My Cardboard Balcony

The Parlor by Belinda Roddie trophy antlers hanging from the ceiling fan they are as tall as sycamore trees and just as full he plucks a feather from his warm wool cap places it in a small groove where branch meets potential blossom "ain't they a beaut?" coughing whiskey like fine powder rouge across the bearskin rug

There were thorns growing out of his head instead of horns. Bristly, tipped red and angry. They snagged onto the leaves of low trees and sent shrieking branches toppling down into the dirt. He made no move to trim them. He could have used a fine soil and seed, a little fresh water, to kill the thorns and have irises or petunias grow from his crown instead. Instead, he sat on a rock and waited for the thorns to grow from all parts of him. He waited for them to choke him.