My Cardboard Balcony

Orange and Black by Belinda Roddie This early summer in May inspires me to roam further down the bay, to where the blatant advertisement for Coca Cola glows green. To don my cap with the proper insignia and watch the boys pitch and hit and lob and swing and bring the victory home while I eat overpriced nachos and drink even more overpriced booze. Because the sun bakes our brains and makes us crave entertainment, and what better thing to cheer for in the heat than a spiraling baseball sent as far away as possible - past the roaring fans, past the boats bobbing for a hopeful catch, past the green waters into the deep end where the bridges hum under the weight of traffic and the day grows sticky with orange and black enthusiasm?

"I'm sorry," snapped Alaria, "did you think your punishment was not severe enough? Should I have used more ropes? More blades? A deeper bucket of water to submerge you in? Pray tell me, prisoner, what did you find lackluster about my performance?" The emaciated man said nothing, his eyes bulging from his hollow skull as his dry tongue flopped out of his mouth in a futile protest. The High Councillor smiled and unsheathed her father's sword.

The Dead Playwright by Belinda Roddie His characters had learned nothing. The women were all left drinking. The ice grew colder by the end of the act, not warmer, far against the physics of passion, the kind that he had never grown accustomed to practicing. And somehow, when the ribbon on the typewriter broke, and the second half was never completed, there was something more dramatic in the way he settled in the corner of his room, the rum hotter than his own frustrations, his heart giving out loudly to the sound of outside traffic, where a comedy roared in the rundown tavern, and a soliloquy was hummed beneath the fire escape by a girl wearing gloves to cover the scars on her fingers.

I stood upon the weathered stone and waited for the ocean air to hit me from the left, cooling the aches in my shoulder and elbow as I tried to forget the very concept of pain. It occurred to me that the walk to the shore had taken two hours, and my small village was nothing but a distant shadow behind me. The Atlantic was the only thing separating me from another continent, and I wished dearly that I had the endurance to swim the entire way across it.

Honey Skies by Belinda Roddie My mother made a mountain. She shaped the slopes with raw hands, the gashes prominent on her white skin, her black skin, her bruised skin, her skin as combed and puckered as the honey skies dripping sweetness above our heads.

The temple near the outskirts of town had been abandoned for fifty years, primarily because no one was able to enter it. The doors were heavy and bolted fast, and not even the toughest of demolition could seem to break them down. It was said that the gods themselves had constructed the building for their own self-indulgent worship. I guess it made sense, then, that the divine had created alloy too stubborn to listen to any reasonable request from a wrecking ball.

The world would have been merely wilderness if it hadn't been for my mother. She gave me a map and compass at a young age, and when I couldn't figure out how to read either, she taught me before pushing me a few steps in what she deemed the right direction. Obviously, the path I wound up taking was far different than my mother possibly imagined. It had more twists and turns. It led to different towns. It brought me to people that she wouldn't have dreamed I would meet. But she was the one who gave me the map and compass. And that changed the wild into wonder. Happy Mother's Day to an extraordinary mother.