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The Dark, Dank Foot Cave

In by Wyatt on August 22, 2010 at 9:40 am

Poles jutted out from moist concrete foundations, electric wires ran above Roger’s head in a spagetti tangle, and floorboards leaned haphazardly against the natural rock. The dankness spoiled his lettuce sandwich. He hated lettuce anyway.

If Henrietta wanted this house to be finished by their anniversary, she’d have to do more than make him lettuce sandwiches. She’d have to stop screwing the construction manager. A bat screeched above his head, somewhere in the black abyss. Their twenty-fifth. And she was giving some squat jerk who smelled like concrete control of her foot cave.

It smelled like sour apples in here.

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  1. Ew. Gross. So so gross. But well-written.

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