My Cardboard Balcony

Morris by Belinda Roddie Once, I found a boy half-naked, half-drowned, beside the schoolyard where the rain welled up around his toes, puddles on the swing set and muddy cascades down the slide. He said his name was Morris, but it was not his birth name. Just the name he stamped on his arm himself in purple classroom ink. He accepted shoes from me but not a shirt. When I told him he could stop by for something hot to eat or drink, he replied by walking in the opposite direction, sloshing water in his new boots, his jeans stained with grass newly wet from the storm. I never saw him again, and I wondered if a lightning bolt had struck him near the train station, and instead of falling, he dissolved into light shooting back up toward the clouds.

She had gold in her teeth. Flakes stuck between her molars, dust coating the harsh enamel that had begun to yellow throughout the years. She wore no crowns, but it was as if her mouth was a living, breathing mine, with ore gleaming from her tongue instead of bacteria or germs. Maya stepped away from her cautiously, staring at the glow emitting from her mouth. "What?" she asked, as if the metal did not slur her speech.