I, Effing Feline, know a lot is going on in the world right now. How do I know? I follow the news, of course. Don’t you? Of course you do.
You know what the saddest, most disturbing thing in the news is? I’ll tell you after this word from my sponsor, Ed’s upcoming novel, The Saint of Quarantine Island.
We left fourteen-year-old Billy Seaweed atop a cliff, trying to bottle up the mania energy churning inside him. But the supply boat distracts him. It’s two days early, which means it’s carrying not supplies but another crazy white guy (in this case a crazy white woman) who wants to catch fireworks and become a genius.
Here’s how last week’s snippet ended: “Except that in the past, he’d survived the jump from the cliff only by harnessing his explosive burst of energy until the last possible moment. It was hard to leap past the submerged rocks.”
None of the white guys could do it. They all went splat, turning themselves into itty bitty squishy fishy food.
Not him, though, because he was Billy Seaweed, the last of the fucking Mohicans. Sure, he was Kwakiutl, not Mohican, but the principle was the same — last of his tribe, here on Gilford at least. And he could fly, man, fly!
Whooping so loudly he startled the gulls riding the cliff’s updrafts, Billy backed into the bushes clogging the edge of the forest. He was enough in control of himself to brace one leg against a lodgepole pine so he could push off.
“Not dumb,” he shouted. “Not fucking crazy. Not me-ee-ee-ee-ee!”
And one more for good luck.
And with that, he ran as hard as he could for three meters, until suddenly there were no rocks under his feet or moss or kinnikinick or bird-dropping stains, only rain and air and wind, and death, and he was flying through the mist toward the supply raft, shouting and laughing maniacally.
Effing Feline here again. The saddest story on the news these days, by far, is that Fluffy’s owner ran out of tuna and is feeding her dry cat food. Oh, the horror! Is anything going on in the world of human news shows?
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?
Spurred by her husband’s infidelity, a suburban housewife smuggles herself into a wilderness quarantine to catch the new disease. She’s hoping to redeem her empty life by writing a great book . . . and maybe, just maybe, find love with the man called the Saint of Gilford Island. She’d once spent a memorable, though oddly chaste, night with him. Surely he’ll help her.
But a lifetime’s exile on an island of madmen — pirates, a suicidal Indian boy, an arrogant Cambridge scientist, a licentious cult leader, all of them periodically insane then sane and back again — is crueler than any suburban daydream. To survive, she’ll need to adapt.
Adapt how, though? Even if she wins the saint’s love, nothing in her life — or anyone’s life, ever – could possibly prepare her for the unpredictable society these creative madmen have built.
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.