My Cardboard Balcony

Leslie Rage by Belinda Roddie The two men guzzled two pitchers, each, and tried to fill their stomachs with a liquid courage strong enough to put fire behind their eyes. Instead, said eyes would be ringed with black and blue halos as Leslie Rage knocked down both of them with her fists and a broken pool cue from the nearest wall. When the thugs were good and bruised, bleating like sad sheep in a storm, Rage asked for her own jug of ale, downing it as if she were dehydrated from a long bout at the boxing ring. Then, giggling in between belches, she said, "So long, boys. Until the next romp," adjusting the collar of her jacket as she walked out of the bar with silver glinting from her dead father's leather boots.

"I made some alterations to the suit," the tailor said quietly before handing the gentleman the loaded hanger. "Some tucking in, some stitching. It should fit much better now." The gentleman smiled, cleared his throat, and handed the suit to his daughter, who was beaming. "Thanks," he told the tailor. "We're both really looking forward the wedding, obviously. Now she's going to look like one fantastic bride."