My Cardboard Balcony

June Struck Me Like A Drum by Belinda Roddie June struck me like a drum, hard, and I bowled over, feet kicking upward, scrambling to regain balance. She tried to hit me yet again, but I moved far too quickly. You stood by the kitchen, frozen, jaw half-dropped, as the aggression, warped against her flesh, propelled June forward in her great assault against me, for the sake of "recompense." I didn't want to strike her back. I could not do it. She was far too gone to see what violence she was now succumbing to, how much she was severely hurting me. I was the percussion until I ran from her, the pain and time turning to sand.

There were three employees being considered for the monthly title, which to me proved to be entirely insignificant save for the 10% discount they would receive on anything they bought for themselves in the store. But none of the workers at this place ever wanted to shop here. We had grown tired of the same products, plastic-coated trinkets, and random sports-themed souvenirs. I even made it a point not to buy a DVD from the place.