My Cardboard Balcony

Well, this is it. Next week, I start work at my new job. I'll be meeting new people, working in an entirely different district with an entirely different group of kids, raised by an entirely different-minded set of parents. I will be in the most affluent city in the county, which dynamics are excruciatingly contrasted with that of the school I recently worked with. The ethnicity is different. culture is different. The social class is different. And by all those standards, the attitude is completely different. Yes, I did just type the word "different" seven times in the same paragraph. Go figure. Am I nervous? Of course I am. Taking on a new job is nothing new to me - Hell, not counting this new job, I've worked at two different schools in the past two years. Part of being an educator is the struggle with a consistent job, and that's what I'm hoping this will be - a consistent job that I can keep at for a little bit longer than, say, one year. But obvious...

Death Poem by Belinda Roddie Graceful guillotine, caress this red and broken flesh as the blood turns brown I was scheduled to die at sunrise. Ordained by a pseudo-justice, sporting the exaggerated garb and the creased scowl. Carried out by the drones in uniform. Their faces all looked the same. Their eyes all had no luster. I stood in my cell with the other prisoners of war scattered about my feet. One was curled in the fetal position in the corner, muttering the same broken, incoherent phrase to himself over and over. Another kept asking people for a cigarette. Most were asleep. Others stared wild-eyed into the rays of sun that seeped through the fissures like the stones were bleeding light. They began leading them out one by one. They bound them in the same fashion. Metal cuffs pressing knuckles into the spine. Chains coiled like slumbering serpents around their ankles. The prisoners hung their heads as they dragged into the morning dew. They w...

By the time I got to the silo, I noticed that all the feed for the cows was completely gone. This was strange to me because I had taken care of the grain and corn this morning, taking excellent care to feed the cattle perfect amounts so we had enough the next day without having to refill. "Uncle Marty," I asked when I walked back to the barn, "where's all the feed?" "Your aunt took it," he grumbled. "What?!" "Said it should be part of the divorce deal," he added with an ugly sneer.

Jo's Sheriff Hat by Belinda Roddie Jo's sheriff hat looked quite authentic, and when she wore it through town, the boys would stop and stare, while she grinned and waved her right hand in a salute, imagining the "clop- clip-clop" of hooves as she pretended she was galloping toward a saloon. Her big and bearded father raised a brow as he followed his daughter, stains of the oil rig he worked at present on his shirt. The two of them were walking to a store where they sold costumes, and the sweet manager knew that Jo would want a shiny badge that day to go with her great hat. "Also, a vest," Jo said. "A sheriff's gotta look her best!"

"Dude! What happened?" "I don't know, man!" yelped Hazel, looking feverish as she jerked at the brim of her cap. "One minute, he was fine, the next he totally flipped out! It's crazy!" "Where is he?" I demanded. "Bedroom, second floor. He won't come out. And he keeps screaming at these random intervals - " A high-pitched, grating howl appropriately accompanied Hazel's declaration.

Jar Gun by Belinda Roddie You are in my lingual territory, and you've found lifeless chunks of text that used to be stories floating in the empty cavity of my skull. They scooped my brains out with a ladle, but there wasn't enough broth in their bowls to feed a rat. And somehow, they were content with storing my remains in a pretty coffin, like my flesh are pages in a bound book, filled with random jargon, spraying bullets filled with nothing.

Nothing today! We'll see what happens tomorrow.