My Cardboard Balcony

Change Of Plans by Belinda Roddie A pizza party instead of carving pumpkins? I can get behind, and tomorrow night, after we get our signature two trick-or-treaters, we'll watch the classics while our black cat son celebrates his arbitrary birthday. And my Jack-o-Lantern will smile, not knowing jack about the craziness of the world outside our suburban bubble. He will never know the taste of pizza, either, but I think he'll be at peace as he rots away.

Heir To by Belinda Roddie Back in front of a microphone, I pretend I am recording my thoughts into a crystal ball that hovers in front of my bed, the canopy above my head laden with gold and crimson thread. In another room, my mother sleeps, her curls limp against soft, decorate pillows, while her throne, for now, lies bare and without a queen, and here I am, bracing for the inevitable, preparing for the onslaught, hoping that once the tidal wave hits, I can improvise and teach myself how to swim on the fly.

Evacuation by Belinda Roddie Look how dark it is! I can't see past the scorched horizon, can't glean details save for the shadows charred into stained glass tree fragments - all color, no shape. And mostly, in the end, orange in hue. I'll hold you the entire ride to Grandmother's house, where we won't receive inferno's hot kiss, save from the desert afternoon's lips. Though it's still difficult to ascertain anything besides the endless haze, and the choking odor of rubber smoke, and the malaphor of burning the bridge when we get there.