My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie She stared wistfully out the window, wondering if tonight's events could ever be repeated. But as her fingers obsessively traced and retraced the damp, criss-crossed ebony pane, she was certain that it wasn't going to happen the way she wanted ever again. It wasn't just the way her darling had dressed, in that wonderful red top and black sweater vest, cuffs bedecked with fragments of cold, the long hair splaying out to the sides in delightful waves. It wasn't just the way her hand had been held, her chin lifted by two firm fingers, her lips caressed by warm, moist smiles. They had walked together quietly, the mellow lights of suburbia guiding them to small Italian restaurants and cafés. The champagne, bubbly and happy, had not helped. Nor had the frenzy of colors along the waters of the park as they whirled around in darkening, deepening grass. And most of all, the ring. She rubbed her ring finger where it now rested - silver and blue and glass...

"Let's talk about Sandy," said Gregory, as he poured me another glass of Riesling. The sweetness of the wine was able to reduce my headache somewhat, and I paused to rub my temples with two of the fingers on my left hand. "What's there to talk about?" Gregory didn't change his expression. "You haven't spoken to her in four days. There has to be a reason why."

Six days from now, I will be turning twenty-three. Twenty-three is what I like to consider a "comfortable" age. There are no significant turning points - no rites of passage, no lifting of past taboos, no celebration that you can drive, vote, or drink (the third of which people seem to be most passionate about, which I've never gotten). It's still a young age, not something to complain about. Twenty-three is also the age in which I have been out of school for a year, have worked official jobs the entire year, have had an amazing girlfriend for over a year, and now have a future to work toward. Since the start of 2012, I have received three rejection letters, and all of them have been tacked onto my wall (my little Hall of Fame, if you will). I have written over five hundred different pieces of work on this blog, and while none of them will ever be "officially" published, I don't mind. This blog is serving the exact purpose I wanted it to - as a way to ...

Eight Ball by Belinda Roddie He plays pool in a crowded billiard room. There are cobwebs in his hair. There is dust dancing on his lips. The sign outside the building reads “Condemned.” It is surrounded by barbed wire and steel fences. One sneering watcher offers him a cigarette. He lights it and aims for the corner pocket. The eight ball bounces. It always bounces back to him. Those who watch laugh and bear their teeth. They do not see that he is grinning too. They do not hear the crack of his pool cue against the felt that’s faded from green to gray. They do not smell the smoke from his cigarette. They do not taste the dust in the stifling air. They feel nothing. All they do is laugh. The broken noose still hangs limply around his neck. He cannot remove it. He aims for the corner pocket. The eight ball bounces. It will always bounce back to him. The game will never end. Some day in this eternity, he will learn not to care. The work you see here has not been edited nor alter...

The mayor of New Hagenbergersteinbeckersmith was pleased to see the erection of the new statue idolizing the great German pioneer who had founded the town. Nestled right between the tiny post office and the grandiose hot dog and bratwurst restaurant, it was meant to gleam in a great bronze glory over the town. It didn't help, therefore, when vandals painted penises on its face and sent the mustached politician into a murderous frenzy.

A Seed Planted in August by Belinda Roddie A seed planted in August grew to be a huge sunflower until autumn ripped all its grandiose petals from its face and left it shaved of beauty while the leaves in all their colors took its place. My dear daughter, who had taken great care to make that flaxen darling blossom in tough soil and shine like gold amid a small, modest garden, was disappointed to see how it shriveled and wilted, stooped as if with age. I told her when summer came around again, she could use a fallen seed from the ground to plant it right where the last one stood, so it could get the perfect dose of sun.

Inside the dank cathedral, two children prayed. In the courtyard along the sinister turrets, a gardener planted roses. Beneath his feet in the basement, a ceremony was starting. The vicar was dressed in blacks and reds. The deacons all in whites. They would wear the dark stains of those who felt the dagger in the colossal man's hands.