My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "That pony doesn't belong there." "What?" "That pony does not belong there." "...What?" "Jesus Christ, Aaron, I cannot make it any simpler!" "What pony, John?" "That one." "...What pony..." " That one." "Wha - " " That." "I - " " One." "John - " " On the bookshelf." "...Okay, see, that helps." "Duh. What else were you thinking?" "Well, considering you've downed half a bottle of Pinot Grigio before pointing out a pony...I figured you were hallucinating again." "...You're talking about the dingo, aren't you." "I am talking about the dingo." "Aaron. The toy pony does not belong on the bookshelf." "Okay." "It belongs on the DVD shelf." "Since when do you care?" "Sinc...

The three of us went to the metal playground once a week, which is was dark enough for the children to have gone home already, but light enough for us to see past the horde of pine trees rising from the incline of dry grass and gray earth. It also meant it was cool enough for us to go down the massive slides, the alloy curling into deep, embracing springs as my brother tried climbing up the slope while I screamed for him to stop so I could shimmy down and hit the sand with my open palms outward.