My Cardboard Balcony

That Blue Light by Belinda Roddie That blue light up ahead - was that where Mom died suddenly on the side of the road, a beer can in her lap, and a sweet song stuck in her throat? I know her car was towed with her body still in the driver's seat, her blonde hair spilling from its regal bun, her lion's mane, her lips red like raw meat and her eyes glazed like glass. They found a gun lying at her feet. There were no bullets in the chamber, no wound upon her flesh, no trauma, either. One quickly forgets how Death simply decides to take your breath and stick it in her pocket. She is cruel, but she maintains the dichotomous duel.

No update on the OneWord website today. Oh, well!

Knocked Down Dreaming by Belinda Roddie Always wanted to be a southpaw: In the boxing ring or on the baseball diamond, I'd reign supreme with a simple flex of my wrist. Maybe I'd wear leather gloves, or maybe I'd throw leather instead. Either way, someone would get creamed in the fight. But I lost my left hand in a freak accident involving a dumb kid in science class and a flagon of potent chemicals. What remains is a phantom feeling, an itch to hit someone with a fist that isn't there, like a ghost rising in a plume of hot air from the withered stump. Always wanted to be a southpaw: Now I use my one paw to scrape at a can of beer, wet my mouth with cheap foam and belch out a new anthem. On one TV in the bar, the home team loses in the ninth. On another, some poor sap gets TKO'd. He falls to the floor with his upper lip split and bloody. His rival stands triumphantly over him. His left hand rises to catch the roar of the crowd in his leath...

She was acting strange, so they sent her to the guidance counselor. But by the time the session was over, the guidance counselor was acting strange, too. Neither of them cared about the future anymore. They were caught drinking bourbon behind the school gymnasium. She was laughing, and the guidance counselor was telling stories. These stories dated back to several millennia. They were all about peace, love, and sex. Lots of sex.

The Hanging Man by Belinda Roddie don't you ever get tired of dangling upside down from a ceiling that's scarred with more cracks than the mirror in your mother's bathroom, after she flung her stiletto heel into its face as it wordlessly begged for mercy? don't you imagine a life that's better and outside the apartment where you lost your virginity to a man who never loved you, and you were left with crumbs after he consumed the feast, while your mother did her mascara over your crying body as she laughed and laughed and laughed? and don't you get scared of the voices you hear from the upstairs loft - the ones who whisper your name after two AM, and somehow your mother answers back, but you can't find the saliva to scream, and all you want to do is drop to the floor and run, run, run?

I want this country to be well-educated. I want children to feel like they are given the most, and best, opportunities to succeed. I want public schools to flourish and teachers to be paid what they actually deserve. I'll give you a hint: They deserve a lot more than what they're given now. What my government has decided on today is a slap in my face and in the face of educators and students across every state. This may not be a piece of flash fiction as per usual, and I may be spoiling the fun on this website, I have one word (appropriately enough) to say to the United States Congress for confirming Betsy DeVos - an unqualified, plagiarizing master of political bribery - as Secretary of Education: Shame.

And The Clocks Went Dead by Belinda Roddie I had a dream that time stopped, and the chemistry of our bodies couldn't handle the change. Light burst from our eyes like tiny supernovae, and we screamed, for the pain in our heads was too much to bear. But then, it was over, and the darkness faded, and the throbbing subsided like a fading drum. I walked out into the snow and saw shadows there, some in dark coats, and some with no purpose at all. When I was actually awake, I went out to grab lunch at the burrito shop, and the girl who served me rice and chorizo had a tattoo under her right eye: A green dollar sign, like a fragile wish for success drawn in ink on her translucent skin. I stepped out into the rain, and the shadows were still there, though time moved as quickly as it always did, and there were no dying stars in my eyes.