My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie The figures in the créche began to speak. Not that it was the first time they had done so, either. Many people who passed by the small lit up scene during the Christmas season often talked about hearing voices coming from beneath the wiry canopy, drooping with LED red and blue bulbs and silver tinsel. Of course, those same people would blame the noise on tricksters, probably bored adolescents who wanted to pester the more "respected" elderly citizens of the small town. Tonight, however, was different. The tiny Mexican restaurant that presented the plastic créche was particularly quiet at this hour on Christmas Eve, as the ice began to creep around the corners of the windows panes like Jack Frost's swollen blue-white fingers grasping the evening air in a firm grip. Francisco, the forty-year-old busboy, had stayed late to help Carla clean up after a particularly busy happy hour. Several college students home for the holidays had taken the liberty of c

The dog clamped down on the dead man's ribcage and wouldn't let go. Frank could clearly see the brittle ivory begin to crack and splinter. He tried to wrestle the canine for the mess of cartilage and drooping muscle tendons, but it wasn't happening. His partner, Cameron, very calmly stepped over and whistled softly. The dog's ears fell back. It dropped the skeletal wrist.