My Cardboard Balcony

Six Years Later by Belinda Roddie plain black socks on the floor near our bed the shape of your body still lingering against the anatomy of the mattress before entering our lair we still tasted salty hamachi and albacore and salmon holding hands at a park filled with too many people playing baseball and soccer in the lukewarm May evening chocolate chip cookies and beer after dinner the flames have dissipated but six years later we still feel the heat we still cherish the heat we still sustain the heat

Seven sisters held hands before the angry king, whose face turned purple at the sight. He instructed his guards to execute them - all of them - but their halberds crumbled into dust before they could even aim their points at the women's chests. The sisters sang, their hair bristling in a sudden wind, and their words were incoherent to the monarch. But that was because he did not understand the Ancient Tongue, as true heirs to the throne were supposed to.