My Cardboard Balcony

The Killer Sang A Hymn by Belinda Roddie The killer sang a hymn on his way to the courtroom, wrists shackled in heavy lead, praying, as hypocrites are wont to do when demons act like God inside their heads. The plea had been scrawled out, though festering within the murderer's brain was a swarm of pathogenic malice that could sting a child's heart with no true physical harm. He truly believed that he had carried out the word of the Holy Man himself, the dogma heavy, dank, with horrid reek of anti-sacred passion that could melt like golden ire inside the madman's eyes. His death was martyrdom in hot disguise.

Danny damn near wet himself when he saw his stepfather walking toward his hospital bed. Like a man who had stabbed a victim was walking in to check out his handiwork. He was scraggly and hobo-esque - typical and somewhat cliché, but, there it was, all blatant and out there like a bruise. The trauma seeped over the young boy's face as his mother clung to the ruffian's arm.

Random Rain the kind that starts with excited thunder eager to start a marching band, and the snare drums of the patter-patter-patter drum on hollow roofs where everyone wears headphones and doesn't hear the percussion, but the wind blows just enough so that the smell wafts through the open window, sweetens you, lifts you with the petrichor and the ambiance of a brand new autumn.

Fresh out of the refrigerator was a leftover casserole. I lifted up the plastic covering and smelled the thawing meat, the dry cheese. A spin in the microwave could soften it a bit. It would do. Jason was still taking a shower as I ate. We were supposed to be at Lucy's recital in an hour. I didn't quite understand why he couldn't shower in the morning or at least some time that didn't send me into a panic about whether or not we'd make it somewhere in time.

Swiss Army Jack by Belinda Roddie Jack jams a corkscrew into a bottle-necked nosebleeding nobody's crown, pops it off, pours wine thick enough to stop a heart from beating. Snips a flash of ribbon before it runs too quickly down the inside of his lover's infected thigh. Tightens the syringe and straps his wrist to the table, so the blade moves faster, brighter, the smell dripping off his chin, sweetening his breath, mint cells bubbling from his palm as he snaps the red-wrapped death trap shut.

“Who’s more dominant in the relationship?” “What?” She didn’t blink. “I asked you who’s more dominant in the relationship.” “Does it matter?” She shrugged. “Well, it’s just that there’s typically a male role and a female role, and…” “No. Stop. Define those roles. Please. Does the man bring home the bacon and the woman look pretty while doing the laundry?” “That’s not what I said.” “Because to answer your question, neither of us are more dominant. We both have jobs, and she and I both do housework, and we both like wearing suits and looking sexy. Kapiche?”

Hardly Hearty by Belinda Roddie Normally I'd believe that a meal made for two would nourish one lonely individual, but indeed, when the steak scrapes the palate with medium rare confusion, it's hard to stomach an extra glass of wine or a bowl of forelorn greens. It's war against the appetite and the real hunger behind a fork, sucking the grease off the prongs one by one, licking for spare juices, when all I want is to salivate against a living tongue, not a grilled one. No. You clear the tables. I'm going to lie down, sleep this burden off, and refuse seconds unless they're offered with a bottle of burnt bourbon.