Spitball Army

The $10.90 debt hung on for months, the rain turned their dusty Oklahoma town to mud, but the train always came at the right time.

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The range flashed “F2;” flames burst out the oven door. Under the layer of black molten sugar was a perfect sweet potato casserole.

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We hadn’t eaten Granny’s empanadas in decades, but this year I made them. Each bite of sugary refried beans tasted of childhood.

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At the holiday buffet, “one-trip-to-the-table” Gary inserts turkey slivers inside a lemon pie wedge and jalapeño slices atop that.

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On a crowded Green Line car, I gasped, said Hello. She smiled, said something in French. I desperately wanted to touch her face.

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Call me Fred. Once upon a time, on a dark and stormy night, I struggled writing my bio. All the best opening lines had been taken.

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“Do you view yourself as an independent?” she was asked. “Well, I titled my book after an SNL skit, and they’re kinda indie, so…yeah.”  – Written by @EdBankson.

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The host lambasted his guest for pronouncing Cheney as “chainie” and not “cheenie.” Even so, he said, “you’re more sane then not.” – Written by @Ralphley.  Based on an episode of Hardball with Chris Matthews from 17 November 2009, in which Matthews converses with Republican Party strategist Todd Harris.

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Sunday, he tore the crossword from The Magazine and mailed it to Mom. Tuesday, he realized the article was missing its final page.

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Jeno mewed like a kitten. Bunky barked, doglike. Gail said Boing! Boing! She was a bunny. I sat, still and quiet, as a monk would.

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