My Cardboard Balcony

The Hound's Pail by Belinda Roddie I was in the kitchen when I heard the coonhounds bay, and when I checked outside, I saw the puppies drinking straight from the tin bucket dangling from a string, and I knew it was Garth's moonshine, transferred from the leaden barrel, and the dogs got dizzy afterward, howling in circles, tongues licking the stars.

Scott was beckoning toward me, holding a bottle of warm champagne in his other hand. I knew it was warm because it was already open and half-empty, and the sun slipped across our shoulders like grease and left us stained with ultra-violet rays and perspiration. I walked toward his car and awkwardly opened the door to the passenger's side. "You been drinking, dude?" He hiccuped and laughed. "Why, you a cop? Gonna cuff me?" "Maybe."