My Cardboard Balcony

Word Association by Belinda Roddie Thunder fox trollop eating fish on a sea dock pulling pull-overs into fists of dark metallic glory finishing fate Crisp cretin coughing spittle fire drip dream drop drip dismal purpose I meant not a sound but a harmony piling garbage onto plates silver plates plattered fire droppings that alter my mind may it seem so undiluted that I see the light melting from the polaroid picture next to my bed idle eyes hands feet growth on my toenail this is not life this is rhythm this is spirit attack car speeding motorcycle crash burn cry me a river, George I cried for a mountain full of thunder This is what my brain does on a daily basis, people.

To the left were pigeons. To the right, foxes. And all around me, the sound of horns and baying. I strode to the podium with an axe in my hand. It was spray-painted gold. I spoke in a Nordic tongue I didn't recognize. The foxes yelped. The pigeons did not pay attention. And when I was finished, a fireball struck my throat and rendered me mute while all the world crumbled around my tennis shoe-clad feet.

Musk by Belinda Roddie   Musk and pipe tobacco strung his whiskers amd played him like a marionette, twisting the tassels of his fancy mustache on his fancy upper lip. He poured himself a Cognac and watched as it turned silver in the light as the chandelier dropped like a pretty stone in the ballroom downstairs and killed three dancers.

The orchestra played Gustav Mahler's Symphony No. 1 with grace and gusto, and the minor intonations of a horrifying "Frere Jacques" crept into my ears to sleep. That night, I drank beer on the apartment balcony, with my brother curled up in a ball beside me. He was five years old and too tall for his age. He had cried during the third movement. I didn't blame him.

There's a lot of emphasis on the abstract telling more than the concrete. However, as I stand in this exhibit, I find myself more drawn to the chair with nails sticking out of its seat than the blur of colors on the canvas nearby. The canvas is called "Somethingus Latinus." The chair? "Chair With Nails." Which one makes me think more? You make the conclusion.

by Belinda Roddie   Johnny realized that the candy he held in his hand was not actually candy. It was, in fact, Formula 91X - a concoction created by scientists to replicate the symptoms of lycanthropy as told by the folk tales. It was a sick, twisted equation of science and corrupted wisdom that could ultimately be manipulated by those with power bristling from their hair to their heels. And Johnny had let his younger brother, Timmy, eat some. Jamming the brightly colored tablets back into his pocket, the boy tried desperately to seek out an antidote. The laboratory he had snuck into was dark and dank, and he was pretty sure his brother was starting to fret outside. And knowing that once the sun set, the full moon would be out, he had to be fast. His fingers brushed against the shelves feverishly, knocking over bottles and jars. One crashed to the ground and oozed red jelly. No peanut butter for that stuff, he thought with a heated head, before reaching for a syringe and st...

Snapping an icicle from the rooftop, she licked away at it until she giggled as her tongue stuck to the frost. She let the ice dangle from her mouth for a moment. Two moments. Three moments. And then it dropped in a wet, soggy lump to the ground below. “You’re silly,” I told her as I wrapped my arms around her. My face was scratchy against her scarf. “You’re sillier,” she retorted before she kissed me.