My Cardboard Balcony

Corn Halo by Belinda Roddie She fished the popcorn, dry and butterless, out of the bucket, taking great care to puncture each fluffy lobe caressing each kernel with a needle and thread. When she was done tying and stringing and lacing, the circle sprung from her hair, and the smell of salt clung to the angelic silhouette she left on the stained glass wall.

I'm still standing. Standing, right in the middle of a charred, black circle where the grass smolders and the blood smells like a fresh barbecue beneath my right eye. To my right, the fallen. To my left, the struggling. In front of me, those bystanders who gape with unbelieving eyes, seeing the trident dangle from my nearly limp fingers. Nearly limp, exhausted fingers. They cannot believe I am still standing. They cannot believe that I have won.