Spitball Army

Two hours in, I survey the five laundry piles waiting and the wine rack in the next room. Three sheets to the wash or to the wind?

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We talk about my cats, 15 years old, aged, sickly, how I’ll handle their certain fate. We talk: she, my 77-year-old mother, and I.

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Yardwork day, excavating rocks, daydreaming. He piles the stones into a cairn, pretending the yapping mutt next door lies beneath.

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Time to leave for home, she dashes resistingly into the stacks. An empty shelf is a perfect hideout, next to Hoyle and Lasker.

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Organizing music books: Beatles > Dylan > artists, alphabetically > genres > regions > music biz > anthologies > jazz > classical.

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My social media avatars: Young Me, Drawn Me, my literary ideal. But the damned mirror shows my true place on the entropic timeline.

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He discovered Mom’s strategy when he opened the Lincoln Logs canister in August and found two painted, smelly, rotten Easter eggs.

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My fever spikes. Sister takes me from class to the convent and makes me drink peach nectar from a can. Now I have a stomach ache.

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Face bloodied and ashen, he rests on a lance planted immovably amidst the carnage of adversity. All for an extra $1.50 an hour.

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She, the sustainer of disinherited customs, stands patiently at the Waffle House door, waiting for her husband to open it for her. – Written by @FOFOEOCOCO.

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