My Cardboard Balcony

Don't Push Me by Belinda Roddie I've been tested, once or twice, by a god with scales on his face, a salt-soaked kelp beard, and half a mind to drink the sea dry in just a few swallows. He's not a fan of deserts, but the fish and the seaweed taste so good to him. And he's sent my humble scow onto the rocks a few more times than I'd like. Once I settled in a suburb thirty miles from the ocean, however, he let me be. Though my wife thought that barnacles were starting to grow on the windows, like pieces of fossilized glass from a broken stein of beer, all the suds hardening into miniature bones. I checked her in for a fever, and she burned up hotter than the arid atmosphere around us, our bodies baked against white sheets. He told me he hadn't touched me, not this time, not since I put away the sailor's cap and settled while cleaning the stains off my soul. I have half a mind to drink the sea myself, just to spite him before my blo...

I never though I'd break her winning streak; I never thought I'd snatch victory from her beautifully chiseled jaw. She stood next to me, drawing in air as if she were drowning in it, red-faced and red-eyed and oh, so close to screaming. I knew the gold medal around my neck would be heavy - it always would be. But now, as I witnessed the mental breakdown of the defending champion, I wondered just how much it had been really worth.