I, Effing Feline, neade munny.
Lemme try that again. I need money! The bird who does my typing is on strike and threatening to fly north from Arizona fur the summer unless I pay him more birdseed. I’m a creative geenius but a terrible speller–yet how’s a poor riter to make any money when services cost so much? Typists an editors make more than i do! Sigh.
Last weak I interduced the heroine of Mr. V’s soon-to-be-released Alien Contact for Kid Sisters, as well as Reese, a prince from an alternate Earth she likes but doesn’t luv. Skipping ahead a bit, he slips a huge ring on her finger.
The diamonds flashed and winked in the light, alive with splendor and legend—but she pulled drunkenly at the ring, wanting it off right now. Reese knew American customs well enough to understand the significance of that particular finger.
“Marianne, be my wife,” Reese said, “my princess.”
She opened her mouth, not knowing what she could possibly say.
And she never did find out.
Without warning, the hotel shook from the deafening roar of an explosion. The map crashed to the floor. Plaster dust rained into the air. Marianne’s teeth rattled.
As though blown by a giant’s sneeze, she bounced off the bed and landed hard on her bottom.
Ends with a bang, eh? Be sure to check out the other posts for Science Fiction and Fantasy Saturday and Eight Sentence Sunday. And tell me, quick, how to get Mr. V on the NY Times bestseller list so maybe I can afford to pay the stoopid bird!
Check out other posts by Effing Feline, too