My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Misanthropy bubbled forth in effervescent wafts from every plastic flute; I could smell the poisons. I could taste the despair and cynicism from each sip. I mentally counted each pearl in my necklace and wondered why I was here. Why I still came to my father's New Year's galas, indulging in his cheap extravagance, imbibing the noise of disgruntled perspectives along with the crackling champagne. My father stood in the corner, as usual, with his less arthritic hand propped against the top cushion of his blue easy chair, as usual. His other hand, though gnarled and curled, was stiff enough to grip his glass properly. He was conversing with one of his oldest friends - a business partner, a former CFO, and now one of the most successful investors in the country. They both sported white hair, both wore dentures, and both held a similar disdain for those "beneath" them. And amusingly enough, they both wore red blazers. I myself had come in the gow

Every last memory of Brigade General Johann Brokowski was contained in a single flash drive. I had never seen so many photographs, and yet there they were, all blazing with different colors and textures and sights on my laptop screen. Johann even had pictures from before he medically transitioned, and seeing the muscle build and the facial hair appear was almost disorienting. But the smile got brighter with each lapsed year, as he posed for his military photos in a bright blue uniform and with a bayoneted gun slung over his shoulder.