My Cardboard Balcony

Every Year by Belinda Roddie I can fake being deaf to the storm approaching my front porch, or I can remember that, with every year, there is a growing heat in the sky, a rumbling beneath my feet, a scent of sulfur in the soggy soil, a tint of fear caught in my irises, casting a slight glow upon the dry plains that crave water, that crave cold, that crave life.

"It's curtains for you!" snarled the dastardly villain of the play, swinging his cane wildly onstage. It was at that point that the curtain operator must have dozed off or spazzed, because at that point, the curtains went down with a loud whump. The audience sat there awkwardly for some time. Then, through the silence, "No, not literally, you oaf!"