My Cardboard Balcony

The Silver Spoon Was Brown by Belinda Roddie The silver spoon was brown with rust when they drew it from the baby's mouth after it was born. Although the boy would grow bloated with luxuries, it wasn't bound to last. The man had grown accustomed to garbage can flames on the street corner every night. He kept the rusty silver spoon with him to remind him of mansions, butlers, pools, gold pocket watches from his great-great-great- grandfather, and so many toys and games. True, he had grown up having it all, but he squandered life on golden frothy guilt. An opportunity better deserved by brilliant yet poor young boys and girls.

Starch stiffened the collar of his shirt as he tied the red bowtie until it was a monarch butterfly fluttering beneath his chin. Pinned to the small pocket was a medal. A simple medal at that, too, bearing no real emblem or embellishment. Silver, not gold. Tarnished, not shining. It glowed as brightly as his own dead teeth.

Self by Belinda Roddie I do not believe in the concept of human enlightenment. Why? Because human enlightenment signifies human perfection within a human mindset, which is so painfully fragile and imperfect that it makes a fractured tibia look sturdy. There is a difference between "enlightenment" and self-awareness. Self-awareness is not simply being aware of oneself; it is also being aware that the self is constantly changing, and in a larger sense, the world is constantly changing. To claim that one is enlightened is ironically limiting oneself to new knowledge. We do not know everything. No one knows everything. If you're spiritual or religious, you are probably familiar with the idea that only God knows everything. And thank Him for that, because without the persistent pursuit of knowledge or recognition, there is no purpose in living because all method, mission, or soul-searching would be rendered obsolete. Self-awareness provides the opportunity to grow and lea...

The lady who approached me in front of the office had a beehive and full pink lips, sticky with the gloss I had seen her apply at her desk. As she offered a limp hand, hooked almost like a talon, for me to shake, I looked at her. "What's this?" I asked. She furrowed her penciled brow at me. "It's a lady's handshake. You're a lady. We shake hands like ladies." "Uh uh," I dissented. "You shake hands with me like a real person. See, a gentleman's handshake is not gender-specific. You have a firm handshake if you're authoritative. Professional. Powerful. I don't care how much estrogen courses through both of our bodies. You give me a real goddamn handshake."

Adjustment Catalog by Belinda Roddie In this spring season's adjustment catalog: flimsy brochure [tiny speck of print that removes all decency], end quote: a variety of specimen to choose from. Por exampli: notice the freckled, dimpled face. now for 699.99 at your local surgery outlet - order now and receive a free injection of THE UNREASONABLE HORRORS OF THE MACABRE WORLD PUMPED RIGHT INTO YOUR FUCKING FLESH. "Wouldn't it look lovely on little Susie?" (Susie says yes. She smiles. She walks to her mother and lifts the hem of her teeny tiny skirt that rides up her teeny tiny ass) SUSIE. Mother, you are so kind to offer such a complete change of personality; a 180; a one-eighty? one-eight·y / ˈwʌnˈeɪ ti / wuhn - ey -tee / wuhn - ey - tee buy a  new lip swelling? facelift? chinlift? forklift? earlift? lifelift? plotline-suitable-for- The-Twilight-Zone- lift? (non-conformist and seemingly plain-looking average and completely head-over-h...

Plans? Sure she had plans. She had lots of plans. Many of which revolved around a different flavor of ice cream. Not the lonely kind of ice cream eating with a pint-sized carton on the couch watching a chick flick. No. She planned to go to every ice cream branch, franchise, parlor, shop, store, department, truck, van, cab, car, headquarters, laboratory, secret lair, everywhere. She'd try every flavor, everywhere. "Though I'm pretty sure chocolate will always be my favorite," she giggled to herself.

The Lovely Snitch by Belinda Roddie Little Miss Terry is a lovely snitch - some call her an angel, others call her a bitch. So don't do anything remotely wrong, or she'll tattle about it all day and night long. She told on Nancy for breaking a bowl and on Jerry for tossing her doll in a hole. She told on a teacher for smoking a joint and when Gregory cussed, she did not disappoint. She told on a parent for smacking the flank of my mischievous classmate, notorious Hank. She'll tell on everyone in the whole school soon. She'll tell on me and she'll tell on you. Now, I do not like it, nor do I adore it, but all the same, I can't hate her for it.