by Oliver Cribbens
I can't go down into the basement anymore. Today it smells like burnt pancakes, yesterday like molding roses, and the day before like fresh squeezed orange juice. This morning I smelled my armpits; they smelled like sea water and the smell reminded me of the corpse in the basement, that special little surprise next to the furnace. Its skin is brown and pale, and the face is blue with gaping shocked eyes. After eating some yam fries I grabbed a stick from outside and poked its head, and it just stank. I only wish someone had told me about him before I bought the place.
Oliver Cribbens lives in San Francisco. This story is based on true events.