That image is after Monet. The character depicted is Wataru the Wave-Man. More on him later. For now, here is the weekly plug for a book you can check out on Amazon...
FICTION FACTORY. Welcome to my
mini-self-publishing imprint for short stories running around 30,000 words.
These stories are not collected or bundled with other tales. If you buy WITCHES, you won’t suffer disappointment
in later life by finding WITCHES reheated
for a collection called TALES TO IMPRESS
PALAEONTOLOGISTS. Be thankful for that small mercy.
VAMPIRES.
Crashing parties used to amuse
Vance. He hurled himself into a world of no commitments. When the synthetic
blonde offered more of the same, guided by brusque phone texts, he didn’t see
the harm in another meaningless fling.
“Rule 1. If I text and you are
busy, that’s fine. The rule runs in both directions. No pestering.”
He was okay with that.
“Rule 2. We never attend social
functions. I don’t do weddings, though I will crash parties.”
Suited him, just fine.
“Rule 3. No gifts.”
Saved money.
“Five rules. Rule 4. If we see each
other with strangers, no questions. No introductions to family, friends,
neighbours, colleagues, serial killers…”
Vance had no problem with the fifth
rule. He thought his problems began next day.
There, in red lipstick, she’d left
a mirror message.
WIPE
THIS OFF. STICK TO THE RULES. SEE YOURSELF OUT.
The bar? Reasonable. Didn’t try too
hard to be trendy. He knew no one here – not on a Wednesday night. Vance
watered at the venue on the odd weekend. Open the door on a world without
strings. In.
Scene. The jet minx in front of him
shook hailstones from her bobbed coiffure. Melting pellets bounced off his
heavy coat. By contrast, she appeared to be wearing a black plastic bag for no
protection from the night.
He eyed her tight black jeans.
Painted on. Sheathed legs stopped at bare ankles and shiny stab-me black shoes. Hang about…
37,000 words, plus notes.
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