Daisy

Contributed by on 06/08/12

Daisy spun around and faced her accuser.
‘You what?’ she said, through perfectly gritted teeth.

The momentum of her angry headspin meant that her pigtails continued on their circular path for a split second after her face had come to a halt. They bounced playfully as they reached the limit of their journey and sprung back. Even this usually charming phenomenon was terrifying in the context of Daisy.

Her fists clenched, revealing diamond-hard knuckles capable of changing the contours of your cheekbones forever. Each fist was composed of steel-like fingers that, if they were not busy being part of The Punishment Team, could each, individually, strangle you into a black void. Her brow was set and her eyes were unblinking.

She repeated her demand.
‘You what?’

‘I,’ the shopkeeper stuttered, ‘I…’
He pointed at the television. The Holiday Program was on. Dara O’Briain smiled as he smeared factor 75 sun cream over his face and said witty things about Portugal.

‘Spit it out,’ Daisy said, shaking a left hook-in-the-making at him.

‘I said I really like Lisbon this time of year.’

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