My Cardboard Balcony

I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid of the light. I am afraid of too much sugar or too much spice. I am afraid of failure. I am afraid of winning. I am afraid of soaring too high or tailspinning. I am afraid of noise. I am afraid of silence. I am afraid of flashing colors and screaming sirens. I am afraid of life. I am afraid of death. I am afraid of the moments when I have to hold my breath.

by Belinda Roddie "Wow, that sounded like a really old and angry cat."   " It wasn't." She eyed me from her cup of tea. "Then what was it?" "You don't want to know." We had been trying to eat breakfast casually and quietly. The night before had been particularly rough on both of us, what with our long shifts and our eleven PM discussion of how we could put money together for a new car. Needless to say, we puttered out very quickly and were so tired that even molding a word in my mouth seemed like effort. And I know for her it felt the same way because of how she kept a little bit of Earl Gray swirling on her tongue every time I looked at her. However, the raspy but pained yowling from two stories down in our giant brick apartment complex was most likely going to be an actual conversation starter, surprisingly. Not like anything remotely more exciting was going on. So she wasn't going to let it slide. "Do you know wha...

All of the beautiful people, gathered in single file, waiting for a bowl of floating bread to soothe their grumbling bellies. A hint of salt in their mustaches, or a pepper storm in their curls, as they try to feast on meagerness and hold back their disgust. The flavorlessness of the situation is pretty hard to bear, especially when you wish you had the money to buy fresh meat. Or perhaps sweet fruits. Or luxury. Any luxury.

It could be a flimsy product of a very tired mind, but for this week's introspection, I've decided I should rhyme. You may as well put your brain through Hell just to try poetic craft, and if this doesn't end up deep, maybe it'll make the few of you laugh. So my work is super daunting and takes a lot of time out of my day. I didn't think I'd say this, but I kind of like it that way. Nine hours of being at a school may seem like major deja vu, but with the progress of my job, I'm feeling far from blue. Because some of it is serious and some of it is fun, from the good old CPS training to legos in the sun. And the thirteen girls I teach each day to become better readers have a long year ahead of them, but I'm sure I can make them leaders. With my novel done, my blog's number one in sporadic creative shrapnel, though I finally joined the Tumblr, which serves as another cyber grapnel,* so that's Blogger, Facebook, Tumblr, Myspace, Yo...

Untitled by Belinda Roddie She looked like a twelve-year-old ghost. Her deadpan, hardened face and her glazed eyes looked like they belonged to a shadow, a completely different entity, haunting the world. We were staring at each other, eyes locked, not moving or speaking.  I wanted to shut her out. Even if I closed my eyes and opened them again, she was still looking at me. Go away, I ordered. Please go away. I began to scream at her, trying to scare her off, trying to shatter the glass between us into a million pieces with my fists so I could reach her and slam her face into the dirt, hit her until the color came back into her cheeks so she could look normal again. But I didn’t break the glass. I could only let my fists unclench, my knees shuddering beneath me as I sank to the floor. Down there, I couldn’t see her staring. I couldn’t see her mouth move with silent screams, arms flailing as she tried to reach me. Seven years later, I know I was better off without the ba...

Heather was going to be put on trial. She knew that as soon as she was whisked away in the cramped police car, whirling down main street with several onlookers lifting their heads from their shopping bags and their fancy convertibles and their children’s fallen ice cream cones to watch the display. She would be charged with murder. Not just any murder. The murder of a bastard who tried to ruin her life. Why couldn’t ruining one’s life be a felony or federal offense?

The Mountain Man Was Eating by Belinda Roddie The mountain man was eating a big bowl of jambalaya - juicy shrimp, thick strips of chicken, spice galore burning each hole in his face (nostrils, mouth, all the tidbits). He looked up from his meal and saw an elk staring forlornly at his plate of food, its eyes sunken within the tawny silk of fur, its teeth snapping. It seemed to brood over the fact that this man had dinner and it did not. The mountain man held up the dish and let the steam blow and simmer to let the wild animal start to sup. But elks do not eat seafood, usually, and this elk could not stand so much spicy!