My Cardboard Balcony

Egghead by Belinda Roddie The yolk sizzling in her brain held all the secrets of the universe, but she would tell no one. Not even the man with the chicken coop who served her scrambles every Sunday, poking at the whites of her intellect and frowning when nothing seemed to crack.

"Get on my left!" roared Sandler as she leapt across the fallen brick, her boots kicking up loose rust and dirt as I heard the rolling tumble of gunfire. As I followed her, I thought I felt shrapnel embed itself into my side, like violent glass burying itself into my skin in deep, dark shards. "Are you hurt?" my superior demanded to know. I checked my aching flank. No damage. Just emotional injury.