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October 2013, vol 8, no 3

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M.A. Dawson

Porridge without Salt

It was just another expensive hotel. Crisp, white, Egyptian cotton towels all folded the same. No offer of breakfast just directions to the lift. Then past the night porters with their accusing eyes, waiting to change shifts. And after ten years, all she was sure of was that his name was, Gerry, or was it Gerald?

the obedient dog
with its tail between its legs
searching for bones