Spitball Army

Orange and yellow burst violently from branch tips, with the same fervor as a yank on the bed covers before a long night of sleep.

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Hip-shaking soul was his favorite music for exercising, but it created some odd problems on the treadmill. So he switched to Bach.

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Each time someone swam near it, the rusty bobby pin moved an inch, adding another imprint to the auburn cluster on the tile floor.

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The body pump instructor screamed “Over! Over! Over!” while, through the wall, sweaty men in the weight room panted and grunted.

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The day began with a fruit smoothie and some decaf tea. Halfway into his morning workout, he tasted a curious banana-mint mélange.

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The homeless guy began his solicitation in this way: “Yes, I’m a black man.” I wanted to also point out his very nice wristwatch.

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Granny Brown, neighborhood grouch, rested a broom on her front porch. Halloween night, we crossed the street to avoid her house.

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The juror came to trial each day dressed in a camouflage jacket. True to the fabric, his disposition could not be discerned.

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The cynical academic donned his Oxford cap and spectacles covered with numbered lines. For one night, he was a graduated cylinder.

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It happened again last night. Violin in hand, he arrives late. The Maestro’s dictate: You’ll be soloing in the Debussy concerto.

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