My Cardboard Balcony

Deluge in the Canal by Belinda Roddie Autumn steps back for a moment as this scene unfolds: A fire hydrant is unceremoniously torn from its asphalt roots, a school bus's faded yellow mudflaps shredded into ribbons as it shuffles with rumbling chagrin to the curb. It is a hot day, September summer.The water erupts in a volcanic glory on this hot day. The children are ecstatic. They don't think about drought or water rationing; they think about sprinklers and swimming pools and slip-n-slides. They dance beneath the newly made geyser while the nice men in black uniforms and funny hats try to shoo them back onto the wet lawn nearby. I tell two guys in Giants gear what happened. I was there. I saw the existential struggle of an oversized vehicle as it scraped its way past its newest obstacle. I witnessed the first burst of liquid livelihood soaring above the red roof of my Ford Focus. Now I'm standing with the sun kissing my shoulders, sweating under my...

For a moment, I thought I might have to seek medical assistance, but much to my relief, the cut wasn't too deep. Which was good, because God knows where I was going to find a doctor at this hour in this area. In the trench to my left, I could hear some sort of cackling, sort of like someone wasn't trying to laugh off the pain but the noise coming out of their throat was halfway between a yelp and a scream.