My Cardboard Balcony

The Blind Barista by Belinda Roddie The blind barista tried to make my drink, but he poured the concoction on the floor and set the empty mug right in the sink, thinking it was the counter. I implored the man to please, just get a coworker to make the mocha for me, but he tried to do it again, the brew black and burned as he handed it to me. I, wide-eyed, watched as he stumbled back to make some tea, dumping the chamomile close his leg and nearly hurting himself. Finally, the manager came out after I begged for someone else to make my coffee. Then, to my surprise, she signed, "It's time you left. He may be blind, but as for me, I'm deaf."

I thought you were attractive the moment I laid eyes on you. You walked in with your jeans torn around your knees, exposing purple, bruised flesh, probably from knocking them around a basketball court during your nights away from your coffee shop job. You wore an open vest open a dirty white T-shirt, your short hair slicked back with some sort of pomade, revealing tan skin even around your scalp.

Beaned Him by Belinda Roddie A boyfriend's girlfriend's sister's boyfriend wanted a coffee from my coffee store. I gave him an espresso, he threw it in my face, so I hauled him out the door.

I didn't have the luxury of going to a house where I didn't feel judged, or unwanted. The air of my parents' residence was pungent with the smell of evangelism, something that reeked everywhere from my room to the kitchen, masking the otherwise pleasant aroma of roast chicken with red potatoes. I stayed away from my family for the most part, not wanting to listen to my mom's bible study with her friends, or my dad's diatribes at the dinner table about how America was being lost to sinners and whores.

So Much Damage by Belinda Roddie There are cracks in every window, violet stains on every floor. So much damage we must tend to, before light seeps in our scars. We'll build houses, all brand new, where the darkness conquers all. No more burns across the tables, no more fissures in the walls. No more sneaky mornings slipping into socks and cups of tea. No more sad attempts at happiness in our cold mansions three. We'll draw curtains, scaffold towers, hide our faces from the moon. So much damage to conceal from them, and not a night too soon.

"I didn't even know Larry could sing at that octave!" whispered Ed as soon as the aria was over. I laughed. "Falsetto," I replied. "You never tried singing like the Bee Gees?" "Nah. Hurt my voice too much." We waited for Larry outside the auditorium, eating the cheap cookies and drinking the sparkling cider that the fundraiser parents had left out. Once the spindly, tall vocalist stepped out, Ed, his parents, and I all clapped. He instantly went bright red, very embarrassed.

To Self Destruct by Belinda Roddie To self destruct, you must ask for pity, light the match, and hold it up to your face. If the flame goes out, you have too much faith. If it burns bright enough, you can reach for the fuse.