I, Effing Feline, recall that one of my fans, Teresa, I believe, suggested I take an anger management class. Ridiculous, right? I ask the rest of you, do you think I need such a class?
Now a word from my sponsor, The Saint of Quarantine Island.
Afraid of the island’s madmen, Janet Davis has been hiding in Billy Seaweed’s floathouse, awaiting the arrival of Kendo Carlisle. She learned of her husband’s infidelity right after a speech about Gilford’s creative madmen that he gave to Janet’s charity club. Kendo’s selfless dedication to helping the quarantined unfortunates had inspired a television show that dubbed him the Saint of Gilford Island.
The infidelity, the speech, awe at being in the presence of a saint combined to inspire her to go to Gilford. Here Kendo responds to her hitting him with her wedding picture.
“You seem to like big, dramatic entrances and exits, but really, hello would’ve been okay.” His words implied amusement, but his tight expression didn’t.
She stared at the floor. She’d been afraid she was about to die, and now she wanted to.
His next words startled her: “Still, I’m glad to see you.”
“You are?” Billy echoed. “So you really do know her?”
“Oh yes.” Kendo tossed the picture frame onto her bed.
And a few more to finish the scene:
Her neck and cheeks warm from a blush as she said, “I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me.”
“With your clothes on, you mean?”
Her blush went from warm to blazing. Billy’s eyes widened and his gaze traveled her from neck to knees.
Effing Feline here again. The reason I don’t think I need an anger management class is that I manage my anger just fine, as you can see in this picture of me.
I ask you: is that the roar, are those the fangs, of some who has trouble expressing anger?
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 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?