My Cardboard Balcony

Before the Battle by Belinda Roddie "Sarge," he told me, "I'm baked. I'm cooked, I'm boiled, I'm fried. You can pop me in a coffin and sail me home. I ain't gonna shoot one more gun in this stupid fight." As he talked, he took a hit from his pipe. "Boy," I replied, "when I was your age, I was sitting on the front porch of my father's house. The dust kicked around my skirt, and the heat was killing me, absolutely killing me. And I was ready to drop dead. You want to sleep in a sarcophagus on a trip back to your homeland, I won't stop you. But I'm staying here and spitting bullets out from between my teeth." In trembling fingers, I held the locket where my wife's photograph sat comfortably, freed from its cushion beneath my uniform tunic. I took no tags from my enemies. I painted my face green to camouflage my sins. Back home, my father was probably drinking while my mother pulled a pie out

Lina styled her hair all the time - in braids, in pigtails, in plaits and weaves and knots - until one day, she cut it all off. Well, not all of it - her brown locks now settled above her ears, light curls springing against the back of her head. She walked into work with her hands in her pockets, whistling some sort of merry, improvised tune, and ignored the alarmed look of our fashionista boss as she sat down on her desk and opened up one of her many folders.