My Cardboard Balcony

My Throat Constricts by Belinda Roddie My throat constricts as the autumn air turns to dust, my breath in short bursts from my lips. I wish I could just stop - it stings and burns to inhale and exhale. Even the sips of water I consume, like liquid fire, chars my esophagus in a stampede of heat and discomfort. When I retire to my bed, the pain easily impedes my ability to sleep. I don't know why my body rejects natural things - the wind, the trees, the rivers that still flow beyond my window, the birds that still sing. Their music digs into my ears like teeth, persisting as I live and try to breathe.

The numbers were staggering, and all the investors, and all of the CEOs, and all of the hedge fund managers couldn't believe their eyes. Their mouths hung slightly open as they watched the exchange, and bit by bit, their souls sank deeper into their lower extremities, descending into the depths of their ankles and threatening to escape and find freedom from the crevices of their toes. No one saw this disaster coming. Except for the accountants, of course - they always knew. They smiled over their glasses and reminded themselves that they always knew.