Spitball Army

While we chase “horny toads” through the Agua Caliente RV park, the adults cool off by neck-deep immersion in 96° mineral springs.

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The furry flesh breaks under her teeth. She Yum!’s, peach juice running down her chin. The cannibalistic likeness repulses him.

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Cali kid visits Texas family. At the lunch feast, boiled okra squirms in the serving bowl. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

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She doesn’t ask for stories, we just tell them. We think she hears, but can’t know for sure. Her countenance stares, unblinking.

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The flyspeck story celebrating her diminutive childhood friend couldn’t contain the resulting wave of memory. So she wrote three. – Inspired by CNFtweets of @amalchik.

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His desk, pressed against the glass: tree view, steady heat. A snow scene hangs beside it, drifts dabbed with a bottle of Wite-Out.

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I work on the window while the cat chases dried chips of glazing and paint, falling like unexpected Greenies and not to her taste.

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The coming storm whips a plastic bag past me, dancing. “Seen that movie?” I ask her. “Yeah, American Pie!” My inner Ebert cringes.

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They rush with the wind, for cover. “It never rains here,” I divine, pointing out the cloudbank. It drives NNE and leaves us dry.

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

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