Spitball Army

An industrious woodpecker taps out syncopation to the car stereo piano while windshield sleet drops provide a wintry counterpoint.

[Read more →]

13° F and the view is a fuzzy steel gray, as if a great exhalation hangs over the yard. I rub both eyes. Cataract check: negative.

[Read more →]

He’s tweeting to find out if any of his followers are among the thirty or so in attendance. They’re watching him. His head’s down.

[Read more →]

Asleep, she’s a champion mouser, home protector, rewarded with bottomless saucers of milk. Awake, she stumbles, blind, into walls.

[Read more →]

A 1944 South Seas Christmas brings gifts of beer, cigars and spearmint Wrigley’s. The soldiers celebrate with an Aqua Velva toast.

[Read more →]

She adds more white stuff, stirs, adds more. Result: six bowls of thin, sweet chili. Powdered sugar looks a lot like corn starch.

[Read more →]

Her geometric ‘fro is red, but not redhead. Neon cherry-plum, almost purple. It clashes with her mango lip gloss and ebony skin.

[Read more →]

A woodpecker is harvesting amid the rush of humans escaping the coming snow. Its bugs under bark; our bread and milk.

[Read more →]

Hipster watches from behind his square lenses with a cold espresso. I glide by with a steadicam gaze, then pan wide, with scone.

[Read more →]

At his age, it made sense to distribute the things he’d spent a lifetime collecting. It could take decades. He might not finish.

[Read more →]