My Cardboard Balcony

The Trail by Belinda Roddie Our house is older than the town, built in a no man's land where winds carry the shrapnel of a cold Western apocalypse to the front step. People used to come to this trading post to rest a bit during their travels. They drank brandy and ate jerky and played mantras on cracked washboards. They told stories to the owners, who sold cans of beans and dried bacon to anyone with the stomach for it. Now we've nailed a sign to the fence outside stating that we appreciate the history, but our lives are not so dusty or rustic. We simply prop our feet up on couches after long shifts at stores and offices, watching the baseball game while the shadows of tumbleweeds imprint the walls like desert vagabonds.

"Just a little farther," Quinoni panted, "and then we can rest." Arvey was grateful for that. They sat together under a large gnarled tree - too proud to be willow, too depressing to be oak or redwood. Quinoni opened up a canteen of something stronger than water, and Arvey drank more of it than she expected. When she passed the flask back, her knuckles brushed against Quinoni's outstretched fingers. It caused a spark somewhere deep in her stomach, something she hadn't felt since Mistress Kor disappeared.