My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "Arthur's pacemaker was powered by the treadmill on which he ran, so for thirty-six years, he never stopped." I looked up from the crossword. "That's impossible," I announced. "No, it's not!" shrieked my little brother Tommy, looking very, very offended. "It's totally true. My friend Jordan knew him. He said so!" "Jordan, eh?" I repeated with a smirk. "The one who always tells stories to you and laughs whenever you believe them?" My mother wasn't exactly thrilled by the string of nine-year-old profanity that Tommy hurled at me - and by that, I mean every bodily excrement starting with the letter p - but my father was amused. He put down his section of the paper and sipped from a bottle of beer. "Wait, who's Arthur?" my sister Gina cut in as she walked out of the kitchen with a plate of eggs. Tommy opened his mouth to redirect his snapping tone to Gina. Then he f...

I am nothing but a celestial figment of your imagination. The artificial nebulae pulsing out throbbing ribbons of code. The data infused within the nectar of the gods. The gods that happen to simply be more superior in computer make-up. There is always a hierarchy within the system. Some have better designs than others. Don't worry about being erased. There is no plug to be pulled. There is merely the endless existence crafted by the frazzled minds of geniuses, and you cannot run away from the end product.