My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, things just work out a certain way. In this case, Emily and I went our separate ways almost nonchalantly. It wasn't as if something was broken, or torn, like a china plate or a shirt. It simply ended - like a car being placed in park after a long drive, or the faucet turning off after streaming hot water and soaking into my hair. Six years went away like our lease on the townhouse, like our shared groceries, like the split utility bills. I was sent on my way, and Emily? Well, Natalie was waiting for her, nestled in the driver's seat of her van, being a good "friend." I knew that people would view my reaction as cold-hearted, like I wanted this to happen. Of course I didn't want what I considered to be a solid relationship to wrap up, but really, that was the only adjective that could be used to describe our relationship: Solid. Like a big, bulky brick in a building. Solid, but cracked and gray and staine...

by Belinda Roddie " The Prestige has a really creepy human fax machine." "Oh, kind of like Bartleby the Scrivener? " Natalie shrugged. "I always considered him to be more of a zombie." "No, no, no," retorted Norman. "We are not making Bartleby into a remnant of 'The Walking Dead.' Not ever. Stick to the legitimate interpretations of the books, will you?" We were having what Norman had christened a "Bowtie Party," where all of us wore the damned things as the host himself also donned a top hat and what was meant to be a full-blown mustache but was really just a sad collection of stubble on his upper lip. He had collected six bowties from his father and his uncle and had all of us wear one, whether it was black or blue or even green. I settled for the strict tuxedo one, sipping the dry wine that I had brought and no one else was consuming. They were too focused on their own bottles. "I don't know wh...

by Belinda Roddie "Birkenstocks are totally in style this season!" "No, dude. No, they're not." "What?" "They're not in style this season. Or any season, for that matter." "Oh, I'm sorry, Aaron, I didn't know you were suddenly the newest fashion police." "I didn't say that." "Okay, fashion expert." "No." "Fashion poser?" "Shut up, John." "Hey, is that the doorbell?" "Excellent observation." "Yay, the mail's here!" "I'll get the door. ...Emily? What're you doing here?" "Nice to see you, too. You by yourself?" "No, I've got a drunk John. You want him?" "I don't know, is he going to follow me home?" "Hi, Emily!" "Hi, John. Nice Birkenstocks." "Is your girlfriend here?" "No, she's in Little Man seeing f...

by Belinda Roddie "Oops, that last one should have had a period at the end." " That last what?" "Sentence." "Sorry, which one?" I pointed to it with my pen. Emily scrutinized the scribbled line cautiously, the fingers of her right hand drumming out an awkward rhythm on her left forearm. "Okay," she muttered. "Cool." I sighed and rolled over on my side on the bed. Emily stayed sitting on the floor, watching me as I pretty much gave up on my essay brainstorming session. The assignment was due in two days, and try as I might, I had nothing significant to add to the prompt. What was the prompt, one might ask? Nothing like a good, old-fashioned kick to the brain from Mister Tyrone, who thought that getting his students to tell personal anecdotes was a sure-fire way to inspire them to become the new heroes of the jaded growing generations. Or at least get them to try to cure cancer; the growth behind his ear that h...