My Cardboard Balcony

Hard Lemon by Belinda Roddie She had a face like a hard lemon, peel baked over by the summer strokes, the curl of zest vacated for the sake of stale, glass left sour without a sugary tang, grim, grim, grim.

The drought killed thousands of livestock, including the cattle that my father owned, leaving us to pack our minivan and abandon the property. The dust was swarming the day we left, clusters of insectile dirt particles collecting on the tires, as the heat choked us even with the windows down. I propped myself against the seat and ignored the beeping of my little brother's portable gaming console, desperate to see a cloud in the sky.