Spitball Army

I have a nice cold. The nose-blowing or sniffing doesn’t bother me much but I have a nice cough with it that is annoying. It makes me hotter to cough.

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They imported pollinating bees to the cucumber fields, hoping for a divine yield. All they got were drops of honeyed manna.

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You said that if I kept on loving you, you would be happy. That’s a load off my mind. I won’t have to worry a bit about your happiness from now on.

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He was also an ornery cat.

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I’m going over to the other island and get my glasses tomorrow. I know I’ll enjoy myself over there and get a good meal.

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She chops off the cucumber tip, salts the stump, and waits for the bitterness to subside, not realizing it’s in the seeds.

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A sack of onions, a block of cheese, and no bowls in the kitchen. She slumps on the floor et elle pleure les larmes salées.

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As for the rest of me, physically I’m O.K. I have a few odds and ends to break up the monotony though. They are: fungus, heat rash, athlete’s foot, crud, and a general breaking out all over.

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Miss Thing leads me to a table, her two-inch claws ten shades of brown, with glitter. My BBQ plate, by comparison, is a flat Sienna.

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This is the day…Christmas Day 1944. My first Christmas out of Indiana and our first Christmas – you in Indiana and me thousands of miles away.

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