My Cardboard Balcony

Tankard Cake by Belinda Roddie I baked a cake in a tankard today, all steeped in molasses so the sugar swelled up all my pores as I drank the dessert while it split down the middle and oozed sweetness and clung to my lips. At my gig in the local bar, I tried making the cake again with whipped cream foam and syrup and served it, but it wasn't a hit without a little Irish cream, and it was impossible to serve on tap.

After a brisk, clean aired walk, I returned to my house only to find that my microwave was missing. The television set had not been touched. Nor had my laptop been swiped or my music players confiscated. No, out of all the things to steal - jewelry, clothes, even spare change - some bastard swiped the thing responsible for making me hot pockets every night. I went to the thrift store just on a whim and, lo and behold, a scraggly looking teenager was standing by the counter, trying to sell the microwave. He went white when I approached him and asked, "Really? That's the best you can do to make money off my appliances?"