Spitball Army

A 1944 South Seas Christmas brings gifts of beer, cigars and spearmint Wrigley’s. The soldiers celebrate with an Aqua Velva toast.

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She adds more white stuff, stirs, adds more. Result: six bowls of thin, sweet chili. Powdered sugar looks a lot like corn starch.

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Her geometric ‘fro is red, but not redhead. Neon cherry-plum, almost purple. It clashes with her mango lip gloss and ebony skin.

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A woodpecker is harvesting amid the rush of humans escaping the coming snow. Its bugs under bark; our bread and milk.

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Hipster watches from behind his square lenses with a cold espresso. I glide by with a steadicam gaze, then pan wide, with scone.

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At his age, it made sense to distribute the things he’d spent a lifetime collecting. It could take decades. He might not finish.

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She used to hate foreign films: “Who wants to read a movie?” Now that her hearing is failing, Swedish thrillers are among her favorites.

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The Nielsen book arrives. BEGIN ON THURSDAY, it reads. Today: Saturday. I fill in two days of PBS shows. They could use the money. -Written by @Ralphley

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Thirty-three personal stories rise with a Phoenix, emerge from the metal cocoon, and are embraced by members of the global colony.

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That squirrel’s messed up, staggering in the street, dodging cars. The cowards watch, waiting for the ant poison to finish him.

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