My Cardboard Balcony

Dead Tissue by Belinda Roddie I tattooed the directions back home on my chest, and it bled like crazy. Crossroads became cobwebs, and freeways spiraled into fleshy, scarred oblivion. I found another needle to pinpoint where my house had once been. Before they tore it down, it was painted blue and green, blending with the grass and sky appropriately, staining my feet with natural paint that made my mutilation, scratched out in desperation to retain lost memories, pale into pathetic pink.

The terrain was hot and harsh, and we were running low on water. I stopped on a specific sandy perch and checked the contents of my canteen. Half empty. I passed the flagon to Jeremy, who only let a few drops settle on his tongue before passing it back to me. "I can handle a bit of dehydration," he tried to assure me. "You just concentrate on staying strong." I nodded. Sometimes Jeremy was too altruistic for his own good, and from the looks of his gaunt face, he wasn't just being meager with his water rations these days, either.