My Cardboard Balcony

Happy? Maybe. I can be very happy. Happy after winning first place for the science fair in third grade. Happy after having a marvelous Halloween party at my place every year I was in high school. Happy someone kissed me at prom when I was worried I'd never get to feel the warmth of a man's lips. Yes, I can be happy. But for some reason, it's difficult to maintain happiness. I can't explain it. It's like it's a habit I'm trying to learn. My feelings fade. My mind blanks. A lot.

by Belinda Roddie "Oops, that last one should have had a period at the end." " That last what?" "Sentence." "Sorry, which one?" I pointed to it with my pen. Emily scrutinized the scribbled line cautiously, the fingers of her right hand drumming out an awkward rhythm on her left forearm. "Okay," she muttered. "Cool." I sighed and rolled over on my side on the bed. Emily stayed sitting on the floor, watching me as I pretty much gave up on my essay brainstorming session. The assignment was due in two days, and try as I might, I had nothing significant to add to the prompt. What was the prompt, one might ask? Nothing like a good, old-fashioned kick to the brain from Mister Tyrone, who thought that getting his students to tell personal anecdotes was a sure-fire way to inspire them to become the new heroes of the jaded growing generations. Or at least get them to try to cure cancer; the growth behind his ear that h...

It was possible to climb that titanium ladder into the stars, suited up in a tailcoat of steel, plasma, and lifetime supplies of oxygen. Yes, it was possible. The council had deemed it so, allowing Rectra Sansky to become the first humanoid to ever individually travel space without the need for a vessel. Food nourishment was not a requirement; Rectra's system had been adjusted for that.

It's been a roller coaster week. Things on one hand are doing great, and progress is being made with my students. On the other hand, I'm making mistakes. Lots of them. I've saying stupid things and having a hard time kicking old habits. Why does improving on being a teacher have to be so damn hard? No real complex write-up this week because I'm pretty drained. But having my second graders perform a talent show to my boss with dancing to Carly Rae Jepsen and reading a poem together definitely is something to be proud of. Sleep beckons, though. I'm working extra hours tomorrow at my site. Fun stuff. But it's worth it for the end result. Writer's Quotation of the Night: If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it. - Toni Morrison Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

Cardboard Crosses by Belinda Roddie About four months ago, I moved into a one-story house on the corner of Simmons and Benton with my wife Lindsay and my daughter Sam.  It was one of the only one-stories on the street, repainted and revamped, and the mortgage was tolerable given our family’s double income.  Sam didn’t mind how big the house was as long as she had her own room to decorate.  She was bouncing on the balls of her feet when I showed her around the place.             “Can we paint it blue?” she asked me over dinner that night.  “I’ve always wanted a blue room.”             The three of us were eating pizza because we were too worn out from unloading the moving van to go grocery shopping.  Sam was stripping the cheese off her slice and shoving the gooey ribbons into her mouth.          ...

Lily was at the scene in a sprint and a hop, looking for the outline drawn in stark white on the asphalt. She was the first to be there, before the detectives, snapping shots for the department as the greenhorn Kentucky Rodriguez approached her. "What've we got, girl?" he asked. "Double homicide," she replied.

Tight-Lipped by Belinda Roddie Tight-lipped strangers sleeping in a snowy manger. Horse mane, slipping tail down the front of a dreamer's jeans. Coarse jerks, framed faces, trying to find rest in nicer places, corny lullabies, winter breath cooling down summer flesh. If the disciples are not here by sundown at the end of the year, then the nomads will find refuge in a different modest temple, where baked bread will be served, and dry fish will be ample, enough to sample minimalist pleasure in a Gothic architect's design. My house is not a dust bin, and I am not a failure within, and it's not much to ask for quiet when I'm driving my mind through bridges. Try crossing them, and you'll fall into a muddy water hole, spreading legs out asking for love, when the stables pile with tragedies, and the rich stop counting money, just to see our kind in mangers. I Brought You Two Salads by Belinda Roddie I brought you two salads for us...