My Cardboard Balcony

When We Are Married by Belinda Roddie When we are married, we will paint the aisles with yellow rose petals, and, when the light becomes white gold, the ribbons can be strung, like sun beams wrapped in crisp, clean paper. When we are married, our mothers will hold hands and share tissues, and our fathers will toast to our future and drink heavily to their pasts. Our sisters, too, will cry, though the warmth of an October morning still clinging to summer will soothe the aching bones of celebration. When we are married, I will place a new ring beside your seaside one, the one that was a little too big when first slipped against your knuckle by the San Francisco skyline. You've resized it by now. It fits like a dream. And my rings, too, will sit together like lovers having just met. Yes, hello. Very nice to meet you. We are here due to romantic circumstances, are we not? Then let us make the most of it, silver and gold - green, red, blue, and purple on the

The Hellhound was cornered. He had never thought it would end like this. No bullets in his handgun, no sharp blades to rip from his hip. He was facing down three women, all of them armed to the teeth, their smiles catching the light of the nearest street post and making their mean molars glitter like gold. "Seems like I'm gonna have a barbecue tonight," crowed one of the ladies, wielding what turned out to be a blowtorch. A blowtorch, of all things.