My Cardboard Balcony

Calaban by Belinda Roddie Nothing stings so much as the salt from an old man's staff, pushing you away from tides and forcing you to drink hot imported brine, as your southern hospitality is re-used in jars to be unscrewed only by a magician's hands; to be abused only by a magician's hands.

You eat the wafer given to you by the priest, and suddenly, the altar melts like caramel and you're left gawking at the statue of crucified Jesus as he pulls himself from decorative nails and rears up like some sort of reptilian monster. The noise he makes is like a reptile, too - like a velociraptor. And his arms pull against his cut up chest as his legs jerk about below his loincloth. That was not a normal Eucharist you just ate.