She held the bouquet of orchids above the trash; of course he sent flowers, probably something rare. From South America. Big. Whoop.
Didn’t matter, it was over anyway. Guy was a bore, said he was an entomologist; major creepo, always going on about bugs all the time.
Well, it was done.
She glanced down at the bouquet, and felt a sharp sting. Burning sensation travelled up her arm.
The bouquet of flowers fell to the ground, petals crushed and broken, and now lying beside her.
Eyes staring wide, she lay there frozen. Her chest seized, limbs felt distant. She watched as the flowers began to move, and a swarm of spiders, furry legs and sharp jaws, emerged from the bouquet, scrambling toward her pretty face.
Liz McAdams is a writer living in the wilds of Canada with her black cats and her laptop (the wifi’s pretty good in the boonies). She loves themes of loss, love, and change – all with a twist of something else entirely.