Effing Feline, bank robber? #wewriwa

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I, Effing Feline, know that humans often wear face masks these days. (They always did, of course, but nowadays they aren’t for robbing banks.) But the picture below shows that the fashion fad has gone too hissing far!

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Now a word from my sponsor, The Saint of Quarantine Island.

Afraid of the island’s madmen, Janet has been hiding in Billy Seaweed’s floathouse, awaiting the arrival of Kendo Carlisle, the half-Japanese ‘Saint of Gilford Island.’ Immune to the Fireworks virus, Kendo has spent years helping people on the island. She met him the day she learned of husband’s affair and tried half-heartedly to seduce him — so she’s pretty sure he’ll remember her and, hopefully, help her get settled safely on the island.

When a rowboat ties up to the floathouse, she hides behind her dresses in a closet. She picks up the only weapon in sight — a framed portrait from her wedding. Not much of a weapon, eh?

Through the door and the dresses, she heard Billy say, “She’s in there.”

The little traitor.

After several dark, stuffy moments filled with footsteps and heart-pounds, the closet door swung open. Hangers screeched as Billy pulled them aside.

“Here she is!” the boy said.

Janet pushed past him, wedding picture held high. She caught the man by surprise; he made no attempt to dodge. With a shriek, she raised the picture and slammed it onto his head. The canvas tore and the frame lodged around his shoulders like a square, oversized wedding ring.

The head belonged to Kendo Carlisle.

Effing Feline here again. The only way I’ll ever wear a hissing face mask is if humans wear cat masks, such as these!

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

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The Saint of Quarantine Island

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?

[image error]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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