Spitball Army

And you thought fiction could be terrifying? The horror. The DC snipers’ Caprice glides roads like some angel of death.

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On break from the bedside watch, he took a weed-eater to the back where the tall weeds were, and the hiding bunny, now cut in two.

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I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying. -Woody Allen

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The promise of a fledgling’s life of flight, extinguished in the crook of a bamboo stem: struggle, entrapment, exhaustion, death. (BlackBerry photo: spitballarmy.com)

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Cat bites my finger as I force-feed her meds. A month later, she dies. Today, I notice the bruise under my nail, moving up and on.

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The bird vaults off my bumper into a triple flip with a double reverse twist. In my rearview, I see its 10-point terminal landing.

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That squirrel’s messed up, staggering in the street, dodging cars. The cowards watch, waiting for the ant poison to finish him.

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Where there were two, one cat now remains. She wanders the house, moaning, finds a towel upon which he once slept and burrows in. – Written by @FOFOEOCOCO.

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We talk about my cats, 15 years old, aged, sickly, how I’ll handle their certain fate. We talk: she, my 77-year-old mother, and I.

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He’s lying on the sidewalk, bundled. Asleep? One eye’s open. Should I nudge him? No need: the ambulance is here to haul him away. – Written by @FOFOEOCOCO.

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