My Cardboard Balcony

Everyone's on edge right now. There's no calm at the table. Not even when the empty pint glasses are cleared and brimming ones replace them. Cider tastes too dry. Beer tastes too better. And I swear, my hands are shaking from nerves. "Is this ever going to work out," I hear Lily ask, "or are we all just going to keep being awkward about it?"

by Belinda Roddie   This is the sort of thing that only happens to incredibly profound people. I guess that's why it happened to Julia instead of me. It happened on a bizarrely warm November night, the reds and oranges of the trees outside my apartment window glazed with humidity. I was in the tiny kitchen when they called Julia, who was watching a TV crime show that she had previously recorded. The kind of show that had two female leads, and every viewer wanted to see them become lesbian lovers. I focused less on the quirky doctor's dialogue and more on the hardened mashed potato residue left in the pot. "I told you to let the thing soak," I had scolded Julia, but she had tossed her head back defiantly, the brown curls on her forehead bouncing. "Sor- ry ." And it was always that weird emphasis on the second syllable instead of the first. Sor- ry. But I never questioned it. The phone went off when my arms were elbow-deep in soap water, so I asked ...

He braided her hair for her because her fingers were stumpy and clumsy and she kept them heavily bandaged. His friends would tease him about, saying he was too good at it and that obviously meant he was gay. But the little boy liked working with hair just as much as he liked working with the little girl's hair. "You'll look so pretty," he told her, his voice shaking. "Like a princess." "Like a princess," she repeated, and the bandages became her jewels.

Not too much rambling tonight since I'd like to get this done even though it's technically Saturday now. Yay, being sidetracked by family, friends, and volunteer work. Oh, and my training for my new job starts October 7th. Yay! This week has been a time of seeing family. I've had dinner and drinks with my cousins twice removed. I've learned more about my ancestors and my closer family. My grandmother, whose ring I wear on a chain around my neck. I never got to meet her, so it's the closest way I can bond with her. That, and learning everything I can about her vibrant spirit. I've been able to see my sister as well, who's busy with a musical in the East Bay. Spending time with my mother, who will be in England and then Italy for two weeks - lucky woman. And my father and brother, too, as we'll be going to San Francisco to hear Earl Klugh play. It's been a stressful week, but also a nice one. Then again, that's what happens when your girlfriend...

Death Took Him Away by Belinda Roddie "I hate this." Roy laughed and looked at his shaking sister. "It's Pioneer Park, Astrid. The only twist is that it's night. What's the big deal?" Astrid didn't care to answer that. She had always been fearful of going out at night, and now that her brother's car had broken down, they were walking through the park to get help. Roy was a great raconteur, and he took advantage of this due to the fact that Astrid believed in ghosts. Because of this, Roy would always tease her with scary stories about spirits and Hell. Now he hurried up the steep road to the park's cemetery, his gold ring glinting in the dim moonlight. "Hey!" Astrid hurried after Roy as he scrambled up the steps leading to the gravestones. "Where're you going? There could be weirdos here! Or maybe...something different..." Laughing again, Roy knelt down by a tombstone and placed his hand on top of it. ...

Why do they call us hopeless romantics? If anything, there’s nothing hopeless about being romantic. There’s this queer feeling of awkwardness, sure, and the occasional depression – but in the end, everything looks so much more vivid. A coffee holds a secret. A folk song looks bright red with passion. And everything – and everyone – is so beautiful.

The Way You Looked by Belinda Roddie The way you looked at me was like you caught a field mouse within your falcon's eye. You didn't stop your gaze, not even when I paid my check for dinner and headed to the bar for a drink (or maybe two). You did not leave. You bought more wine. I thought you wanted to kill me from your icy stare of unprecedented annoyance. But as you sipped, you started writing on a tired napkin with a fountain pen, perusing every inch of my figure and making notes that I can never read, and I could not decide if I should be sincerely scared, or flattered immens'ly.