My Cardboard Balcony

Keyhole by Belinda Roddie   Reggie Hopper could see the keyhole located in everyone's stomach. Not heart. Not head. Stomach. It was pulsing with something. Not liquid. Not quite solid, either. But pulsing. And when she gazed upon a person shrouded in [rage, sorrow, guilt, malice, envy, judgment, coldness, scrutiny, vengeance, pain] she could take a key and twist it so that the pulsing goodness could pump blood into their eyes. What they did with it was not up to her.

Epiphanies don't always mean redemption. They don't always mean your life is saved or at least will get somewhat better. Irishmen with their epiphanies that they're paralyzed in Irish woes. Yeah, lovely to know, but now what? The ever pervading question. When you're lying on your bed and your date's just left, and you've counted all the diamonds in the chandelier, and the thought remains: Now what?