My Cardboard Balcony

There are a lot of things that people take for granted, especially when it comes to their appendages. Two days ago, I badly sprained the ring finger on my right hand while playing basketball at the school I work at. It was me and another teacher against over a dozen boys ranging from 2nd grade to 5th grade, and they could get vicious. In the end, my hand got smacked by the basketball, and I had to ice the painfully bent finger with a frozen juice box as I taught my second grade literacy class. I first thought that I had just jammed my finger, as I had done before while in sports. What I forgot was that a basketball, unlike a dodgeball and a bouncy ball, has a lot more weight, has a tougher exterior, and can really pack a wallop. I went home in extreme pain, my finger practically immobile at that point, and debated going to the doctor the next day. Fortunately, after splinting my finger using half an emory board and some adhesive tape, the pain has significantly lessened to a dull

When the Sailor Became the Sea by Belinda Roddie Riding on the northern shore He honks his horn at swan boats by the dockside One sailor hears the call and tumbles into the sea He thought the sound was a calling from his Deity The driver sees the headline and he meets the sailor’s wife She says he lived a happy life, he loved seagulls, And the ocean was all he talked about each and every day But he showed no need to have an arm around him at night She shows snapshots on the balcony where he smiles Playing Edmund from O’Neil all the while, how it fits his spirit To be one with the sea and not the seat of an automobile The sailor has more worth than the driver ever thought Riding on the northern shore He is silent, wheels tearing up the road And sees the altar where the sacrifice was held When the sailor became the sea The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since February 8th, 2007.

There were three plays to choose from at the theatre, and I wasn't sure of which one to pick. They were all tragicomedies. One by a German guy, one by a French woman, and one by an English Bulldog. And by English Bulldog, I mean some droopy-jowled human who from the picture didn't look either female or male. Rupert tugged at my sleeve impatiently, wanting me to just go into one of the venues, and quickly. We didn't have much time.