My Cardboard Balcony

Forked Fingers by Belinda Roddie You always had to clarify your true intentions with Cajun sarcasm laced with paprika. "Just kidding!" or "quote-unquote" gestures with knuckles poised in white and red streaks, while you sipped from a styrofoam chalice. I studied microbes under a scrutinizing eye and there you were, sitting in my science lab, cracking jokes about the teacher, and when he saw the arched eyebrow I knew he couldn't get angry at you. But it made it so damn difficult when you said "I miss talking to you" or left me a text message without the pasty emoticon guiding me by the porcelain hand to the real meaning of your stale condiment vocabulary.

A bright blue insect which I could not identify nestled itself in between the wall and my oak desk. Its wings appeared to be like crystal, drops of sun sprinkling across its reflective sheen, bits and pieces of rainbow foundation scattering about my white walls. I wanted to retrieve a book of mine and see what its name was, but instead all I could do was look at it over my stream of notes.

"Please disregard the obnoxious woman in the back," said the bedraggled professor as the thirty-something-year-old student glowered at him behind horn rims. "I'm trying to discuss physics. There is no room for religious argument." "Why did we even get on that topic to begin with?" asked Sam. The professor shrugged. "No one likes to be proven wrong."

by Belinda Roddie When the kitten opened its mouth, only the sound of swing band saxophones came out. Dr. Simon Smithy had never experienced such a phenomenon, and wrote it down in his notes. " What have you been feeding Sergeant Cuddles?" he asked a recently post-pubescent Frankie, who gazed at him cluelessly through pink-rimmed spectacles and twirled her reddish blonde hair. "I dunno. Usual stuff. He's never had a problem." "And do you play with him?" asked the veterinarian. "Yeah, occasionally. But Timothy plays with him more." "Timothy?" "Yeah. My boyfriend. He moved in a few months ago. Sergeant Cuddles loooooves him." Dr. Smithy wrote up a prescription for anti-inflammatory jazz stabilizers and gave the poor feline a great big dose of Mozart through a dripping needle. Sergeant Cuddles yowled out a ten-minute tenor saxophone improvisation as Frankie, rolling her eyes, pulled him back in his carrier an...

I was lending a hand to a little boy who wanted to reach a box of Wheat Thins on a very tall shelf in the local grocery store when I saw Harry limping down the aisle. He looked much more leathery than before, as if the sun had taken his face out to a barbecue and marinated it was thick, sweet sauce. His pupils noticeably dilated even from a distance, but he seemed to recognize me. "Well," he said with a wispy laugh. "I didn't think you'd still be here."

I thought I was going to talk about my first official rejection letter (actual paper rejection letter, not "rejection e-mail" - I don't count those) - a kind, personal note from a publisher telling me to keep sending out my manuscript, thinking it was a "good novel" and love story. I was going to type out my thoughts and feelings about it, as well as my promise to save and tack up every single rejection letter I get. And how I will work hard to see my writing exposed to an audience who wants to read it. Instead, something happened today at work that I can't get out of my head. So as much as I could be sappy regarding the rejection letter and perseverance and confidence (and a very kind Eloise Klein Healy from  Arktoi Books , who I thank with all my heart for her words and time) despite any setback - I'm going to hit on something else. And that something is: I hate bullying. I've mentioned the terrible power of bullying in a previous Introspecti...

Separate Lives by Belinda Roddie   Chocolate cake shared over a night of several dreams While headlights streak our heads with gold for the time being Reins in each hand, you trot into the glade To be swallowed in a fog of lovely purple haze Simple images kept in a chest by the bedside table, The box with the painted couple from an ancient fable Teaching me how to fly without falling off the ledge Of some nightmarish gremlin’s trap to keep those on edge And though you spit jewels from your mouth, it only is Your eyes that keep the evening precious in the end Luscious fairytales will give me things to dream about While flowers blooming like fireworks in July you just can’t live without So you’ll relax, for you live the story in its breath And I shall read that story until my exhausted death Or until you reappear upon the glade sunk with snow Enough for fish to freeze in, while the wind deals harsher blows ‘Til we share another slice of dark desire with knives To penetrate all the...