My Cardboard Balcony

Post-Holiday by Belinda Roddie When you wrap the lights around you, I get an eerie sense of déjà vu. All the colors taste the same on my memory's tongue - sweet, but with an uncomfortable afterthought. You made brioche for Christmas again, and pluck-it bread for Easter, and I dipped two fingers into your coffee mug and spread the charcoal residue around my mouth like lipstick. There are some things I care to remember, things that aren't so sugary, as I briskly sweep the needles away.

For dessert, we ate a chocolate pie, loaded with homemade whipped cream. We drank warm milk that frothed up around our lips and then kissed each other's milk mustaches. We snuggled. We cuddled. We shrieked and we giggled. We were children again, even when in our forties and fifties. Howard fell asleep that night and didn't wake up the next morning. But when I saw him sprawled on the couch, he had the smile of a schoolboy. And despite my tears, I couldn't help smiling, too.

Mother, May I? by Belinda Roddie Mother wore cerulean silk today. She sat by the marina where sailboats bounced about the folds of her sleeves. An old optometrist stumbled into her because he had lost his glasses (funny story, really), and after sweating apologies through his skin, he asked her if she'd like a coffee. But Mother didn't move from her soggy perch. The golden brooch nestled between her two mountains swarmed with honeybees molding sweet comb. The tails of her coat drifted as far as the battered bridge where Father's fog stubbornly sat.

When Lily carved her name into the tree, she felt the pulse of the oaken veins against her hand. It was not a pulse of pain, merely of annoyance. She drooped her eyes toward the matted brown grass, tangled and overgrown like patches of decaying hair. Beside her, a bird perched itself on a shrub, delicately balancing one leg on a bending limb and leaf. Quiet and withdrawn.

The old man was deaf to madness. He was deaf to sorrow. He was deaf to rage. It was a very selective type of hearing, a type of hearing that one might usually think was more detrimental than helpful. But for the old man, the ability to tune out the hate and despair was something he could use for good. He always smiled. Always laughed. Always kissed his grandchildren beside the dried out Christmas tree draped in tinsel, while remembering the love coloring the ornaments that dangled from the frosted boughs.

by Belinda Roddie The figures in the créche began to speak. Not that it was the first time they had done so, either. Many people who passed by the small lit up scene during the Christmas season often talked about hearing voices coming from beneath the wiry canopy, drooping with LED red and blue bulbs and silver tinsel. Of course, those same people would blame the noise on tricksters, probably bored adolescents who wanted to pester the more "respected" elderly citizens of the small town. Tonight, however, was different. The tiny Mexican restaurant that presented the plastic créche was particularly quiet at this hour on Christmas Eve, as the ice began to creep around the corners of the windows panes like Jack Frost's swollen blue-white fingers grasping the evening air in a firm grip. Francisco, the forty-year-old busboy, had stayed late to help Carla clean up after a particularly busy happy hour. Several college students home for the holidays had taken the liberty of c...

The dog clamped down on the dead man's ribcage and wouldn't let go. Frank could clearly see the brittle ivory begin to crack and splinter. He tried to wrestle the canine for the mess of cartilage and drooping muscle tendons, but it wasn't happening. His partner, Cameron, very calmly stepped over and whistled softly. The dog's ears fell back. It dropped the skeletal wrist.