I, Effing Feline, dislike furballs. Why do I tell you this now? Because in North America, we have a long weekend for two different holidays. Labour Day and Labor Day.
Ed, my pet human bought steaks for the first time forever with the intention of grilling them outside. I don’t like that. The grill gets too hot, and I’m wearing a fur coat. Anyway, the only real celebration I’m aware of is eating and overeating.
What does that have to do with furballs? I’ll tell you after this commercial from my sponsor, The Saint of Gilford Island.
Janet 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, and an overwhelming sense of loss befuddles her. After spilling something in his lap, she has no idea what to do. So she follows him to his room.
He got her a bottle of water from his room’s minifridge to rinse away the taste. Scotch might’ve been more appropriate—that was what Franklin would’ve offered. The innocuous bottle in her hand was more evidence this man was a saint.
While he changed in his washroom, she stood by the dresser. Why? She should apologize again then leave. He couldn’t want her around. What she’d done to him was beneath contempt, even though he hadn’t said a word of censure.
He came out wearing jeans and t-shirt with an unfamiliar First Nations design; from Canada, she supposed.
He noticed she hadn’t opened the water bottle, so he opened it for her. As she washed away the vile aftertaste, he asked if there was anything else he could do for her.
A wee bit more to finish the scene:
“No, thank you.”
He asked her what she was going to do. She had a hard time concentrating on his .
“I don’t know. Kill Franklin?”
He took her seriously and protested, so she laughed. It was more of a choked bark, actually.
Effing Feline here again. Consider yourself warned: if you overeat, you’re tummy will get the human equivalent of a furball!
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?