My Cardboard Balcony

Heart Ripple Oh, if that doesn't make me wanna scream like a saxophone, trilling up the hot air between my hips and your lips, singing a one-note melody that dips only when the tongue cools the drool dribbling down my chin. Lean into the fornicating swivels of the Möbius strip of two folds four parts flesh, creasing in and out like a sand dune, thick, warm castles burning without salt to swallow them. There's brown sugar on my eyelids - lick it off, suck at my lashes, removing all the mucus hyperventilations from what would be tears of exhausting difference. There. No cigarette. Chocolate fountain bliss, hot swirling syrup configuration on a sweet and sour high eating my curds and whey. Rub my tuffet a little longer, sample the confection first before judgment, and then you have a crippled current staggering from the stove and starting a short-lived flame before sleep.

Calling for help wasn't an option here. Instead, as he groped for every open part of me that lay exposed but closed up like a puckering, terrified fish, I was left with one option. I used my remaining strength to clamp my right hand against his throat, ignoring the sting of my new black eye and the handprint on my left cheek. My left hand went somewhere else entirely. I twisted. I heard the muffled scream against the closed trachea. His eyes bulged in terror and skepticism. "There," I snarled as I held his manhood in a distorted knot. "Now you know how it feels."

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.