My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie I was taught grammar with a gun to my head. That is why you will never see me make a mistake grammatically. I will not even type in fragments because the green line that emerges in jagged mountains along my text serves as a somber warning. I will never make a mistake. I will never, ever make a mistake. The boss is watching me as I type this. She is very tall and very muscular. She wears a leather jacket. She carries a revolver. It is not an old-fashioned revolver. It is one that will kill me instantly if I lapse once in this exercise. This is not a joke. I am afraid for my own safety. I will not give you my boss's name. She is simply the Boss. One time, when a colleague of mine said, "Anyways," instead of "Anyway," she took him outside and we never saw him again. The only thing that remains from his desk is a lone scarf. I think there is a drop of blood still on it. Another buddy of mine forgot the apostrophe in "it's...

The man selling the iPod to the impatient customer was missing Thanksgiving at his family's house, where the barbecued turkey with served with thick gravy, and his son sang a little tune as a substitute for grace before making a stereotypical volcano out of his mashed potatoes. And the customer who was being sold the iPod was ignoring his wife on Thanksgiving, even after she had made him the stuffing that he loved so much, because he was bored with his current music player and wanted a new one now, right now, right freaking now.