My Cardboard Balcony

An Unexpected Tragedy by Belinda Roddie This wasn't supposed to happen: Your tiny hands, dipped in gold, squeezed me in places still raw and tender from a lover's touch. You drew me in with scary stories of the Other, dressed in masks on the opposite side of the stage you set up for yourself. The spotlight was on you; it could not shine for anyone else. This wasn't supposed to happen: You played the tune of authoritarianism well. All you needed was the trumpets squealing behind you, announcing your dramatic entrance into the abyss that you created with your words and jeers. You reminded all of us that the tapestry we've woven together, of many colors, can be easily set on fire and burned to nothing. And it is difficult to reconstruct a vibrant culture out of ash. My hands shake, and I am confused. I wonder if I should drink, but I know the booze will only make reality seem like a mirage. But the mushroom cloud still rises from the ruined landsca

To every banker, bartender, and butcher, don't vote for the orange man. To every merchant, musician, and moocher, don't vote for the orange man. No matter your occupation, this country future's in your hands. So to every American who gives a damn, don't vote for the orange man. I voted. You need to vote, too. And do not vote for the orange man.