Flora Mill had always loved the quaint courtyard with it’s weak, tame trees. It was an excellent place for her to feel sad peacefully alone.

 

She was a cunning, snotty, drunk with dark eyes and a stout, hairy body. Her paid friends romanticized her rude, snappy ways as her being curt and to the point. Once, she saved a kitten stuck in her tree. That was her saving grace for the rest of her life. Otherwise, she was unbearable at most.

Flora walked over to the bench to reflect on her elegant surroundings. The clouds danced like drunk people only looking to have a fun time on the dance floor and nothing more.

Then Flora saw something in the distance, no, someone. It was Wendy Golora, a tight bodied author with toned arms.

Flora gulped. She was not prepared for Wendy

Flora stepped toward her house as Wendy stormed closer, Flora could see the mad gleam in her eye.

“I am here because I want revenge,” Wendy bellowed, in a brash tone. She pushed her hand against Flora’s chest with all her might. “I hate you, Flora Mill.”

Flora flung back, keeping her pride and her clothing together. She crashed hard on the ground. “Wendy, I wanted to be friends,” she replied.

They looked at each other with remorse feelings. They were like two adventurous, afraid mice hopping from corner to corner at a crowded party looking for food droppings, which had jazz music playing in the background and two friendly cats each hunting to the beat of the mouse.

Flora regarded Wendy’s softened brow and toned arms. She held out her hand. “Let’s not fight,” she whispered, gently.

“Hmph,” pondered Wendy.

“Please?” begged Flora with puppy dog eyes.

Wendy looked defeated, her face blushing like a rosy, bottom kettle.

Then Wendy came inside for a nice glass of wine.

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