Spitball Army

Threats of a winter freeze bring rushed early UPS and mail drops. In the balmy summer, the postman delivers at dusk, whistling.

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PRINT SECTION (click on the images to view nearly full size): WEB SECTION (on the Creative Nonfiction website).

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He hands me a personal check with the name Jerry Lee Rewis. Suspicious, I ask for his license. On it, his photo: left eye winking.

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Mom’s film review: The people who work there are so nice. I forgot my sweater. The popcorn was salty. Is Tom Hanks from Boston?

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Mist nestles in the pinetops. The wind sighs in the branches. Nothing happens; the mist just hangs there. Because this is a scene.

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The docs probe the cancer as curious boys might poke a roadkill squirrel to make sure it’s dead. But it could be playing possum.

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Prior to its unveiling, Birmingham’s Four Spirits Memorial is cloaked in white sheets, like the ghosts it represents.

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Sunday, up early, should be power-washing. Instead of waking the block, I walk it: tossing poorly-thrown newspapers onto porches.

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I’m on Twitter, writing about weddings and anniversaries, but the over-arching theme seems to be Facebook.

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Just married! The bride, radiant, poses for photos before the honeymoon begins, pausing briefly to change her name on Facebook.

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