Michelle Randall had always loved dull Cambridge with its light, lazy lakes. It was a place where she felt irritable.
She was a grateful, rude, squash drinker with ugly fingers and ruddy hands. Her friends saw her as a healthy, homeless hero. Once, she had even helped a rich puppy cross the road. That’s the sort of woman he was.
Michelle walked over to the window and reflected on her dull surroundings. The wind blew like thinking rabbits.
Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Wenna Chen. Wenna was a sinister saint with red fingers and curvaceous hands.
Michelle gulped. She was not prepared for Wenna.
As Michelle stepped outside and Wenna came closer, she could see the quickest glint in her eye.
Wenna gazed with the affection of 6993 understanding helpless horses. She said, in hushed tones, “I love you and I want love.”
Michelle looked back, even more confident and still fingering the solid rock. “Wenna, what a spiffing dress,” she replied.
They looked at each other with ambivalent feelings, like two fluttering, faffdorking foxes walking at a very remarkable Halloween party, which had drum and bass music playing in the background and two delightful uncles bopping to the beat.
Suddenly, Wenna lunged forward and tried to punch Michelle in the face. Quickly, Michelle grabbed the solid rock and brought it down on Wenna’s skull.
Wenna’s red fingers trembled and her curvaceous hands wobbled. She looked healthy, her emotions raw like a knowing, kaleidoscopic knife.
Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Wenna Chen was dead.
Michelle Randall went back inside and made herself a nice beaker of squash.THE END