My Cardboard Balcony

Cereal Musician by Belinda Roddie They'll catch you in the corner, halfway through a bowl of Captain Crunch, mid-chew. They'll ask you to write a song to rival the crooning of the sirens caught in salt storms. You'll pluck a tune from a guitar as sleek as a gutted fish, and yet they'll growl at the fact that there is no "powerful message" gurgling from the frothy pit of your time signature. But words that overpower music are worth no more than an old man's rant, a tired sailor who foams with condescension, and whom no one wants to listen to anymore.

There was a subtle shade of elegance to Maxi's attire, from the ruby brooch below her ascot to the wine-hued suit jacket. She did not drink any wine, instead resolving to focus on the small hard liquor table instead. I watched as she poured herself yet another glass of gin, the smell of juniper masking any other aromas of food or drink nearby.

No Trouble by Belinda Roddie I can squeeze you into my schedule no problem - your name in between the baseball game at six PM and the existential crisis at twelve AM. I've got obligations, sure, but a stranger with lime and juniper on his breath can sway me just fine when my mind's not pulsing like the hurricane tide, Hawaiian sands bristling beneath my disturbed skin. I'll take you in, and after the screaming's done, I'll be sure to give you a good time.

"How many stitches did you get?" I showed him the lower side of my jaw. "Three," I said. "You?" He shook his head. "I got off easy." His hand was trembling against my arm. He was looking out the window, his legs propped haphazardly against the stool that served as his ottoman. "Do you think Amy will be okay?" I wasn't sure what to tell him. She had been cut up badly, and if nothing else, she would be scarred permanently.

The Freest by Belinda Roddie Three children bounce up and down happily in the bus seats, blue cushions and red faces, big smiles and small fingers, groping at the cords that signal for the next requested stop. Their mother is tired, frustrated. She grips the stroller with whitened knuckles, looking out the window once in a while to see if they are any closer - any closer - to seeing the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Or, more accurately, a pot of something savory on the edge of a hot stove. One of the children, with dark curls and bright eyes, screams, "Monkey! Monkey!" over and over again, and perhaps I should be annoyed, but instead, I smile as I prop my poetry journal against my knee, remembering the time when I was their age and had no filter. I said words, words, words, what was on my mind, in an endless stream of youthful consciousness, all excitement when it came to the world around me, without worrying that someone, in the corn...

"I want a toy truck and a toy brontosaurus!" cried the little girl, pointing at the rows of goodies. Her father chuckled and squeezed her hand. "Don't be greedy, Nadia," he grinned. "One or the other." This was a far better response than I would have imagined. Most mothers or fathers seemed to discourage their daughters from getting anything that wasn't pink or sparkly. Today, however, was different, and the girl's defense was even more enjoyable to hear from my position behind the counter. "But, Daddy," she argued, "if I don't get the brontosaurus, then who's going to drive the truck?"

I knew he was amused by my abuse, so I loosened my fist enough to catch him on the side of the head with my knuckles. He fell, sprawled out, against the pavement, and while I stood there numbly, wondering exactly what I did to take him on, I was horrified by the faint but noticeable trickle of blood leaking from his left ear. "You killed him," murmured his girlfriend from the curb, her face going white. "You crazy bitch, you killed him!"