My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie June couldn't stop thinking about what the old man had said to her on the bus. It hadn't been an uttered warning, carried by an ominous wind on the pointed tail of Louisiana. Nor had it been a condemnation of her life or her choices, drawn out from a psychic mind like sticky taffy from a clenched nozzle. No, as the twenty-something woman hopped off the rickety bus and headed toward her car, she remembered that the geezer had said one word alone: Eggs. June had not eaten an egg in over fifteen years. She blamed the Garcia effect, some psychological babble from a battered textbook she had found in the corner of her high school classroom. Last time she had consumed yolk, she had become sick to the point of nearly dying in a Baton Rouge hospital. Eggs, indeed. Did the enigmatic stranger even know? Oh, well. The "end of the world" awaited the lass, as she drove her battered automobile to little Venice. Population: a handful of desperates. Living con

You meant to instill fear into me. Pump silver into my veins until the blood thickened and turned molten and gooey, like metallic porridge, served to no one’s appetite. Make me feel like I was immobile and alone – contorted at an awkward angle for your advantage and enjoyment. But you failed. My blood turned back to gold, and I struck you soundly with my open hand. You toppled into the asphalt with caved in cartilage and punctured pity. I loved hearing your scream.