Not Roadrunner

A few years ago, editor and I visited Malheur Refuge in remote Southeast Oregon. This was before the infamous “occupation” by a fringe group. We got a visual treat starring a coyote and a pheasant. The coyote would approach the pheasant and the pheasant would fly fifty feet out of range. The coyote would approach again; the pheasant would fly off again. Neither party seemed particularly excited. It seemed they may have played this game regularly. We watched for a few minutes, but we had other things to do, and it appeared that this game could go on for hours.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

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Bobby carted the bin out by the hose and sighed.

This would take a while.

He started loading water guns, blasters, soakers, super soakers, water cannons, squirt guns, water pistols, pump-action blasters, pressurized water guns, and dual water blasters. Then he filled water balloons. What good soldier would go into battle without grenades?

He plugged every aperture, dumped his arsenal in the boat, surveyed the other canoes. Bobby hopped in, skimmed his hand across a super soaker. He imagined the jetting stream–-its range, accuracy. He envisioned drenched shirts and squealing.

No one would find this enjoyable, he cackled, no one.From Guest Contributor Joseph S. Pete

Joseph is an Iraq War veteran, an award-winning journalist, an Indiana University graduate, a book reviewer, and a frequent guest on his local NPR affiliate. He was named the poet laureate of Chicago BaconFest 2016, a feat that Geoffrey Chaucer chump never accomplished. His work has appeared in Chicago Literati, Dogzplot, shufPoetry, The Roaring Muse, Fictitious, The Blue Collar Review, The Five-Two, Lumpen, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Pour Vida, Pulp Modern, Zero Dark Thirty and elsewhere. He once Googled the Iowa Writers' Workshop. True story, believe it or not.