Copyright © 2016 by R. S. Arrow-Blackay
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A Short Story
by R. S. Arrow-Blackay
Morwenna Jones looked at the tiny gun in her hands and felt angry.
She walked over to the window and reflected on her dull surroundings. She had always loved wild Exeter with its angry, abundant arches. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel angry.
Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Annabelle Blast. Annabelle was a predatory carer with grubby abs and squat eyes.
Morwenna gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a stupid, hungry, brandy drinker with sticky abs and skinny eyes. Her friends saw her as a vivacious, vast volcano. Once, she had even made a cup of tea for a thoughtful baby bird.
But not even a stupid person who had once made a cup of tea for a thoughtful baby bird, was prepared for what Annabelle had in store today.
The clouds danced like eating tortoises, making Morwenna sneezy.
As Morwenna stepped outside and Annabelle came closer, she could see the blushing glint in her eye.
“I am here because I want a fight,” Annabelle bellowed, in a giving tone. She slammed her fist against Morwenna’s chest, with the force of 6461 hamsters. “I frigging love you, Morwenna Jones.”
Morwenna looked back, even more sneezy and still fingering the tiny gun. “Annabelle, I love you,” she replied.
They looked at each other with healthy feelings, like two thankful, tired tortoises eating at a very peculiar funeral, which had R & B music playing in the background and two brave uncles drinking to the beat.
Suddenly, Annabelle lunged forward and tried to punch Morwenna in the face. Quickly, Morwenna grabbed the tiny gun and brought it down on Annabelle’s skull.
Annabelle’s grubby abs trembled and her squat eyes wobbled. She looked puzzled, her body raw like a tired, teeny-tiny teapot.
Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Annabelle Blast was dead.
Morwenna Jones went back inside and made herself a nice glass of brandy.
Two Sympathetic Uncles Drinking to the Beat A Short Story by R. S. Arrow-Blackay Dolly Bond had always loved dirty Moscow with its lonely, light lakes. It was a place where she felt confident. She was a selfish, snooty, squash drinker with brunette legs and ugly arms. Her friends saw her as a foolish, faint friend. Once, she had even helped a crowded toddler recover from a flying accident. That's the sort of woman he was.