My Cardboard Balcony

The blaze in his eyes melted fire from a chunk of brimstone that he held in his large, gray fist. Where his skin touched the lava, it scalded and peeled away, revealing a strange layer of gold underneath. Raising his burning hand, he pressed his palm against his scarred fist, and as he screamed and I stared in horror, the flesh flecked away in large strips and ribbons, until what was standing there was not a man, but a golden statue, an attempt to be a god gone wrong.

by Belinda Roddie The child's name would be Spamlet. It was decreed by Pork McNugget of Second Street Hill (his real name being Parker McPhee), with his wife Agnes McPhee (who didn't desire to take on a protein-related name). Spamlet's full name was Spamlet Pork McNugget McPhee. Agnes wanted his middle name to be Richard, after her late father, but Pork was entirely against it. Come to think of it, when the bags from Burger King started accumulating, Pork was looking a little porky after all. Spamlet first adored his name, but when it got to high school, he was ridiculed constantly for the poor choice in meat product. So he first changed his name to Ham, Hammy as a nickname. The result was the school bullies stuffing processed lunch meat down his trousers. So he went by Spencer instead. Spencer grew up to be a finance director at a law firm in Kentucky. Incidentally, his workplace was situated right next to a strip mall that included a dollar store and a Kentuc...

"They were after my lucky charms," he grumbled to me in the small pub on the outskirts of Limerick. I had found him with his top hat to the side, his green coat tangled around his shoulders, swigging from a tall glass of Guinness. He swept a thick strand of red hair from his exasperated eyes and groaned a smelly groan. "They were always after my lucky charms."

Damn it. I'm not doing well on these introspection posts lately. Let me see what I can do. (Ahem) Second graders. I teach fourteen of them now. Second graders are currently not corrupted by the concept of attitude. I am still a large authority to them. I must be listened to and obeyed. Unlike the sixth and fifth graders who make my sister's teaching job a little Hell, the second graders actually like me. It's really a nice feeling to be appreciated by kids and parents. It happened when I worked at a day camp. It happened when I was a catechism teacher for - ta da! - second graders. It's really refreshing to see my work pay off, especially when it comes to teaching. At the same time, I've developed my own sort of perspective in my work. As I move the kids forward in reading, writing, and math, I'm constantly being told how to teach. Which is fine and dandy, but I frankly am not a supporter of 100% "positive reinforcement." To me, that's being ...

Momentary Music by Belinda Roddie   Across the way, we meet eyes Only momentarily in the dimly lit restaurant, The kind with a French name that soothes the tongue But not the mind. As your sight is only sided by the sun spying through windows, You look at me in an unfiltered light Reflected off your wine glass, As the golden drops of the grapevine crystallize Upon your lips, But you don’t mind. Momentarily, that’s all. I let my eyes survey the tablecloth, The chandeliers, anything To keep away from your gaze. But the afternoon air makes my bones feel fragile. I raise my head one more time To see you as nothing but a silhouette Similar to a violinist while a concerto plays, Hidden behind sheets of music. Yet as I rise to leave and pay, I will always remember What sweet music you play. The work you see here has not been edited nor modified since December 30th, 2007.

Three rainy days, separated by four overcast days. Some people like those kinds of days to write. Others like those kinds of days to sleep. I like to take walks while the drizzle prickles my hair follicles and coats my face in damp sleep. Because while the sun is clawing to burst through the clouds, the slumber of the mist is all too familiar. And I let my boots grow wet from the puddles that coalesce around this world's face.

Hot Pockets Lined the Shelves by Belinda Roddie Hot pockets lined the shelves and cabinets in Vincent's kitchen as he set up plates and napkins while his college friends made bets on who would win the football games, their baits a couple hundred in cash, near enough to see Bruce Springsteen on the twenty-fifth of April. As Vincent began to sup, his friends roared at the touchdown just scored. Miffed at the fact that his hot pocket still had not thawed out fully, he stuck it back in the microwave for two more minutes. Chad beckoned for him to sit right between him and Jordan. Vincent couldn't help a smile. He hadn't spent time with friends for a while.