My Cardboard Balcony

Um by Belinda Roddie When I drew from the vein just right, the blood that came out was green, not red, enough to scare a child from bed with the hue - enough to worry a mother from her pot of stew, with chunks of decaying memories serving as the lumps of sorry pork. I stored a sample of my life in a swan-necked vial, with simply the word "um" inscribed on the masking tape label, right next to "er" and "uh" and "what" that smoked purple, steamed blue, and whispered white in their own personal bathing places. I cannot - will not - explain the method to my science, because it is not science, nor is it sorcery, but pure, never watered down self; stirred in a pewter cauldron, brewed with chili powder, and served garnished with a warning to those more daring to try to understand me or the matter constructed in my bones and turning my marrow a bright, anemic orange.

People like Shana and Malcolm made my week-long stay at my grumpy aunt's house worthwhile. They had been childhood friends of mine, even though the two of them were brother and sister, before they moved into the same neighborhood as my relatives. Now, ten or so years later, we were sitting in their backyard, a fire smoking in the grill. "S'mores, anyone?" Malcolm asked with a slippery smile.