Air-Raid

I shot the stomach garbage like pellets from a shotgun.

The Wright Brothers would have been impressed by how long this flying cloud of breakfast hung in the air.

Time froze like someone stuck it in the freezer.

The glob of half digested stew started to make its descent.

A left-over drip fell from my acid stung lips.

Then a nuclear bomb hit. The liquid breakfast hit the ground so hard it made a mushroom cloud. The girls in the surrounding area got drenched by this chemical weapon.

All eyes were on me, the antagonist.

Then the teacher poked her head up from her desk and said, “Don’t wipe your mouth with your sweater.”