My Cardboard Balcony

You Didn't Stutter by Belinda Roddie You asked me if you had stuttered. If your tongue had failed you once again in the execution of your bubbling, fleeting pubescent wrath. And I told you you didn't. That I had understood every goddamn word that had drifted like shrapnel from the fall-out. Every string of commentary unraveling from its film reel as the movie puttered out and faded to shivering gray. How dare I? Yes, and how dare you attempt to use a fishing hook to salvage my jaw. How dare you refuse me a steak dinner and then act upset when I pay my own way toward the meal. The gristle in your stomach sits, while the feast digests in mine. I'm not afraid of your judgment, or your lack of kindness. The lack of it should hurt you more. The unsettling of your life should make me smile.

"This wasn't exactly what I had in mind for the afterparty," grumbled Taylor as we took turns shoveling crumpled beer cans into the nearest recycling bins. "What did you have in mind, then?" I asked. "The magic New Year's fairy to clean up the mess?" "Shut your damn face. That's what I have in mind." On the corner, Wesley was waving us down with two garbage bags slung over his shoulders. Of course, he was still massively hungover.

I Wanted Cheese Puffs by Belinda Roddie I wanted cheese puffs on New Year's Eve, so we got a whole bucket from the grocery store, a baguette tucked under each arm like bayonets for the charge to the check-out lane, bottles in tow to match each flavor. We hopped in Rob's truck, popped in Heather's band's CD, and sang falsetto to the flying soprano as we hurtled across melting freeways with the windshield frosting just enough to signify a thrill of doom. We perched on the bed once we parked to see the moonless night, toasting the next year of non-sequiturs, while I savored each brittle, artificially tangy corn knot on my tongue as my teeth crunched in synchronicity to the sound of the fireworks above.

Well, we certainly caused an awful lot of damage, as the sheriff put oh-so-bluntly. Like he didn't understand what the celebration was all about. I mean, sure, maybe buying twenty-six piñatas was a bit overboard, and the fact that we had filled up two dumpsters with champagne and whiskey bottles made it look like we all belonged to Alcoholics Anonymous. But hey, it was the New Year, and considering how shitty my last year had been, I was ready to sucker-punch the night with a booze-stained fist.

Whisper When It's Midnight by Belinda Roddie The trumpet loses focus in the blare of lights louder than the note of its horn. Brass burns brightly in neon, and glasses remain icy warm in a confetti-streaked hand. Whisper to me as the clock screams, because the hands don't strike - they flail. They gesture toward the emergency exits, when it's too late for the ignorant to notice and too early for the drunken to care.

I held the elevator door for the man who ultimately would murder my supervisor with a hidden revolver, then sprint toward my cubicle, lobbing stray shots as a warning to get me to duck down. I would watch, as I dropped to my knees, the assailant trip over his own feet, smash into the large window behind us, and plummet screaming down twenty stories into the nearest street curb.

"Caught in the crossfire again," spat Raychol, perched on a crate near the jutting of rock where no one could see us. She lit a cigarette feverishly before tossing the still flickering match over her head. "I thought we were trying not to attract attention?" snapped Gagach. "Shut up, Gagger," growled Raychol. "You try dealing with being on neither side of this war."