My Cardboard Balcony

Jealousy With Sprinkles by Belinda Roddie You met my sister at the ice cream parlor, licking the edges of the coolest mint on the hottest day of the year, and swept her off her feet. And there I was, left in the paltry shade, the dairy a puddle at my troubled feet, watching you woo the woman who was always seen as far, far smarter, prettier, and hardier than I could ever fathom.

The framework was bent and broken. The lens was cracked and useless. I held the damaged bifocals in one hand and gripped the steering wheel with the other. Somehow, with a broken leg and bleeding head, I had to keep driving. It wasn't as if my car couldn't function. Granted, a large chunk of its tail had been ripped away by the flying debris. But I was not going to be a number in the tally of terrorism victims. Not today. I was going to flee. I was going to tell the story.