My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "Birkenstocks are totally in style this season!" "No, dude. No, they're not." "What?" "They're not in style this season. Or any season, for that matter." "Oh, I'm sorry, Aaron, I didn't know you were suddenly the newest fashion police." "I didn't say that." "Okay, fashion expert." "No." "Fashion poser?" "Shut up, John." "Hey, is that the doorbell?" "Excellent observation." "Yay, the mail's here!" "I'll get the door. ...Emily? What're you doing here?" "Nice to see you, too. You by yourself?" "No, I've got a drunk John. You want him?" "I don't know, is he going to follow me home?" "Hi, Emily!" "Hi, John. Nice Birkenstocks." "Is your girlfriend here?" "No, she's in Little Man seeing f...

"Hey, Ricky! Enough!" He didn't stop. He just sneered at me. "Ricky, who's in charge here?" "Nobody." I scowled. "Try again, Ricky." My little brother stopped bouncing on the bed for only a second. "Fine then. Bitch is in charge." My face went very red. I stormed up to him. I grabbed him by the arm as he was up in the air and pulled him toward me. "Let go!" "Call me a bitch again," I snarled, "and you can sleep in the garage tonight."

Working at a school feels like I am in school. I'm back to basics. I'm reading simple books, writing simple phrases, and practicing simple math with the kids, to help them learn. At the same time, I'm being drawn back to other memories outside during recess. I was never a popular kid. Hell, I even was a loner in my youth (unsurprising to me, surprising to some other people), and I was lousy at sports. And I mean lousy. I couldn't do kickball, or softball, or basketball, or even soccer. When I was eleven years old, I was on a soccer team for young girls and my coach hardly let me play. Because apparently I was that bad. Worst part about that last story was that my team won third in the league. At least my sister was a pretty awesome fullback. But after this week, I have played baseball, kickball, four square, and basketball after so many years' worth of a sports dry spell. Don't get me wrong, I like playing sports. I prefer the aerobics I get from sports ov...

The Timid Cloud by Belinda Roddie “A cloud to shroud my bones!” did cry A wild but quite precocious child “For I’ll be warm in summer sky And if it rains, though I’m not dry My sins will wash away.” With that, she scattered seeds across A soil that people said had lost Its breath, and yet she still desired A tree to bore her into sky And carry her away And mist did kiss the child’s brow But no proud cloud would move to shroud Her spirit, but one was shy Alone in a September sky And moved for once that very day To carry her away The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since August 16th, 2007.

She didn't want her face to be shown - tried to coax her, persuade her, and throw her a bone, but she didn't want her face to be seen. She kept quiet in a mask so pristine and green with a sheen that radiated a thousand miles past the European skyline and the Irish isles. The emeralds were dull against her real eyes, but she never would tear off her disguise. That's the story. Just trust me. It's the way it should be. You'll never get a real solution out of me.

Disgusted At His Dinner by Belinda Roddie Disgusted at his dinner, Rodrigo threw a heaping forkful of gooey mess at Sandy's forehead. As she screamed and clawed at the sticky mass stuck to her eyebrows, her mother scolded Rodrigo for his bad manners, but he stuck out his tongue, shut his eyes, and shook his head from side to side. "No!" His father tried to make him eat the mix of oddity on the tiny plate. But the boy pushed his father's large hand away. Then I stepped in, furious, frustrated, and flung my glass of milk right in his face. "There," I growled at him. "I have more to spare if you don't clean your plate right then and there!"

Born and raised, grown and grazed, champion of baseball in the olden days. Shovel in hand, banjo in a band, manual labor plus accountant's shorthand. Tried many things, wore many rings, all from girls with many different flings. Swung on a tire, started a fire, became a kid again just before I retired. Read a thousand books, caught an old babe's looks, had a son at seventy-five, and what energy that took.