My Cardboard Balcony

Averse To Flames by Belinda Roddie I stay away from fire these days - because at the end of every single fingertip, there's a short fuse, and if any of them are ignited, I become a living firecracker. I drink cold water, flat champagne, extinguish my hot insides with bubbles and rain left on my umbrella. And when I sleep, I dream in endless fever - colors on the scorched end of the spectrum, rising and falling like the breath of Hestia's hearth. Or pulsing like the percussion on Vulcan's anvil. If you hold me, you may feel the radiation bury its hands into the pockets of your skin, find solace in folds you never thought you had before. I can remain in place for a little bit, but then the inferno builds, and I'm forced to pull away so that the temperature drops. I need to become less volatile, less flammable, less explosive. I wish it didn't have to be this way. They always say how love heats you up, but I'd like to cool down instea

Visibly perturbed, the boy in the yellow jacket and red baseball cap shuffled off to the side of the street, where he sat cross-legged on the curb, rubbing at his eyes repetitively and obsessively. It was safe to say that he wasn't simply startled by what he had seen, but in fact, he had been quite affected, even disturbed, by what unfolded. It wasn't just the car crash, seeing the sedan fold in like fiberglass origami. Or hearing the scream. It was also seeing the ghosts rise from the wreckage like plumes of cheap cigarette smoke.