My Cardboard Balcony

The System of Hierarchy by Belinda Roddie Upstairs, we hear the fizz of champagne, the clattering of six-inch heels on wooden floorboards. We keep to ourselves in our downstairs apartment, sipping warm cider for the sake of autumn, eating potato chips, watching movies online, ignoring the party going on in the loft above our heads. It's a cork-popping, heart-stopping, body-rocking night up there, apparently. Until we hear the scream and splash, we don't know that someone had the intent of jumping. The saltwater bubbles only a little bit, like the hiss of carbonation, and the man in white tails sinks into the oceanic debris that carries him away from the carnival.

Forty-two soldiers were taken prisoner after the Battle of Times Square, and over twenty of them died before we even reached the camp. One of the bodies, fresh and sweaty from exhaustion and sickness, slumped forward and onto another chained up "enemy of the state," who gazed silently ahead with beaded eyes as I monitored the back of the truck.