Spitball Army

She used to hate foreign films: “Who wants to read a movie?” Now that her hearing is failing, Swedish thrillers are among her favorites.

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The Nielsen book arrives. BEGIN ON THURSDAY, it reads. Today: Saturday. I fill in two days of PBS shows. They could use the money. -Written by @Ralphley

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Thirty-three personal stories rise with a Phoenix, emerge from the metal cocoon, and are embraced by members of the global colony.

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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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The train rolls through at midnight, its horn blasting, “Don’t even dream of getting in my way!” I can’t dream if I can’t sleep.

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Football scores alternate with pre-election polling results in my Twitter feed. Some games end at the buzzer; others never stop.

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With each basement flood, remains of other lives rise from the ground: toy cars, plastic Madonnas, coal chunks. They never leave.

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I. Great Uncle did stunts in silents and shot a man in a cowboy one-reeler, then vanished to the hills like Roy Earle in High Sierra. II. His nephew, my father, could quote all of Fred C. Dobbs’ lines and shared his suspicious tendencies. Perhaps it was genetic. III. Dad called him Hobart Humphrey. I’d […]

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The moon, plugged-in, illuminates the clouds in the dome overhead. I feel it within reach: my own white and gray Truman Show.

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The first cool wisps of Autumn swirl around me in an invigorating embrace. I feel warmer somehow, energized. I must be a lettuce.

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