My Cardboard Balcony

3:48 by Belinda Roddie My father called me downstairs and told me to bring tissue from the bathroom. He was bleeding from both nostrils, bending over the sink to stop the stain from spreading onto the newly polished wood instead of the weary metal basin. "Don't mind it," he gurgled. "It's fine." But it was 3:48, twelve minutes before he was supposed to take his purple pills, and I, listlessly standing beside him with a wad of paper fragility in my fist, knew that nothing in this household  could be defined as "fine."

The occupancy of the theater was a mere one hundred twenty, and over two hundred people tried to squish into the space in order to hear the newest, youngest mayor speak. Many were disappointed to be turned away, but instead of going home, they found a place to sit outside and had small juvenile messengers scurry in and out of the conference to bring back tidbits of information. "Well, my son told me the mayor has a pimple on her chin," one man sighed from the corner, understanding his child's lack of priorities.