A brief descent into gimic-dependent short fiction.

Verm fiddled with his jacket, the one she had given him. He waited in the dim light outside the apartment they shared, for the bitch to show up. Surely she would just return her key and go.

A ‘w’ would have been more appropriate than a ‘b’. What right had she to be so upset about the other women? Hadn’t she as much as admitted once that she fancied some guy in IT? And, “it’s the thought that counts” isn’t it?

There she was, coming up the street. “Oh gods,” she’d been crying again. Verm didn’t need this, he just wanted her to give him her key. She paused, smeared some running mascara on a sleeve and composed herself.

“Hello Worm,” she said but he did not exactly understand what she said next. He felt dizzy and everything else felt big, bigger, confusion.

She sniffed and picked up the jacket. Gathering up the other clothes she shook out a small thing and placed it in under a shrub. She went inside to make a cup of tea.

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I am an experienced freelance graphic artist and sometime canoeist. I feel strongly about the quality of professional work and like sitting by a remote lake on a sun-warmed rock.

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