My Cardboard Balcony

Being Impractical by Belinda Toddie I want a world without presidential elections, without fears of fascists or demagogues, with amber flowing copiously into glasses that never lose their sheen no matter how much you drink from them. I want a world that toasts to life and happiness and shedding the fear of regret and dystopia like a too heavy coat on a climate change-warped day. This is a world I dream of and wish for and desire and panic about, and as the anxiety drips from my hair in the shower, I let the water drag me into a universe where the stars light my path to a galaxy where there is no pain or desperation or populism or hopelessness or chaos.

While Casey caught six fish, I didn't even get a nibble. She told me that it was because I wasn't using a very good fishing lure, and I was inclined to believe her. Casey had been fishing independently for seven years, and she had learned from her father when she was a teenager. I watched as she flopped each of the trout into a bucket, counted them, and then dumped them back into the river. "I catch fish, but I don't eat 'em," she told me, shrugging and shaking out her vest.