There's probably mosquitoes in that puddle

The house we lived in was older than the town that sprung up around it. The wood paneling was bleached a ghostly grey from the sun. Wood rot ate away at the front porch so it sagged in one corner where there was always a sick, brackish smelling puddle. Each morning I would peer out the cracked kitchen window. Each morning the blackberries looked like they were a little closer to the house.

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