My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie   "People inevitably get to a point where they believe things can never get worse. As so often happens, people are wrong." He's hovering over a burning trash can as he says this, warming his hands in the ashes. The coat he's wearing was my mother's, muffled with faux fox fur. I gave it to him because it was the only thing I had on me. I was going to donate it to a thrift store. Still, I don't see him get much worse than this. I ask him if death is worse. He shakes his head. He gives a typical answer. I don't know whether I should feel sorry for him or not. On the way home, I stop to get a croissant. It tastes dry instead of buttery, like pastry dust in my mouth. As I clear my throat with coffee, I take a look at the trash bin outside. It's as cold as ice. The beggar has gone off like a fox in faux fur. And I await the downfall. The prompt for this week's Storyteller was provided by "Invictus."

The mystery of friendship, to you, is stronger than the mystery of life sometimes. After all, one day you're smiling, hugging a buddy as a digital camera flashes in your faces. The next day, you're removing cellphone numbers claiming you'll never trust that person again, as her paranoia creeps in like a parasite and she calls the authorities on any perceived "threat." No attempt at peace or compromise: You throw her off-kilter, she sends the cops on you. And then they shake their heads in wonder as you tell them the truth, especially about how she hurt you so badly that you put a razor to your arm for the first time in ten years.