My Cardboard Balcony

Family History by Belinda Roddie My mother shot her brother after he threatened to burn down their father's house so he could open up a pizza parlor. She told me that the sound of a bullet hitting a jawbone is similar to the popping of a kernel of corn, but I didn't think it was so simple. I got my first gun when I was thirteen. The first thing I killed was a squirrel that attacked my sister. She got shots because the little furry bastard might have been rabid. Its tail still hangs from a chain I wear when I go to Papa Max's Tavern on Saturdays. Like it's a dog tag, or a fucking medal of honor. Have you ever pulled a tooth out of a man's mouth with alligator forceps? It's actually rather soothing, so long as he doesn't scream too loudly. When I was younger, I'd have dreams of my teeth getting too loose, like pegs in a rotten plank, and I would pluck them out and wiggle my tongue around the empty spaces until I woke up and mad

There were over a half dozen stencil paintings on the side of the overpass, like they had been inked in by God's trembling, overly zealous hand. Most of them were nonsensical or way too simplistic to give meaning to - a half-eaten circle that almost looked like a mutilated war hero Pacman, a triangle, a face that had no name. The last few, however, were slightly identifiable. They all reminded me of places, and people, that I knew, though I couldn't figure out specifics.