My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie She wiped her mouth and drunkenly slurred at the mailbox, "I'll fuckin' show you. I'll crush you with my bare hands and use you for scrap metal. I'll turn you into a fuckin' art piece. I'll put you in a local exhibit and call you 'Garbage.' 'Cause you're garbage. Garbage, I say! Garbage!" She continued to rant and rave, flailing her arms, as a handful of her neighbors filed out along the sidewalk to witness the display. Francine, the old lady who made brownies every week for the block, stood next to Graham, the retired police officer, and sighed. "Is this because Zoe didn't get her Super Box subscription on time again?" she asked. Graham nodded. "Though I think this is the first time she's smashed an empty whiskey bottle against her mailbox before." "I'll turn you into a storage box of shame, damn you!" Zoe snarled from across the street. Graham sighed and rubbed hi...

There was no parking by the grocery store, so Carly had to drive around to a sketchy residential area and settle for a cramped spot between a trash can and a beaten up black truck. As she stepped out of her van, she was suddenly aware of sharp, shallow breathing nearby. That turned out to be a random doing push-ups in his driveway across the street.

Hey, 2016 presidential election? Yeah, you, the looming threat to this country and its democratic institutions? Yeah, can you stop ruining my fun so I can actually focus on my wedding and enjoy each moment of planning before the big day? Thanks for that. Yeah, no real introspection tonight, folks. Par for the course, I'm afraid. Sorry But have a great night and a great weekend!

Loch Ness Lullaby by Belinda Roddie Sometimes, the monster under the bed sings me to sleep.

I tried to write my mother's eulogy, but all I could do was doodle on the paper in front of me. They weren't nice doodles, either. Normally, when I was bored or stressed, I'd let graphite spirals erupt from my pencil, or funky shapes and circles leave their inky trails. These drawings were different. They were jagged, with definite ends - no cycle, just point A to B, point Alive to Point Buried in the Ground.

The Orange Man by Belinda Roddie The orange man has hair as tough as straw and as false as a snake oil salesman's pitch. He does not care for following the law and likes to make each dear woman his bitch. He's greedy, he's fascistic, and he's crass, not keen on good old common courtesy, instead choosing to stir up the morass of struggling people who swear fealty to his con artist agenda. He says he'll make things great again, but I don't think such a claim holds water. Everyone pays for incompetence, policies that stink, and economic plans that'd make you scream. The orange man shall haunt you in your dreams.

"Did you call her?" "Yeah. I did. Multiple times." I leaned back in my chair. It complained loudly. "They're all unanswered. She wants nothing to do with me." My friend sighed and propped her elbows on the table. Her red curls fell in awkward zig-zags across her face. "Give her space, I guess?" she said. I shrugged. "I've given her three months. Who knows how much longer she needs."