My Cardboard Balcony

The Archives by Belinda Roddie If everything goes well, I'll have on my person the bones of my ancestors and a petrified jellyfish; a crowbar to extract the memories from my nasal cavity; and the coat my father wore when he murdered a Nazi in '42 before escaping the ghetto. I don't need many provisions, but these supplies will be enough to get me access to the libraries I want. The books are held in cradles of dust, but the words are still easy to read, despite being in a language that no one now speaks. If I'm lucky, I'll find the tome my ancestors scribbled, using sharpened stones and clay instead of ink. There, the runes are concise, but the spell is the same as ever: Just breathe in and out, let your eyes roll back; then let the world fold into a paper airplane and fly.

We didn't believe it was paradise then, and we sure as Hell don't think it's paradise now. We don't see colors in this place anymore; everything is just choked in shawls of black and gray. We can't remember with a sunrise used to look like; we can't even tell when the sun sets anymore. We collect our seashells and glass on the shore, where the water leaves stains on the charred sheets of sand.