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first published  in:
danse macabre

new wave vomit literary journal



“Please open the door," Nee said to her maid, as the doorbell rang. Nee's blind date had arrived, and surprisingly, he was two minutes early. Nee, however, had never told this prospective lover how obese, and how unattractive, and how hairy, and how old she was.

Didn’t matter to her though; she was expecting Death to arrive at her door. She was 98, after all. It was time.


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