My Cardboard Balcony

Remember When by Belinda Roddie Remember when the wolf ate your father and made love to your mother with a howl before you level your pistol at the messenger who cowers before your scowl. I know you are a man of many woes and rabid rage that paints your visage stripes of blue and purple, both melting into a pot of torment that no one should drink. I know you killed the witch and evil queen and hung their heads upon your bedroom door. You broke the slipper, poisoned the apple, and burned the heart of the Bard's gentle Moor. But please, remember the wolf and his teeth before you shoot and you become the beast.

The setting is simple. One chair, one coffee table, set up by the fireplace. A brick mantel with black and white photographs. In one of the photographs, there's a fisherman with a long black beard. He doesn't look too old, but he looks tired even though he holds an enormous seabass. His wife is next to him. She smiles. She completes the simple setting, the comfort of a cottage.

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...