Spitball Army

Approximate playing time: 47 minutes.

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Sunset at the backyard reception: the margarita fountain gurgles a last glass, the ringbearer flings his pillow into the deep end.

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

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Much as his grandmother’s arthritis was a divining rod for storms, he knew the humidity would drop soon after his headache spiked.

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The ski party enters Canada at the wrong checkpoint. Unmarked icy road, 1 a.m.: heater fails. Urine-filled water bottles warm hands.

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1976 NYC school trip. One goes Broadway to see Pacific Overtures. The chaperones crash. The rest get drunk and watch hotel porn.

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Her client’s thinning scalp reveals an asymetric brown spot. He thanks her lavishly for the alert; she considers it job insurance.

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I step into the early dawn, waving my arms furiously to escape the invisible webs sewn overnight, wiping my face, shaking my head.

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The garden is stagnant in drought, but one herb grows like a weed. The neighbors call it “Basil,” as if it is a Holmesian mystery.

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