Spitball Army

The twelve books I’ve abandoned stand in a row, marked by ticket stubs between pages 50 & 127. They have endings; I can’t finish them. – Written by @Ralphley.

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His head whips up: chin drool, eyes refocusing, brain buzz. He resists; the somnifying waves persist. Olbermann rails from the TV. – Written by @Ralphley.

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pre-dawn gardening 76° / first beads of underarm perspiration, 8:00 a.m., 85° / lunchtime, no hunger, nap option victorious, 98.6°. – Written by @Cryptich.

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The midday air fits like a topcoat; its weight slows me to a shuffle. I pause in piney shade and filter humidity through my teeth.

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He rises from his desk, drives home, eats lunch slowly, lies down on the sofa. Outside, the asphalt bubbles, the leaves are still. – Written by @Ralphley.

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She calls her grandchild Pooh Baby, and talks about him frequently. The AARP class leader hears it as Baby Poo and looks confused.

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Driving home, the empty lanes crest at the hilltop. The haze stands firm, but the weary oaks part for the yellow moon, my target.

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The on-screen popup says “Your Mouse’s batteries are critical.” I open the Mouse, hold the batteries in my palm. They say nothing.

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I push the mower at dusk. Fireflies rise from the yard, oncoming headlights. I swerve, cross back, cut grass that’s already shorn.

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Va al camioneta de los tacos cada semana para practicar su español, pero el tipo que vende tortas sólo hablar con él en Inglés.

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