Spitball Army

He rises from his desk, drives home, eats lunch slowly, lies down on the sofa. Outside, the asphalt bubbles, the leaves are still. – Written by @Ralphley.

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She calls her grandchild Pooh Baby, and talks about him frequently. The AARP class leader hears it as Baby Poo and looks confused.

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Driving home, the empty lanes crest at the hilltop. The haze stands firm, but the weary oaks part for the yellow moon, my target.

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The on-screen popup says “Your Mouse’s batteries are critical.” I open the Mouse, hold the batteries in my palm. They say nothing.

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I push the mower at dusk. Fireflies rise from the yard, oncoming headlights. I swerve, cross back, cut grass that’s already shorn.

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Va al camioneta de los tacos cada semana para practicar su español, pero el tipo que vende tortas sólo hablar con él en Inglés.

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Pre-dawn shuffling amid grass, I disrupt their industry. Mites leap at my calves. Hours later I still feel them, random phantoms.

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Where there were two, one cat now remains. She wanders the house, moaning, finds a towel upon which he once slept and burrows in. – Written by @FOFOEOCOCO.

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I’ve slid syringes into oranges. I inject saline into my cat daily. But when the nurse pulls the needle on me, I turn away in fear.

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A bird, wings spread, hides face-down in the tall grass, apparent victim of a bad landing. Wild onions sprout from its still body.

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