Spitball Army

I work on the window while the cat chases dried chips of glazing and paint, falling like unexpected Greenies and not to her taste.

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The coming storm whips a plastic bag past me, dancing. “Seen that movie?” I ask her. “Yeah, American Pie!” My inner Ebert cringes.

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They rush with the wind, for cover. “It never rains here,” I divine, pointing out the cloudbank. It drives NNE and leaves us dry.

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The staff clears out the office, joking of its use as a karaoke stage. At night, the cleaning lady waltzes across it with a mop.

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We huddle in air-conditioned offices, escaping into the midday heat on a dash for ice-cold Slushies that melt before we return. – Written by @EdBankson

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Newspaper jumble-ation. Searching for the Sunday crossword key. Sofa, porch swing, beneath the bed. Finally, under the litter box.

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He could shield his garden from heat or cold, but mercurial humans pummeled him unmercifully. So he spent more time pulling weeds. – Written by @Ralphley.

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Monday, returning manager, white layer cake. Friday, retiring supervisor, Italian cream cake. Weekend, 23 pink slips, no cake. – Written by @Ralphley.

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I check the time on my wrist and notice the date. In digital form, it appears a brand on my skin, a match to the one on my memory.

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Having a cat is like living near the beach, she said. The kitty litter gets into everything. – Written by @Ralphley.

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