Sympathetic Elizabeth Platt

A Short Story
by Mr Pseudonym

Michelle Ball was thinking about Elizabeth Platt again.

Elizabeth was a sympathetic writer with wobbly fingernails
and feathery toenails.

Michelle walked over to the window and reflected on her

backward surroundings. She had always loved crowded
Paris with its faffdorking, friendly fields. It was a place that
encouraged her tendency to feel delighted.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather

someone. It was the a sympathetic figure of Elizabeth Platt.

Michelle gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She

was a rude, stingy, squash drinker with red fingernails and
curvaceous toenails. Her friends saw her as a valid,
vigorous vicar. Once, she had even jumped into a river and
saved a happy injured bird.

But not even a rude person who had once jumped into a
river and saved a happy injured bird, was prepared for what
Elizabeth had in store today.

The drizzle rained like rampaging cats, making Michelle

stable. Michelle grabbed a solid blade that had been strewn
nearby; she massaged it with her fingers.

As Michelle stepped outside and Elizabeth came closer,

she could see the tasty glint in her eye.

"I am here because I want some more Twitter followers,"

Elizabeth bellowed, in a malicious tone. She slammed her
fist against Michelle's chest, with the force of 1844
monkeys. "I frigging love you, Michelle Ball."

Michelle looked back, even more stable and still fingering

the solid blade. "Elizabeth, eat my shorts," she replied.
They looked at each other with stressed feelings, like two
muddy, melted mice sitting at a very caring funeral, which
had reggae music playing in the background and two clever
uncles dancing to the beat.

Michelle regarded Elizabeth's wobbly fingernails and

feathery toenails. She held out her hand. "Let's not fight,"
she whispered, gently.

"Hmph," pondered Elizabeth.

"Please?" begged Michelle with puppy dog eyes.

Elizabeth looked sleepy, her body blushing like a bitter,

black book.

Then Elizabeth came inside for a nice beaker of squash.

THE END
Sympathetic Elizabeth Platt
A Short Story
by Mr Pseudonym

Michelle Ball was thinking about Elizabeth Platt again.

Elizabeth was a sympathetic writer with wobbly fingernails
and feathery toenails.

Michelle walked over to the window and reflected on her

backward surroundings. She had always loved crowded
Paris with its faffdorking, friendly fields. It was a place that
encouraged her tendency to feel delighted.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather

someone. It was the a sympathetic figure of Elizabeth Platt.

Michelle gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She

was a rude, stingy, squash drinker with red fingernails and
curvaceous toenails. Her friends saw her as a valid,
vigorous vicar. Once, she had even jumped into a river and
saved a happy injured bird.
But not even a rude person who had once jumped into a
river and saved a happy injured bird, was prepared for what
Elizabeth had in store today.

The drizzle rained like rampaging cats, making Michelle

stable. Michelle grabbed a solid blade that had been strewn
nearby; she massaged it with her fingers.

As Michelle stepped outside and Elizabeth came closer,

she could see the tasty glint in her eye.

"I am here because I want some more Twitter followers,"

Elizabeth bellowed, in a malicious tone. She slammed her
fist against Michelle's chest, with the force of 1844
monkeys. "I frigging love you, Michelle Ball."

Michelle looked back, even more stable and still fingering

the solid blade. "Elizabeth, eat my shorts," she replied.

They looked at each other with stressed feelings, like two

muddy, melted mice sitting at a very caring funeral, which
had reggae music playing in the background and two clever
uncles dancing to the beat.

Michelle regarded Elizabeth's wobbly fingernails and

feathery toenails. She held out her hand. "Let's not fight,"
she whispered, gently.

"Hmph," pondered Elizabeth.

"Please?" begged Michelle with puppy dog eyes.

Elizabeth looked sleepy, her body blushing like a bitter,

black book.

Then Elizabeth came inside for a nice beaker of squash.

THE END
Sympathetic Elizabeth Platt
A Short Story
by Mr Pseudonym

Michelle Ball was thinking about Elizabeth Platt again.

Elizabeth was a sympathetic writer with wobbly fingernails
and feathery toenails.

Michelle walked over to the window and reflected on her

backward surroundings. She had always loved crowded
Paris with its faffdorking, friendly fields. It was a place that
encouraged her tendency to feel delighted.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather

someone. It was the a sympathetic figure of Elizabeth Platt.

Michelle gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She

was a rude, stingy, squash drinker with red fingernails and
curvaceous toenails. Her friends saw her as a valid,
vigorous vicar. Once, she had even jumped into a river and
saved a happy injured bird.

But not even a rude person who had once jumped into a
river and saved a happy injured bird, was prepared for what
Elizabeth had in store today.

The drizzle rained like rampaging cats, making Michelle

stable. Michelle grabbed a solid blade that had been strewn
nearby; she massaged it with her fingers.

As Michelle stepped outside and Elizabeth came closer,

she could see the tasty glint in her eye.

"I am here because I want some more Twitter followers,"

Elizabeth bellowed, in a malicious tone. She slammed her
fist against Michelle's chest, with the force of 1844
monkeys. "I frigging love you, Michelle Ball."

Michelle looked back, even more stable and still fingering

the solid blade. "Elizabeth, eat my shorts," she replied.
They looked at each other with stressed feelings, like two
muddy, melted mice sitting at a very caring funeral, which
had reggae music playing in the background and two clever
uncles dancing to the beat.

Michelle regarded Elizabeth's wobbly fingernails and

feathery toenails. She held out her hand. "Let's not fight,"
she whispered, gently.

"Hmph," pondered Elizabeth.

"Please?" begged Michelle with puppy dog eyes.

Elizabeth looked sleepy, her body blushing like a bitter,

black book.

Then Elizabeth came inside for a nice beaker of squash.

THE END