Praise for Why Rita Hates Monkeys:

"What is there not to like about Shelley Dayton's Why Rita Hates Monkeys?! There is comedy to die for, adventure to be sought, and of course tons of intrigue and mystery! A funny story to read and enjoy for everyone."

--The Pen and Muse

Excerpt:

The covered porch popped into sight. It was Rita this time who tripped and fell, her leg entwined in…well, twine.

“Leave her! We’ll go back for her corpse later! Hahahaha!” screamed Lynette, a far better loser than winner. She sped by me and pounded to a stop on the covered porch. Elsa was there too, hunched over and pinching her side.

Several feet behind us, Rita sat up in a clearing and pulled at the thick vine. A troop of a dozen black-and-white monkeys swarmed to the front of the trees, lobbing with accuracy and enthusiasm. Rita wore a complete cap of rotten, yellow fruit, and her denim shirt was drenched in juice. Her voice was hoarse from screaming.

Just as she got her foot loose and leapt to her feet, the troop disappeared back into the trees, apparently out of ammo. Just like that, the trees were quiet, except for the soft crick-crick of insects and the constant patter of rain.

One monkey remained, though. He had a white stripe between his eyes, a wide, wiry moustache, and a shiny black body. He grinned, and appeared to be missing his canine teeth. He raised an arm like a trebuchet and shot something at the back of Rita’s head.

Sensing her advantage, Rita turned and searched the lumpy, fruity ground for whatever he had thrown. She lunged courageously for the brown object, and leaned back to throw it.

“Turnabout’s fair play, you little piece of…aaagh!”

She dropped the thing, turned, and fled to the porch. We backed away, and not just from her expression. We smelled like the early stages of wine-making. She stank like a molding compost heap.

“It was a glove!”

Elsa stepped forward an inch and stretched to pat her sticky shoulder. “Yes, dear, sometimes the workers lose things…”

“No!” Rita shouted. She flailed at her hair and picked out a small, white, pinky-looking bone. She flung it on the porch. It clattered to a stop and gleamed in a tiny patch of sunlight.

“The hand was still in it!”

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