My Cardboard Balcony

I Thank My Third Grade Teacher by Belinda Roddie I thank my third grade teacher, who inspired me to pick up a pen and start to write. I thank the public servants who have been there for me every day and every night. I thank my peers and professors who stood beside me when I battled through my youth. I thank my family who never would abandon me when worry took its root. I thank the doctors, nurses, soldiers, clerks, bus drivers, those who put their lives on hold to see that people like me can succeed and spark the flames that reignite my goals. And any politician who proclaims that I did it on my own is insane.

Oh my darlings, drink sweet lemonade under the porch lights and count moths all night. See how many of them dazzle silver or are milky brown under velvet skies. I would love to see you once again smiling as the winter comes and we drink hot cocoa. But for now, the moon hangs in a warm pocket of the summer evening while we kick our shoes off and the stars are braces for our exposed teeth and we cuddle.

Chocolate Winter by Belinda Roddie December bought me a frosty at Wendy's, with his scarf all bunched up around his ears. The ice cream, while delicious, tightened my jaw and iced up my innards in an uncomfortable blizzard grip. December noticed that I was very cold, so he took my hand (chilling it with his fingers) and led me down long streets to his cabin. There were eleven of his friends, some sleeping, others playing chess, others bundled up by the fire complaining of the lost heat and summer chokeholds. He sat me down at a small table and stirred a pack of powder into a mug - the best he could do in regards to hot cocoa, but with toasted marshmallows it meant more to me than the winter man could ever think it was.

They say I'll find salvation when I atone for my sins. They say I'll find salvation when my life with Christ begins. They say I'll find salvation when I finally see the truth. They say I'll find salvation even when I've lost my youth. They twirl around their crosses and they pat me on the head, and they tell me Hell's no place to go when at long last I'm dead. But if salvation comes and asks me to then hate myself, then I'd rather be lost from God than be somebody else.

Cyber Rope by Belinda Roddie Once again, the baddies try to tie and re-tie corporate knots around the fingers of the ones who rattle honesties on keyboards. But such a thing is not so new, since early in milennium when Y2K was fake, and we decided to bring molten fact to our raw voices hidden in our bedrooms. We had nothing but a lens to signify our words of pseudo-wisdom that still tilled a couple grains of truth, and once again, the money-lovers are all trying to tear that voice from our throats while double-knotting us together with the good old cyber rope.

There were six magazines lain out on the floor of the bathroom, all from 2003. I didn't know why they were still there, or why they were in such pristine condition. The covers were still glossy, the print clear and untarnished. Even the pages were like they had never been turned. I picked up one magazine and ran my palm against its surface. On it was a picture of an actor who had never made it that far. He had a smile and lots of stubble.

Couldn't Ask by Belinda Roddie couldn't ask for a pint of lager with a double shot of aspirin to ease a shivering spinal tremor working down each nerve that presses flat into the cerebral discharge spewing from each fold of gray matter spooned into porridge bowls. too polite to swallow tablets with foamy frothy fanatic livelihood that tastes like Irish fields when the sun hits just right for the wheat to burn.