My Cardboard Balcony

Klondike Bar What would I do for a Klondike bar? Kill a man. No, I'm kidding. I'd do nothing. 'Cause that pseudo-chocolate shit is overrated.

"How much stereotypically rugged terrain are we going to have to trudge across before this blasted expedition is over?" growled Quinoni, brushing her too long bangs away from her eyepatch. Even two weeks after the scuffle in the tavern, her eye had not fully healed. She and Arvey were both beginning to worry that she would lose sight in that eye. Mistress Kor, for the first time, seemed distressed. "I don't know anymore, Miss Wuntyn."

Snout by Belinda Roddie He struck the dog something awful, and when I saw the blood coagulating across the poor mutt's muzzle, I suddenly drew the courage to grab my nearly empty beer bottle and smash it over the abuser's head. The name on her tag was Stacey, and I kept it that way. When times got hard, and all I could afford was broth for myself so Stacey could stay fed, the thing that would comfort me at night was when my dear pooch nestled her newly mended snout against my side as I succumbed to sleep on an air mattress closest to the open window.

"You look deranged in this photograph." "That's because I was," replied Ana, with a small, pained laugh. "Clear out of my fucking mind. The doctors didn't know what was wrong. They stuck me with every needle they got their hands on and pumped me so full of drugs that my blood was only ten percent actual blood." "And then..." "And then..." She shrugged. "It was over. Just like that. And I went back to work."

The dress that Sherry wore was fairly modest, with a pastel tone that wouldn't distract or alarm the more conservative crowd at the city hall. She was there to support her older sister, Erika, in her quest to become the town's next council member. Stopping by the long table that was set full-blazen with food and beverages, Sherry stopped to pluck a piece of Swiss on a toothpick from a plate and look for a good bottle of Pinot Noir.

by Belinda Roddie "Bacon gravy is a hell of a drug." "Isn't it?" Leslie sighed, rolling on her side on the couch while massaging her swollen belly. Wally could still see flecks of grease glistening on the corners of her mouth. "But no overdose. It's a win-win." It had been twenty minutes since Robbie, Bert, and Tara had gone home after the quintet's morning-drunken breakfast. Never had biscuits and country fried chicken tasted so good with whiskey, pilfered from Leslie's father's pantry. Nor had pancake mix seemed so difficult to work with - that plan had flown out the window after having to whip out the vacuum. Still, the day had been successful thus far, and now all that was left for Leslie and Wally to do was force their bloated bodies off the cushions and go for a motorcycle ride on the backroads of town. "We ought to stop by the drugstore," Leslie told Wally as she settled herself on her brand new Harley, st...

"He's very handsome," Vinigin remarked with his upper lip close to his tankard, watching as the pilot of the ship traveled around the round tables, looking for a spare napkin. "Yes," replied Grashi, smiling in between sips of honey ale. "He is. He is also married. With three kids. And he is not expecting to have a fling any time soon." "I wasn't saying I was going to do anything," scoffed Vinigin. "I'm only looking, not touching."