My Cardboard Balcony

It Gets Better by Belinda Roddie Stand up and make the sign of the cross where your stepfather can see it. He is waiting for you to finish the ritual before he can beat the sin out of you. One day, you'll be able to hitch a ride between Hell and Purgatory to the big city, where you will drink yourself stupid and fall asleep with brandy stains on your best dress shirt. When you wake, a young woman will wipe the spittle from your lips and carry you to the bay to wash yourself clean. This will be your real baptism. Salt will leak out of every pore, and the cold water will leave you with a new sense of identity and purpose. You won't have to tell your stepfather, or your mother. Their minds are vacant in front of their television, sharing the last mouthfuls of confessional wine between them before the thrashing starts again. Rise from the waves and forget the way your fingers drape so weakly across your forehead, chest, and shoulders. You follow a new

Josephina loved taking candid pictures, even though her aunt did not approve of it. Mostly because Josephina's aunt was not fond of having a camera shoved in her face. When Josephina went into the living room, her aunt retired to the bedroom and began folding laundry. Her eyes fell on the photo album that she had kept for so many years now. That book did not contain candids. Everyone in the photos was rigid and unsmiling, frozen in place and waiting for a bulb to burst.