I, Effing Feline, went for a car ride this week — to the vet. Yuck! The visit went fine, though, just a checkup, so what I want to talk about are automobiles. Ed drove me there. Next time I have a checkup, I want to drive myself.
It seems pretty simple, with a few minor modifications. For example, a gas pedal extension so my paws can reach. Also a booster seat so I can see out the windshield. Uh . . . what’s that you say? I’d need a brake pedal extension, too? No way. I ain’t stopping for nothing. Outa my way, everyone!
I wouldn’t be the first cat to drive. I’ll prove it right after this message from my sponsor, The Saint of Quarantine Island.
Janet is still in the supposed saint’s hotel room. She numb because she just learned about her husband’s infidelity — so numb she’s on autopilot, following impulses without thinking. Last week she started unzipping her dress.
She stood facing away from Carlisle, toward the dresser mirror. In the mirror, she watched his reaction to her unexpected move. Was that why she’d done it? To get a reaction?
His face betrayed nothing, but he was male, so he must have had something in mind when he let her come to his room, something more than just a drink of water and soothing her tears and changing his pants. But other than watching the skin revealed by the zipper, he gave no hint what the something was.
Franklin liked extravagant stripteases, the more blatant and explicit the better. She’d always been glad to oblige, glorying in her sexuality and eager to do anything to keep the marital bed hot so he wouldn’t stray.
For that reason, or more likely some other reason entirely, she gave Carlisle several seconds to study the flesh of her back, the thin strap of her bra, and the top of her half-slip. Then she waited a few seconds more. Anticipation was the soul of seduction, a truth she seemed to have been born knowing.
Effing Feline here again. You don’t believe me that cats can drive Well, Ms Skeptical, here’s proof!
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?