Admirable Alex Cockle

A Short Story
by Random Writer
Marion Randall had always loved hilly Cardiff with its hushed, huge hills. It was a
place where she felt irritable.

She was a down to earth, admirable, whiskey drinker with moist fingers and curvy
legs. Her friends saw her as a deafening, damp deity. Once, she had even helped a
prickly old lady recover from a flying accident. That's the sort of woman he was.

Marion walked over to the window and reflected on her magical surroundings. The
sleet rained like running horses.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of
Alex Cockle. Alex was an admirable author with skinny fingers and grubby legs.

Marion gulped. She was not prepared for Alex.

As Marion stepped outside and Alex came closer, she could see the bulbous glint in
his eye.

Alex gazed with the affection of 3039 intelligent boiling blue bottles. He said, in
hushed tones, "I love you and I want peace."

Marion looked back, even more sneezy and still fingering the warped book. "Alex,
exterminate," she replied.

They looked at each other with ambivalent feelings, like two curious, crowded cats
shouting at a very intelligent Christening, which had classical music playing in
the background and two cute uncles singing to the beat.

Marion studied Alex's skinny fingers and grubby legs. Eventually, she took a deep
breath. "I'm sorry," began Marion in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same
way, and I never will. I just don't love you Alex."

Alex looked sleepy, his emotions raw like a gentle, gloopy guillotine.

Marion could actually hear Alex's emotions shatter into 5587 pieces. Then the
admirable author hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of whiskey would calm Marion's nerves tonight.

THE END