Effing Feline likes ice cream #wewriwa

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I, Effing Feline, like ice cream. Any kind of cream, really. Fresh cream, whipped cream, creme brulee. You see, I am a cat of refined taste. Furthermore, I eat ice cream with panache. Or with chocolate syrup. Always, I keep my feline dignity, unlike this puss, who breaks every rule in the “Cats are cool” handbook.

I’ll show you how I eat after this word from my sponsor, The Saint of Quarantine Island.

It turned out Billy Seaweed didn’t need much saving. He stumbled into his floathouse without her help, and when she told him to get out of his wet clothes, he mumbled that he’d fallen in the chuck lots of times and he didn’t need no crazy white chick telling him what to do. She tried to help his fumbling fingers undo his jacket, but he screamed that he didn’t need her help, and he wasn’t going to undress with her around and she should leave.

“But –”

“Get the fuck out!” Spittle flew from his mouth. His face was a mask of rage and something more — madness.

Janet dashed outside. The door slammed behind her loud enough to echo off the cliff behind the house and something shoe-sized hit the door.

“I’m just trying to help, Billy.”

The other shoe hit the door.

Effing Feline here again. This is how I, Effing Feline eat!

I’d be even daintier if Ed would only buy me a catfork.

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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