My Cardboard Balcony

Twice Folded Manuscripts by Belinda Roddie Twice folded manuscripts littered the gray carpeting in the cramped one bedroom flat, while Steven, stooped with age, attempted to scrape words - hardly a final brave hoorah - with plume sharp as a scalpel, the paper rummaged like gray matter waiting to be folded and twice folded and thrice folded into complex wrinkles well worth the read. He had no wife to peruse the pages, no son to give sound critic's eye to the crude scattering of never-ending winds of fading whimsy and blackening tone. The manuscripts twice folded on the floor were never to be sent out anymore.

Donna made her final statement as governor long before happy hour at the local pub, her hair that same mousy brown and her eyes those same glazed, lazy pools of pensiveness. She waved to the cameras, to the reports, to everyone willing to watch her go on TV. And in the end, she walked home. She found Simone sitting in front of the TV, eating popcorn and watching the latest chick flick. They shared a kiss.

Shut Up by Belinda Roddie once in while (or thrice), you're told to shut up, buck up, fess up your sins, stand up and dress up your wounds and use safety pins, drink water instead of wine, stop crying with pulled down window blinds, because no one wants to hear that you feel nervous inside. it makes you wonder who's right, the looks you get at a bus stop - too white, too gay, too sensitive, and too much of a hearthrob. you know people love you, yeah, that's definitely no lie, but when you're told your problem's old then you have to ask yourself why.

A piece of gum stuck to an old shoe wished it could grow legs and walk a sticky walk over to Chinatown. There, it could try to enjoy a plate of chow mein, were it not for the fact that it had no mouth, and no teeth to boot to show on the noodles and beef. It wanted to have a top hat and cane and dance on the streets, but without appendages, such a desire was more than difficult to quench. So the resiny thing sat silently against the rubber, dreaming with no brain.

Mur by Belinda Roddie mur hur dur sometimes when you don't have much to say you confirm with blurs

I couldn't find my pencil holder, no matter how I tried. I checked within my backpack, but it just wasn't inside. I checked my desk, I checked the tables, I checked my husband's room. I checked the downstairs and the upstairs, feeling certain doom. I missed my little pencil holder, jewel-gunned and fine - it had lovely jewel patterns that my daughter said were mine.

Episodic by Belinda Roddie episodic sub-psychotic half-neurotic superstition, television on a mission to subdue men with derision, heated rage, bottled, caged, locked up in a super age of mega-ultra-uber-special Martians walking on a threshold of endurance, no insurance, rest assured they've got their courage, when the end is still in sight, it comes down to fight or flight.