Kevin Fish was thinking about Sharon Parkes again. Sharon was a cowardly deity with wide hands and dirty toes.
Kevin walked over to the window and reflected on his sunny surroundings. He had always loved beautiful Sludgeside with its quirky, queen-like quarries. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel delighted.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a cowardly figure of Sharon Parkes.
Kevin gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a loving, tight-fisted, squash drinker with curvy hands and skinny toes. His friends saw him as an ordinary, old-fashioned ogre. Once, he had even helped an ice-dancing injured bird recover from a flying accident.
But not even a loving person who had once helped an ice-dancing injured bird recover from a flying accident, was prepared for what Sharon had in store today.
The sleet rained like talking hamsters, making Kevin cross. Kevin grabbed a solid knife that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.
As Kevin stepped outside and Sharon came closer, he could see the short smile on her face.
“Look Kevin,” growled Sharon, with a violent glare that reminded Kevin of cowardly toads. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want peace. You owe me 3342 gold pieces.”
Kevin looked back, even more cross and still fingering the solid knife. “Sharon, I admire your eyebrows,” he replied.
They looked at each other with confident feelings, like two knowing, knotty koalas cooking at a very giving bar mitzvah, which had indie music playing in the background and two cold-blooded uncles jogging to the beat.
Suddenly, Sharon lunged forward and tried to punch Kevin in the face. Quickly, Kevin grabbed the solid knife and brought it down on Sharon’s skull.
Sharon’s wide hands trembled and her dirty toes wobbled. She looked ecstatic, her wallet raw like a precious, panicky piano.
Then she let out an agonizing groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Sharon Parkes was dead.
Kevin Fish went back inside and cried for three hours.
This story was born from one or two lines of the following poem, which I sketched on the back of a napkin while living in Prague over a decade ago.