A Short Story
by Anonymous
Harriet Superhalk was thinking about Annie Khan again. Annie was a peculiar writer with squat toes and wobbly elbows.
Harriet walked over to the window and reflected on her deserted surroundings. She had always loved deserted New York with its melted, mammoth mountains. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel jumpy.
Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a peculiar figure of Annie Khan.
Harriet gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a scheming, smart, wine drinker with squat toes and hairy elbows. Her friends saw her as a deadly, dirty dolphin. Once, she had even helped a zany blind person cross the road.
But not even a scheming person who had once helped a zany blind person cross the road, was prepared for what Annie had in store today.
The clouds danced like running giraffes, making Harriet ecstatic. Harriet grabbed a cursed record that had been strewn nearby; she massaged it with her fingers.
As Harriet stepped outside and Annie came closer, she could see the bulbous smile on her face.
"Look Harriet," growled Annie, with a delightful glare that reminded Harriet of peculiar cats. "It's not that I don't love you, but I want justice. You owe me 786 pounds."
Harriet looked back, even more ecstatic and still fingering the cursed record. "Annie, yabba Dabba Doo," she replied.
They looked at each other with stressed feelings, like two grubby, gloopy gerbils swimming at a very hungry birthday party, which had R & B music playing in the background and two brutal uncles bopping to the beat.
Harriet studied Annie's squat toes and wobbly elbows. Eventually, she took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I declared myself bankrupt," explained Harriet. "You will never get your money."
"No!" objected Annie. "You lie!"
"I do not!" retorted Harriet. "Now get your squat toes out of here before I hit you with this cursed record."
Annie looked irritable, her wallet raw like a perfect, powerful piano.
Harriet could actually hear Annie's wallet shatter into 786 pieces. Then the peculiar writer hurried away into the distance.
Not even a glass of wine would calm Harriet's nerves tonight.
THE END