My Cardboard Balcony

Mope O'Clock by Belinda Roddie Every time of day, I feel like crashing in the corner of my lip-drooping, eye-sagging pity party where there's no piñata, just some bottles of cold rum and even colder Kahlua. Don't try to lift me from this sour mood, as unhealthy as candy, because my heart is puckering around the edges, and I feel a figurative baseball bat strike me against the chest over and over and try to tear my intestines apart so children can feast on the last crumbs of my sugary past success.

After the reconstruction of the city hall, the entire council convened in the brand new chambers, where Councilwoman Laura Shieldman cracked open a bottle of sparkling cider and passed around full paper cups for all to enjoy. "No champagne?" her fellow councilman, Jamie Ottoman, jokingly asked, sipping from his new cheap chalice. "Not in this town," Laura reminded him. "Remember the die-hard Christians?"