Spitball Army

That song that identifies you will be converted to Muzak 10 months after you die, and will top the 2056 charts in the form of a didgeridoo-theremin duet.

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Postcard is untitled on the front.

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The twelve are stranded in the jury room while the dueling lawyers arm-wrestle. Juror #148 suggests a game of Hangman to pass time.

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I can’t think this morning. I guess I have too good a case of Spring Fever.

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Underfoot, the leafy mat crunches beside an earthtone river where silent sculls glide by, agile mudbugs flailing legs in unison.

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Turn left at the second freckle, go straight on until the hairy mole, then make a right hairpin turn and stop immediately at the half-inch scar.

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I had planned to shave and take a shower last night but I didn’t get it done. It’s all the night nurse’s fault.

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The staff clears out the office, joking of its potential as a karaoke stage. At night, the cleaning lady waltzes across it with a mop.

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Card is titled: “835 A Florida Home Surrounded by Tropical Foliage and Hedge of Flame Vine. 4A-H750.”

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