My Cardboard Balcony

Knocked Down Dreaming by Belinda Roddie Always wanted to be a southpaw: In the boxing ring or on the baseball diamond, I'd reign supreme with a simple flex of my wrist. Maybe I'd wear leather gloves, or maybe I'd throw leather instead. Either way, someone would get creamed in the fight. But I lost my left hand in a freak accident involving a dumb kid in science class and a flagon of potent chemicals. What remains is a phantom feeling, an itch to hit someone with a fist that isn't there, like a ghost rising in a plume of hot air from the withered stump. Always wanted to be a southpaw: Now I use my one paw to scrape at a can of beer, wet my mouth with cheap foam and belch out a new anthem. On one TV in the bar, the home team loses in the ninth. On another, some poor sap gets TKO'd. He falls to the floor with his upper lip split and bloody. His rival stands triumphantly over him. His left hand rises to catch the roar of the crowd in his leath

She was acting strange, so they sent her to the guidance counselor. But by the time the session was over, the guidance counselor was acting strange, too. Neither of them cared about the future anymore. They were caught drinking bourbon behind the school gymnasium. She was laughing, and the guidance counselor was telling stories. These stories dated back to several millennia. They were all about peace, love, and sex. Lots of sex.