My Cardboard Balcony

With Valentine's Day come and gone, I've been thinking about how different my life is for many reasons. The first is that I'm out of college, looking for work despite being under the weather healthwise at the moment. The second is that I'm currently in a relationship. So even though my girlfriend and I were not physically next to each other for Valentine's Day this year, it was the first Valentine's Day I ever celebrated with a significant other. My girlfriend and I have been going out for nearly nine months. Most of it has been long distance. We started dating in May, only months after I had come out as a lesbian on - ta da! - Valentine's Day! I know, kind of disgustingly convenient, right? But the thing is, we fell in love very quickly and we were unsure about whether or not this would work. And to our delight, it's worked beautifully. While occasionally she and I become overwhelmed with our relationship, it's worth every minute. When I can see...

Golden (A Villanelle) by Belinda Roddie An old man smokes a cigarette and waits for a northbound bus heading toward the bay. His head's desired in forty-seven states. The dissipating smoke around his face is pleasant in the heated August day. The old man smokes his cigarette and waits. The stale ash is strangely nice to taste. The mist around him swells and turns to gray. His head's desired in forty-seven states. He sees the sun upon the Golden Gate, its bloated waters, cast in pallid shade. The old man smokes his cigarette and waits. He has forgotten all the crucial dates in life, including all the friends he's made. His head's desired in forty-seven states. The bus comes 'round, but somehow, it's too late. He disappears - the mystery remains. The hunters smoke cigars and lie in wait. They find his head in the last of fifty states. The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since December of 2009.

Scooter was back on track in March, serving pancakes at Bobby Pan's diner just down the street from his grandmother's house. His grandfather's death, though sudden, had inspired him to get off the couch once and for all, most likely leaving a human imprint on the worn down cerulean cushions. He was glad to get away from the smell, too. Bringing a plate of waffles laden with syrup to the pretty girl at the corner table, Scooter smiled. It was a broken toothed smile, similar to his gramps, the kind of smile they exchanged when they had gone fishing together years earlier.