Effing Feline eats garlic #wewriwa

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I, Effing Feline, will never understand humans. Not that I want to, mind you.

My pet human, Ed, mentioned that he’s been getting emails asking him to donate blood. In this cat’s opinion, he’s relatively sane, for a human. But why would any living creature part with its life’s blood? And what kind of monster would ask him to?

OMG. I just figured out what kind of monster! I’ll tell you after this word from my sponsor, The Saint of Quarantine Island.

After young Billy jumps off the cliff, the boat’s driver decides Janet has to haul Billy into the dinghy and row him to his floathouse. Beware a bit of bad language ahead, for Janet has already learned that the driver’s characteristic curse is bugger shit.

Billy didn’t look well, but she could do this — save a life. She’d never come close to doing such a thing, although when she’d donated blood she liked to think she was saving someone. This was different, though. Real and immediate, wooden-oar-pressing-flesh real. She, Janet Davis, was saving someone’s life.

The supply boat had drifted away from the dinghy, but the driver still watched them.

 “What’s your name?” she asked him as she rowed. Her voice was a hollow, empty whisper — some trick of the water and the cliff, no doubt. Either that or fear. Remember me, she wanted to add but didn’t.

 And a few more:

 “Oh, bugger shit, lady.”

Tears came to Janet’s eyes, but she kept rowing. “I wonder what the ‘O’ stands for,” she said to herself. “Omar? Ozymandias?”

And she smiled.

Effing Feline here again. The monster that’s been emailing Ed asking for a blood donation must be a VAMPIRE! They’re real, real! Quick, everybody, chew four cloves of garlic!

Be sure to visit the other great writers in Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday.

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The Saint of Quarantine Island

[image error]Maybe you’ve read about viruses that turn people into zombies. But how about a virus that turns people into madmen, some of whom become creative geniuses?

Spurred by her husband’s infidelity and haunted by abandoned aspirations, a suburban housewife smuggles herself into a wilderness quarantine. By catching the disease, she hopes to write a book that’ll redeem her empty life — and maybe, just maybe, she’ll find love with the man they call the Saint of Gilford Island. She’d once spent a memorable though oddly chaste night with him. Surely he’ll help her build a new life.

But exile on an island of madmen is crueler than any suburban daydream. Instead of a quiet writing retreat, she finds pirates who steal everything but the clothes on her back … an arrogant Cambridge scientist who wants to whisk her away to the London of an alternate Earth … a troubled Indian boy who becomes a surrogate son … a licentious cult leader who kidnaps her.

They’re all periodically insane then sane and back again – and so will she be, if she catches the Fireworks virus. Is writing a book really worth such a risk?

What about true love?

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