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Fiction Foundry 32

Next to the doorway, a small ugly crater pock-marked the dry wall.  A conspicuously dust-free circle on the pastor's desk marked the void where his souvenir ceramic lamp from the Holy Land had rested for as long as Mike could remember.  The conclusion was pretty obvious:  the lamp had been slung across the room (apparently at Mike's head) with such force that it left a hole in the wall, and its remains now littered the floor.  

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