again.  In anticipation of the holiday, let me ask:  What about me are you thankful for?

Be sure to visit the other Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday posts.

Newborn

Newborn is a winner in the 2016 Pages From The Heart Contest of the From the Heart Romance Writers.

She was born to kill

Jo Beaverpaw is born fully dressed, well-armed, and impatient to tackle her Destiny. Namely, killing her alien nation’s most wanted fugitive. Her programmers want her to live a few hours, kill, then die.

But something goes wrong.

Darby Lapierre has the thankless task of protecting Jo’s target while the woman heals from gunshot wounds. It’s a hard job, but not impossible for a skillful bodyguard like Darby.

Until, that is, Jo shows up at the private hospital after an accident. Beautiful, naive, young Jo knows nothing about life and love, and wants Darby to teach her. Just until she’s well enough to attack her Destiny, of course.

And then Darby will be in her way . . . .

Find Newborn at:

Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Apple iTunes
Kobo Books
Smashwords