My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie A sickening crash shook Devon's helicopter, and she watched as the streets below her erupted in gunfire. "Fucking Mondays," she sighed. She reached into the small paper bag she kept bunched up against her right ankle and produced a sandwich wrapped up in foil. Freeing it from its plastic prison, she took a big bite and let the mustard and pastrami tickle her tongue with spiciness, just as the APF began moving in to clean up the mess. Down in the murky metropolis of New Chicago, people were attempting to cook up another war, sort of like throwing rotten potatoes into a pot and seeing if it would make a good soup. The APF - "Android Pigfuckers," the rioters called them, rather than "Android Police Force" - were certainly more efficient than their human counterparts. Yes, there were still real men and women who joined the authoritarian fight, though they were often discredited for their more emotional drawbacks and lack of agility ...

The doctor told us that Sasha should make a full recovery in two weeks. Until then, all we could do was spend time with her. Sasha's older brother, Cole, had just returned from a six month tour in Afghanistan. He never wanted to leave her side. He brought her a vase of tulips and left them by her hospital bed, and one night, I caught him singing a made up little ditty to get her to sleep. It was like they were young again, sledding in the mountains and smiling arm in arm.