My Cardboard Balcony

Our Last August Picnic by Belinda Roddie Pretty dame, serve me up a hefty slice of that summertime butterfly pie. It warms me up good, so when I smile, my teeth are sunset gold, the molars capped with a residual, yellow pollen glow. There's enough blue in the sky to turn the sea into sapphire. There's a breeze soft enough to fluff my hair like a pillow. Carefree swimming pool days are finally leaving, but I won't cry in autumn as long as you're still with me. Pretty dame, serve me up a glass of wine to go with that summertime butterfly pie. I am aching with nostalgia, but I'll do just fine with your arm around my shoulder and your hip against my thigh, guzzling sunlight before the season dies.

The dry terrain was unwelcoming to the soles of my boots, parched earth scraping against the once pristine leather. It had not rained in this area for over ten years. All of the water that the handful of residents used, by this point, was recycled. However, it did mean that the land's once beautiful grassy landscapes were, for now, perpetually brown and lifeless.