I, Effing Feline, have made a horrifying discovery. As a result, I’ll eat nothing except what Ed eats from now on. H was cooking the other day. (He usually cooks; poor Judi!) One ingredient he put in the fry pan was labelled corn syrup. We cats are curious, you know –it’s what killed Uncle Ildephonse — so I read the label. It struck horror into my soul.
Corn syrup is made from corn, not syrup for corn. Raisin bran is made from raisins, not for raisins!
Then I looked the food in my dish. It’s cat food!
More on this horror after this word from my sponsor, The Saint of Quarantine Island.
Janet has finally gotten into Billy’s house, because the door has no lock, which strikes her as uncivilized. When he spots her, he picks up something. Was he about to throw a knife at her?
But instead of throwing the game controller, he held it as though playing, pressing buttons with awkward, frigid movements. He moved the joystick from side to side, guiding a fantasy game piece through imaginary gyrations. When he growled, she realized he expected her to move. She watched the joystick and moved to her left. Then her right. Left, up, down. It was almost fun. When he jerked the joystick to her right too quickly for her to follow, though, she giggled.
Billy scowled. He pressed a button then looked at her. Pressed it again. Looked at her. “You d-didn’t explode.” His teeth were chattering so much he stuttered.
“I’m not very good at exploding.”
Effing Feline here again. I’m on a purring strike until Ed starts feeding me from his own plate. None of this cat food!
Oh no! I had a horrible thought. What if Ed eats cats? What if that’s the reason he’s fattening me up! Help, help, save me!
The Saint of Quarantine Island
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?