Spitball Army

I knew the Twitter thing had gotten out of hand when I received a handwritten letter that began with the salutation, “Dear @Fred.”

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The domestic war of words escalated after the foreign group favored his aspirations with the simple honor of calling them “peace.”

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Her thin, papery hands ran over my face. She couldn’t recall my name but recognized the shape of my jaw. So, naturally, we danced.

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Four years ago, he had a tumor removed from beneath his left eye. Now, when he smiles, only his right eye is shadowed by a crease.

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I approach the cashier: “How are you?” “I’m BLESSED!” she chirps, “How was breakfast?” “Best goddam pancakes I ever ate,” I reply.

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The cop car drove away. “I just can’t ever win!” I complained. “What’s this then?” she asked, holding aloft the speeding ticket.

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We stood on the South Rim, watching a lightning storm miles to the north. As we clutched cocoa in our mittens, it began to snow.

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Leaping out of bed, she thinks: Today is the day that I read Kierkegaard. She brews some coffee and sits down to work a Sudoku.

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17…18..19,20! She opens her eyes. Down the hallway, her sister hangs breathlessly in the laundry chute, covered by a bathmat.

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“Subway people won’t look at you,” Dad said, first trip to Boston. As a challenge, he’d extend his lower lip and stare them down.

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