A boy sits on a tree stump, aiming a spitwad through a straw at flies buzzing around wooden rabbit pens in a sunny backyard.

Please create a image generated from this story: Summers in our backyard had a rhythm all their own and, around the rabbit pens, the steady buzz of flies. It couldn’t be helped. The rabbits did their business right through the wire mesh floor, and before long there’d be a soft little mound underneath, perfect for attracting a swarm. One cloudless afternoon, with the air thick and still, inspiration struck. I grabbed a plastic straw from the kitchen drawer, swiped a couple of paper napkins, and made my way to the pens. My throne was an old chopping block, just a chunk of a pine tree we’d cut up after it blew down in a storm, worn smooth by years of use. I tore off a scrap of napkin, popped it into my mouth, and worked it around until it was just the right soggy consistency. With my tongue, I rolled it into a neat little spitwad, slid it into the straw, and drew in a deep breath. A fat, careless fly was sunning itself on the hutch. I took aim, gave a sharp puff, and, thwack! The wad smacked into the wood, just shy of my target. A few more tries and I was hitting my mark like a seasoned sharpshooter. Before long, the rabbit pens bore a patchwork of dried spitwads, each one marking the final resting place of a fly that had been just a little too slow. Word traveled quickly among my friends. By the next week, they were showing up with their own straws and pockets stuffed with napkins. We’d hunker down in the shade, trade boasts, and spend long, golden afternoons competing for the See more