My Cardboard Balcony

Maple Syrup & Nightmares by Belinda Roddie Yesterday, I could not eat my pancakes - my pancakes wanted to eat me. They flew from my plate with teeth sharper than my fork, like angry, delicious monster frisbees. I tried to smother them with sugar and butter, but they would not be held back, and soon, I cowered in the corner, scratched and bruised, as the pancakes sought refuge in the hills beyond, thinking, "Maybe I'll stick with cereal tomorrow." Turns out the wheaties had it out for me, too.

George always tried to convince me that charcoal drawing wasn't a worthwhile hobby, but I kept at it until the details became more intricate, the shading more nuanced and the silhouettes more intimidating. When I hung my canvases and pages up on my walls, I could see George become more and more uncomfortable with the display. Good, I thought to myself. That anti-art bastard may as well stay in his room and play with his abacus.