My Cardboard Balcony

This was my town. Four buildings and a church. A general store, a hardware store, a lumber yard, a fire department. A banner proclaiming a brand new opportunity to have a Monte Carlo night. I lived a mile or so away in the woods, a small cabin being my home. I had no TV, no computer, no DVD player. Just a record player for my musuc. And I loved it.

by Belinda Roddie Eight down, one to go. That was the end of it. No second chances, no other options, no way to restart or redo or undo or unwind from any consequences. This was it. The last life he could ever live. Stretching his arms out in front of him and arching his back, Benny Hamilton let his joints pop and swivel until they may as well have sighed in relief. The stitches in his neck itched badly, but he wasn't going to scratch. He wasn't angry about losing eight of his lives, not even the slightest bit upset. A cat didn't regret the way it lived its nine lives, and neither did he. He indulged in the simple pleasures and this life would be no exception. Benny didn't bother with pseudo-enlightenment or epiphanies. He stole a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and stuck it beneath his two front teeth, sucking away at the tobacco until it felt thin and wispy in his mouth. Out the window, he could see two young boys playing with a soccer ball on the pav...

Sweat and stress blisters dotted his palms and fingers in beads. The constant itching and pain and swollen feeling. Dean had thought the dots were flat warts and stung the middle finger on his right hand with liquid nitrogen. The result was more pain. Red burns zipping up and down his cuticle and knuckle. The tight black fabric of his gloves serving as the only comfort, he lay back against the couch cushions and hoped the ointment would work.

I don't believe in such a thing as new beginnings. New beginnings imply starting fresh with no baggage, and in all honesty, to do such would be asking for a full frontal lobotomy before stepping back out into the polluted air of the real world. In fact, I would say going for a new beginning is unhealthy, not only in the fact that to do so would be to erase important lessons from the past, but also in the idea that what you ended was something not remotely beneficial at all. I do understand the importance of being able to live your life as if you've been reborn. Whether it's through religion, romance, a career choice, or simply bailing out of a place with one suitcase and a wad of cash, we all sometimes feel the need to get away and start somewhere else. But that's the thing we have to remember: We still lived those years of our past, and they were still worth something. Even if the only happy moments you can scrape from the wreckage of your previous experiences only a...

Morning Shadows by Belinda Roddie Five thirty in the morning, and my eyes are open. Time for you to put on your face for the day, draw the stiff, starched collar around your throat. Time to brush your teeth until your gums bleed, dip your fingers into the sink's still waters and wipe the shadows from your eyes. You're getting older, dear. The wrinkles say so, and you don't hide your traumas well. A mask wouldn't suit you any better. Smooth out the creases. Let there be the illusion that each day, you are reborn. Six thirty in the morning, and my eyes shut tight. The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since December 2009.

Weaving a tapestry with reds and silvers, she wanted to make the salmon of knowledge gleam upon a sea of blood. While Mother Ireland bled, she worked, as her husband's sword and shield lay rusty with his enemy's plasma beside her. The screams had been shut out of her head long ago. Her son's shadow lay against the wall like a tapestry of its own.

There's No Privacy by Belinda Roddie There's no privacy on the railroad tracks, nor in the bathroom stall where you can hide away from all the soldiers wearing masks that hide extra emotions. You defied dictators once, but now a king casts you to the dirt with your secrets all exposed. Unless you decide the best thing to do is seal yourself in a cabin and close all doors to the outside world, you cannot escape from the watchful eyes of the throne. They will cut you down - for your name, your lot, your love and lust, once locked with bolts of bone. Remember when your eyes melt from a screen: You can't be imperfect now, guaranteed.