My Cardboard Balcony

Heartless? by Belinda Roddie   A cruel young woman once told me, "I know a man who is so heartless." And curious, I asked, "Why?" "Well, for starters, he's got a wife and three children who he loves to death." "I see. And?" "He works a job he doesn't like so he can get the bills paid and he can see his kids on the weekends." I was confused. "I'm sorry, but - " "And he reads them a bedtime story every night, and he kisses them on the heads and says, 'I'll always be watching.' And then he does the same to his wife." "Reads her a bedtime story?" "No, but he kisses her and hugs her and says, 'I love you.' And she says, 'I love you, too.'" My brow was creased and my tongue felt funny in my mouth. I said, "But that all sounds wonderful! How in the Hell is he heartless?" "Well," she says, "H...

I warned him not to go back to his mother. She had been collecting things. Sharp things. Like corkscrews and scissors and those little pocket knives you can latch onto a key chain. Even shards of glass. I found one piece of a bottle that used to hold 2001 Riesling. At first, I thought the red was alcohol. The smell, however, told me otherwise.

Monologue by Belinda Roddie   ‎Look. I tried to be what you wanted me to be for nine years. I tried to be what you consider normal, or acceptable, or safe, or sinless. So don't blame me when I tell you I'm sick of it. I'm sick of living the lie that you think is God's word. He isn't upset with who I am and He never has been. I know He loves me no matter what you say otherwise. And if I get hurt by you, or by someone else...Hell, if I wind up dead in a gutter somewhere because someone thought he was doing what his religion told him to...then I will be the one standing beside God. Not you.

"Do you think morality's black and white?" John stared at the street below him. He didn't look behind him to see who was speaking to him. But he recognized the voice. "No." "Why not?" He took a deep breath. The colors of the cars looked so inviting. "Because I don't think what I'm doing is wrong."

Expectations by Belinda Roddie When I was eleven, I joined the youth soccer league thinking I'd get grass stains on my knees, my thighs clotted from the dirt while hugging a ball between my knees. My sister was good - no, she was great. A fullback, defensive, kicking away all attempts at a victory display. She was more than okay. Put onto the field at the start of the game every day. I was midfielder for about five, maybe ten of each of their games, before I was called out and someone replaced me. Sometimes, it was for twenty minutes. I didn't touch the soccer ball much. And one night, the coach simply forgot to put me into the game at all. He apologized to me profusely, but it was that night when I realized something that took me a little bit by surprise in my pre-teen mind. I didn't get green on my shorts or my jersey, I didn't stop goals or offensive players. I stopped pretending like I was some growing athlete for show. The bottom line...

Suppose she found him living in a trash can off the corner of Palm and Tustin. He wouldn't be green or furry, but he certainly could be grouchy. Suppose he shook her hand with a banana peel on his head. Smelling of coffee grounds and sour milk. The garbage man at his finest. That'd be something. But suppose they fell in love later and when he washed up, he truly was a gentleman.

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?"