Spitball Army

The tornado drops bits of Tuscaloosa in Birmingham yards: shingles, chunks of insulation, a bank deposit slip, a woman’s swimsuit.

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Electricity courses into the house, waking after a four day nap: the AC vent yawns, ceiling fans stretch, the refrigerator groans.

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He’s been without power for days, complaining. At work, people buy flashlights, tarps and chain saws from him. Now he feels lucky.

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Post-tornado, people shop for replacement storage sheds; clerk diverts their attention from the crumpled one in the parking lot.

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The rocky river bank is dotted with “Do Not Remove Fossils” signs. He slips three stones into his shoe and struggles not to limp.

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At book club, the woman sits in the corner, occasionally punctuating the discussion with an “Mm HMM!” She only came for the pizza.

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Oddly Coincidental: She wheels a buggy full of withered, discounted plants to the checkout and purchases a gallon jug of RoundUp.

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Nature Euthanasia: She wheels a buggy full of withered, discounted plants to the checkout and purchases a gallon jug of RoundUp.

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Nature Torture Porn: She wheels a buggy full of withered, discounted plants to the checkout and purchases a gallon jug of RoundUp.

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The actors fought with such vigor that the rear wall nearly collapsed. Griffith kept cameras rolling, breath held, digits crossed.

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