Effing Feline #wewriwa

Photos: DepositPhotos

I, Effing Feline, am sick of quarantine. Oh sure, ‘quarantine’ isn’t what they call it these days, but a rose by any other name, etc. I yearn to romp in the grass, chase the birds that tantalize me, catch some of the lizards that scurry across the patio just out of reach. But I can’t, I can’t!

Grumble grumble, hiss hiss. More on my heartrending dilemma following this word from my sponsor, The Saint of Quarantine Island.

After seeing Billy Seaweed leap off a cliff, our heroine, Janet Davis, tries to explain her reasons for paying the boat driver to smuggle her into the quarantine.

“And I’ve failed not just at writing, but, well, at everything.” Her shoulders rose and fell as she sighed. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a huge failure, just a mediocre one.” She cocked her head to one side. “Does that mean I’m a failure even at failure? Anyway, I’m not a spectacular beauty anymore . . . ”

Embarrassment tugged at her as she realized she was pausing to give him time to disagree. Compliments about her looks had declined over the years, but never disappeared; she’d thought she was fine with that, even welcomed being more than a pretty face — but right now, a compliment would feel fabulous.

He said nothing, just stared at her. Oh, well.

Effing Feline here again. Oh, how I wish the family wasn’t quarantining — though that wouldn’t really help me. I’m a blinking house cat serving a life sentence without parole. Hiss!

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

The Saint of Quarantine Island

I finally have a blurb I’m happy with. Check it out!

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, Janet, 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, find love with the man they call the Saint of Gilford Island. She’d once spent a memorable, though 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, Janet finds pirates who steal everything but the clothes on her back … an arrogant Cambridge scientist who wants to take her 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 a book worth such a risk?

What about true love?


The Saint of Quarantine Island escapes from its pre-sale quarantine on July 1, 2020. Until then, it’s available at a special reduced price. Don’t wait — the price will be rising as surely as Billy Seaweed’s mania.

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