My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie He explained it to me quietly. "There comes a time in everyone's life when they need their asses kicked, just to keep the wheels turning." That explained his business card. It was two thirty in the morning by the time we sat down in the cheap twenty-four hour diner, where he had agreed to meet up with me. As I chowed down on pseudo-Belgian waffles, he stirred a cup of coffee that seemed so corrosive that I imagined it could chew away at the tiles embedded in the walls if poured onto them. He didn't drink it. For obvious reasons. "So what do you want me to say?" I asked with a bemused half-shrug. "You need an ass to kick?" "No," he said. "I figured you did." "Not anyone I can think of off the top of my head." "Oh, c'mon, kiddo." He began dumping processed "sugar" into his mug as he spoke, the concoction gaining the color and potentially the texture of wet cement. ...

"I'm bringing back overalls," Carla stated proudly, twirling around and showing off the flared denim. At the table in the cafeteria, there were mixed reactions. Simon stared as if Carla was infected with some horrible illness. Tasha just sipped her drink. And Max looked simply ecstatic.

This week, I began work as an instructional assistant in a summer school program. My work consists of everyday mathematics for third graders and garden work with students from K-5. It's interesting, to say the very least. Being a writer, reader, and musician first and foremost, it's different to tackle fields and studies that I'm not particularly strong in. Not that I can't do everyday math, and not that I don't like gardening. I just don't know much of the latter and don't think much of the former. Some things come so naturally that you just don't pay attention - like times tables, being so ingrained in the left side of your brain. Other things, like gardening for me, have me more as a witness than a doer. So I'm definitely working slightly outside my comfort zone. But I am still doing what I want to do - teaching. This job has immensely beefed up my references and résumé. And considering that, after visiting my girlfriend, I began worrying abou...

Four Motives, Four Locomotives by Belinda Roddie I rode upon the train marked Stallion Bearing my old war medallion Capped with rotting gold And Stallion kicked and strutted high From tumbling through the cold To crush the frost with spinning hooves That toppled on battalions So was it I rode Stallion I hopped the next train red-stamped Lion Bearing crest of family, trying Not to show my pride But Lion roared with pride of own And trampled countryside While mud and grass were scattered far By paws that spurred the dying So did I conquer Lion The third I leapt upon was Dragon Drinking heavily from flagon I recalled my sin While Dragon snorted blackened flame And burnt blue horizon Were made with wings, the tracks forgot, It’d sail without wheels lagging So dreamed I riding Dragon My nightmare nearly through, on Thunder Was my heart then torn asunder By my wish for home But Thunder yearned to make me wail As lightning lashed my bones And locomotive raged through storm That thrust m...

Crystal couldn't believe it. This was the fourth time in a row that Mrs. Prehistoric (actually Mrs. Presley, but the T-rex arms and the scaly skin said otherwise) had given her detention, all for giving her a "bad look." Delinquent? Her? It was ridiculous. She just wanted to read her Thoreau and Emerson and whoever and get the Hell out of the way of everyone else.

Short, Stout, and Happy by Belinda Roddie Short, stout, and happy was Jennifer Hyde, who lived on the west side of old town shops and abandoned railroad tracks. Beautiful was her face, red her hair, ruddy her cheeks, and very, very blue her eyes. Yes, she could barely reach the steering wheel of her car, and she carried pockets of pudge around her hips and belly, but she was a large bundle of enthusiasm. So when the handsomest guy asked her out to the prom, ev'ryone expressed such shock at the pairing, but both of them were thrilled. To meet someone who loved her just for her made Jennifer short, stout, and happier. 

A girl trying to figure out a science clue on a crossword while drinking a cider and eating a slice of four cheese pizza is trying to pet her oh-so-eager-for-scraps dog with the big toe on her left foot. Only she can't reach his head, so she ends up stroking the excess fur and skin gathered around his neck, which she and her family lovingly call a wattle. The dog does not seem to mind.