My Cardboard Balcony

October Heat Wave by Belinda Roddie Two years ago, it began with a makeshift water siphon fan contraption followed by four hard milkshakes (St. Breandan's sweet liqueur, with peanut butter cups ground into a fine deliciousness to boot). One year ago, I can't even recall tempting Helios' chariot like this. But now I long for an off-kilter romanticism like when I was in "Valhalla" scooping vanilla out of a large plastic bucket watching "The Shield" with cold, cold cider, with good friends each night.

Signs of nausea should not be plural. There is one sign of nausea, and that is nausea. Nausea is typically a sign of something else, like a sickness, or heat stroke, or whatever deadly enemy is awaiting behind a T-cell fence, waiting to batter it down. It doesn't matter. My head is like an inflatable beach ball. Bouncing but filled with hot air. Consistent pulse. Never ending.