Spitball Army

We huddle in air-conditioned offices, escaping into the midday heat on a dash for ice-cold Slushies that melt before we return. – Written by @EdBankson

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Newspaper jumble-ation. Searching for the Sunday crossword key. Sofa, porch swing, beneath the bed. Finally, under the litter box.

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He could shield his garden from heat or cold, but mercurial humans pummeled him unmercifully. So he spent more time pulling weeds. – Written by @Ralphley.

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Monday, returning manager, white layer cake. Friday, retiring supervisor, Italian cream cake. Weekend, 23 pink slips, no cake. – Written by @Ralphley.

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I check the time on my wrist and notice the date. In digital form, it appears a brand on my skin, a match to the one on my memory.

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Having a cat is like living near the beach, she said. The kitty litter gets into everything. – Written by @Ralphley.

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The twelve books I’ve abandoned stand in a row, marked by ticket stubs between pages 50 & 127. They have endings; I can’t finish them. – Written by @Ralphley.

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His head whips up: chin drool, eyes refocusing, brain buzz. He resists; the somnifying waves persist. Olbermann rails from the TV. – Written by @Ralphley.

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pre-dawn gardening 76° / first beads of underarm perspiration, 8:00 a.m., 85° / lunchtime, no hunger, nap option victorious, 98.6°. – Written by @Cryptich.

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The midday air fits like a topcoat; its weight slows me to a shuffle. I pause in piney shade and filter humidity through my teeth.

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