Spitball Army

He discovered Mom’s strategy when he opened the Lincoln Logs canister in August and found two painted, smelly, rotten Easter eggs.

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My fever spikes. Sister takes me from class to the convent and makes me drink peach nectar from a can. Now I have a stomach ache.

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Face bloodied and ashen, he rests on a lance planted immovably amidst the carnage of adversity. All for an extra $1.50 an hour.

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She, the sustainer of disinherited customs, stands patiently at the Waffle House door, waiting for her husband to open it for her. – Written by @FOFOEOCOCO.

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In Alabama, we drive to work on the Korean War Memorial Highway, replete with ruts and debris to simulate the experience.

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Huddled in a jackdaw congregation beneath the overpass, they clutched their spoils in black plastic bags within the ravenous dark.

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Spring comes: I break out the rock & roll CDs. The wintry duets of scratchy gamba and wheezy pump organ go to the bottom shelf.

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I’d sold her dozens of classical CDs, so she invited me. But the duo of scratchy gamba and wheezy pump organ set my teeth on edge.

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The duo of scratchy gamba and wheezy pump organ droned on, proving the rumor to indeed be true: they really could not read music.

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The duo of scratchy gamba and wheezy pump organ was listened to from his bedroom by our benefactor, keeping time on a respirator.

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