Spitball Army

She bundles the kids and sends them out to clean the yard. “Bag them one leaf at a time.” She’s just bought 23 minutes of sanity.

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The last sight leaving Alabama on I-20: a quaint red barn. The first sight upon entering Alabama: a run-down lean-to, peeling red paint, near collapse.

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The toy gun from a Tijuana cart gets its cork removed on the long ride home. He sits behind Mom in the car, taunting: “Pop! Pop!”

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The front of the queue is beyond his sight. He pulls the parka tighter, focusing on the steam rising from the bald head before him.

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Approximate playing time: 47 minutes.

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Sunset at the backyard reception: the margarita fountain gurgles a last glass, the ringbearer flings his pillow into the deep end.

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The twelve are stranded in the jury room while the dueling lawyers arm-wrestle. Juror #148 suggests a game of Hangman to pass time.

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Underfoot, the leafy mat crunches beside an earthtone river where silent sculls glide by, agile mudbugs flailing legs in unison.

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Much as his grandmother’s arthritis was a divining rod for storms, he knew the humidity would drop soon after his headache spiked.

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The ski party enters Canada at the wrong checkpoint. Unmarked icy road, 1 a.m.: heater fails. Urine-filled water bottles warm hands.

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