I, Effing Feline, want a vacation! I’ve lived in this stupid house all my life. I never go anywhere. Of course, Ed, my pet human, doesn’t go much of anywhere these days either — but at least he’s daydreaming about a trip.
One of his sons has accepted a new job, which means relocating from Amsterdam to Calgary, which is close to some mountains Ed loves. I don’t care about the mountains, but I do have a dream vacation spot. Where is it? I’ll tell you after this word from my sponsor, The Saint of Quarantine Island.
Janet is in Billy Seaweed’s room. He has given up on directing her movements with his game’s joystick, and now he asks her an important question.
“Are you a female?”
“A real female, not just another guy dressing up weird?”
Janet frowned at the thought of anyone, let alone a pirate, wearing her clothes, but she kept her tone light, because this boy had been through a lot. “I’m a real female.”
He hunkered down, looking simultaneously scared and intrigued. “P-prove it.” His gaze settled on her breasts.
She folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t have to prove anything to you, young man! I saved your life.” Immediately, she regretted the outburst. He was young, ill and, like her, probably in need of reassurance.
Here are another seven to finish the scene.
“Okay, I’ll prove it — my way, though, not yours.” Janet cleared her throat and, trying not to feel foolish, started singing in highest soprano range. “Lullaby and good night, with roses bedight. With lilies o’er spread is Billy’s warm bed.”
Billy sank back to the bed, turned on his side, and pulled the blankets over his head.
“Billy,” she said, “I don’t have anywhere to go. May I stay here a few days?”
“Get out of my room,” he said in a muffled voice.
Not out of his house, just his room. That would have to do for an invitation.
Effing Feline here again. My ideal vacation spot is the olive tree I can see out the dining room window. A mess of little lizards climb all over it and they’d be perfect for chasing. Even better, though — there’s a bird feeder hanging from the tree. Yum!
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?