My Cardboard Balcony

Gynecomastia by Belinda Roddie When you stumble on a chance word, name, or "scientific" term, you often fight giggles in the back of your tickling throat. Like Morton's toe. Who's Morton? What's wrong with his toe? Did he bang it too many times on his iron stove while trying to brew up a pot of Earl Gray? And Doll Tearsheet. Obviously, a prostitute name. That's something that's transcended even Shakespeare (My friend likes Violet Crayon). Skeuomorphia is quite an issue in today's society. Polyorchids are somewhat rarer. A brannock device is what you see while shopping, and a fruit machine doesn't give you fruit. Paresthesia happens when you sleep on your foot the wrong way, though at least it's not a bad case of obdormation. But petrichor is one of my favorite aromas, tingling on my philtrum. And the title of this little spiel? Figure it out in a faded dictionary or your flickering tablet and you may raise an eyebro...

"This is the pits." "Relax, Andrew," I murmured. "Just another hour and then we can head home." "I don't know why we have to do this. I mean, just because Daniel told us to doesn't mean - " "I know, but just...do this for a friend, okay?" I readjusted my binoculars as Andrew kept his crouched position behind the juniper. Sarah was leaving the restaurant soon. With who, we didn't know yet.

Sorcerer's S'mores by Belinda Roddie recipe requires a fluffy package of pearl marshmallows to set with gooey comfort in graham shelters, crumbling at the pinwheels of flame erupting from the hearth's dragon and a great gaggle of youths rolling stones, cracking jokes, and swinging wooden swords while a maiden turns knight in cardboard armor with melted chocolate around her marble mouth.

"I'm not particularly keen on rare steak." Mrs. Hammers dolloped on the bloody slabs of meat anyway, staining Caitlin's plate a bright mosaic of red and pink. I swished around my scalloped potatoes and kept close focus on Mr. Hammers' furious mouth. "Kids these days. They want their steaks well cooked, they want their eggs over easy...where did we go wrong?"

The thin framework of the movie's plot was depressing, to say the least. Nothing was cohesive. None of the motives matched. And as I cast my eyes toward the director and writer, who squirmed in his seat as if with excitement, I didn't really know what to say to him. "Well?" he asked as the credits began to roll. "What did you think?" I didn't know what to think. I wasn't left with much. No characters to remember. No storyline to recall. Nothing had stuck.

by Belinda Roddie She stared wistfully out the window, wondering if tonight's events could ever be repeated. But as her fingers obsessively traced and retraced the damp, criss-crossed ebony pane, she was certain that it wasn't going to happen the way she wanted ever again. It wasn't just the way her darling had dressed, in that wonderful red top and black sweater vest, cuffs bedecked with fragments of cold, the long hair splaying out to the sides in delightful waves. It wasn't just the way her hand had been held, her chin lifted by two firm fingers, her lips caressed by warm, moist smiles. They had walked together quietly, the mellow lights of suburbia guiding them to small Italian restaurants and cafés. The champagne, bubbly and happy, had not helped. Nor had the frenzy of colors along the waters of the park as they whirled around in darkening, deepening grass. And most of all, the ring. She rubbed her ring finger where it now rested - silver and blue and glass...

"Let's talk about Sandy," said Gregory, as he poured me another glass of Riesling. The sweetness of the wine was able to reduce my headache somewhat, and I paused to rub my temples with two of the fingers on my left hand. "What's there to talk about?" Gregory didn't change his expression. "You haven't spoken to her in four days. There has to be a reason why."