I, Effing Feline, dislike television. I don’t hate it, mind you, and there are some good shows on. Pit Bulls and Parolees seemed like it would be interesting, until I learned that the parolees are the ones taking care of the dogs, not dogs who’d been thrown in jail for disturbing the sleep of some poor pussycat or tomcat.
I wonder if the’ll make a movie of my sponsor, The Saint of Gilford Island?
Janet learned of her husband’s infidelity immediately after Kendo gives a speech about Gilford’s creative. She follows him to his hotel room.
The infidelity, the speech, and an overwhelming sense of loss befuddles her. When Kendo asks her what she’s going to do, she says, “Kill myself.” After spilling something in his lap, she has no idea what to do or where to go. So she follows him to his room.
“I’m fine,” she said like a little girl with well-practiced church manners. “I won’t kill anyone.” Except maybe herself.
But she wasn’t a little girl. That epithet swelled in her mind even though she was the one who’d thought it, not him.
She wore a Reformation Chamomile dress with cap sleeves and a thigh slit. It zipped down the back, and she didn’t need Carlisle’s help to unzip it. She might’ve been over the hill, but was still supple enough to reach back and pull the zipper to her waist and an enticing few inches farther.
Why did she do it? No idea.
A wee bit more to finish the scene. They are some really short sentences here!
She hadn’t even realized what she was doing until her arm was tugging the zipper.
Should she stop? Rezip?
Effing Feline here again. You know what the main problem is with television these days? They don’t put out enough heat, as old TVs did, and they’re so narrow a cat can’t get comfortable.
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?