My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "I'm sorry, ma'am, but it looks like we switched out your kidneys for some very expensive speakers." The response was nothing but the high-pitched hum of the machines flatlining. Doctor Randall Hemingstein paused. "Ma'am?" He prodded at the IV in her wrist. "Ma'am?" His companion doctor, Patricia Wendt, groaned and slapped herself on the forehead. "Randall," she muttered. "She's dead. You put speakers in her body, and now she's dead." "Oh." Doctor Hemingstein paused and bit his lip. "Ouch. I...wow." "Yeah." Doctor Wendt clicked her tongue. "That'll be awkward to explain to the family." The next morning, Doctor Wendt went downstairs for her custom cup of black coffee and the San Francisco Chronicle. She read the obituary for Missus Rena Costa somberly, up until the final line: "Memorial service will be held on Tu

"Mom!" roared Kenny. "Jessica spilled her juice again!" "Again? But I only just - " "Refilled her cup thirty seconds ago, I know!" Mrs. Sherwood scuttled over to the kitchen. Sure enough, Jessica was sitting on her stool, wide-eyed and mouth agape, as the purple stain continued to spread in an inkblot fashion on the carpet. Mrs. Sherwood sighed. "Honey, what do you have to say for yourself?" "I made a Rorschach test?" the girl replied.