My Cardboard Balcony

Towers by Belinda Roddie When you ask thirteen second graders to build a skyscraper in fifteen minutes out of paper cups, popsicle sticks, markers and paper bags, all while not saying a word to each other in their teams, maybe it's too much to ask for some sort of result. But when these young ladies present you with a real beauty, the height of a first prize trophy cup - it may not be a Needle or an Empire or a green-crowned dame with a frozen flame leading to the end of the cool Atlantic, but out here on the Pacific side with different festivities, credit is given where it is certainly due.

Seemingly small affairs had been written down in greater deal than needed in this small red spiral notebook. I flipped more pages and felt the dryness of the sheets scratching against my cuticles. I knew that once she had taken me home, she was probably someone with experience. But this seemed excessive. There was one man in the notebook who didn't have a last name. Either she didn't remember it or he was one of those porn stars or strippers with one name. Probably with a "The" attached to it in a professional environment.

Who Scripted This? by Belinda Roddie He starts with a bagel breakfast, many bagels, with five different kinds of cream cheese. He has to be quirky that way. Smear plenty of topping on his face and hands, staining sundried basil nut squash delight. He forgets his house keys. Trips on the way down the porch steps. Breaks a leg. Calls 911. Gets a friend instead. Impossible? Not so, say the great gods of cinematic nuisance. Give him comic relief in his moment of pain and don't forget the sexy neighbor!

Before the lobster clamped down on Uncle Henry's front teeth, Josh burned both hands on the pot roast. Before Josh burned both hands on the pot roast, Mom was yelled about how much she didn't love him anymore. Before Mom yelled at Dad about how much she didn't love him anymore, I banged my sister's best friend upstairs in my childhood bedroom. And before that, cookies.

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.