My Cardboard Balcony

The Spatula For Pancakes by Belinda Roddie The spatula for pancakes was missing from the utensil drawer. No matter how I sifted and re-sifted through the spoons and rolling pins, I couldn't find the tool necessary for creating a great abundance of delicious, brown flapjacks for everyone in my family to enjoy. Suddenly, I heard a cackle and then some shushing from the cupboard. So I pulled the door open. I saw, beside the corn flakes and bag of pistachios, three kitchen gnomes, using the spatula as a catapult. Its fulcrum was bread, all stale. I just had scrambled eggs instead.

Lieutenant Clemington, in my opinion, held far too much influence on the corporals and privates milling about the barracks. It wasn't sexual allure, and some more chauvinistic soldiers would try to have me believe - it was difficult to make any roughhousing young woman like me trust in their more masculine thought processes. But Clemington was a different story than I was. She held an aura to her that drew in appeal. And it frightened me.