My Cardboard Balcony

A Splinter In My Ear by Belinda Roddie A splinter in my ear caused me to lose my hearing in my left side, leaving me to, while talking to people, have to choose which rant I would spent time with listening. A bruise under my knee caused me to limp and stumble as I sweltered under lights of neon, the colors inverted, flipped across my vision, giving second sight. A cloud caught in my mouth deepened my voice and made me cry in somber baritone, and I felt should my tongue grow much less moist, my vocal cords would petrify like stone. So my body crumbled, needing splints to hold me up like a puppet fixed with glue.

The ancient artifact was glowing. Doctor Kessler rushed downstairs when she saw the blue and gold emanations. Locked inside its crystal shell, the innards of the thing swirled as if acid was churning in an animal's stomach. It did not glitter or gleam, instead attacking the dark space with tornados of color. Kessler's assistant came down to look as well two minutes after she had begun to probe at it.

Loquacious by Belinda Roddie Can't you see that I'm half past mad? Yanking sour notes from behind my plaque-caked molars, stirring stews to boil stories until they ooze out of my nasal cavity? As the bubbles pop from my nostrils and ears, guests with full plates do not finish meals, but glasses are always topped off. I am no classy raconteur: I am the maniacal concoction of a one-night stand, pouring from a hot champagne bottle with the sweat rolling down the cheeks of walls, stalling lovers ready to go home and sleep beside one another in the same bed, not to talk, but just to dream in wordless euphoria, and I bark and yowl and whinny until I am more animal than friend.

We set sail for another new land. Not possible? We'd prove everyone wrong. There had to be an eighth sea. A marine terrain with rising jaws of earth to swallow us. Somewhere untouched. Unscathed. Scar-less. Bruise-less. Wordless. That perhaps was the most important to me. We took off in my motorboat. I did not need food to eat or water to drink. He did. He was mortal. He needed nourishment.

Lion Cub by Belinda Roddie Furry head latched onto a furry spring of hot-wired coils, waiting to latch into curves around my little finger, but instead the lion cub is trying to sleep in my lap and I'm too scared to try to stroke its head.

"Find a solution to the problem." "What problem?" "This one!" She was gesturing toward the two girls huddled on the couch, clinging to each other. I couldn't help noticing the scared blue eyes of our teenage daughter, her head nestled against her once-assumed best friend's bosom. "I don't see a problem." "Dan," she spat, "be serious." I scowled at her. "What, and you're not being a total joke?"

Viper Victor by Belinda Roddie Viper Victor was equipped with super techni-hyped up gadgets, each designed to make his recent villain status somewhat decent. At his side was Rob, his geeky henchman who failed hard at sneaky, stealthy, crafty, cunning, sly, and all the things between. He'd try to make an advanced souped up mobile that would polish Viper's toenails. Blueprints fleshed in binder paper, so he lived, the gizmo-maker. But Viper Victor would not cower to the heroes by the hour: Metal Mouth did not scare him, nor Ultra Bad Boy impaired him, or he'd simply be a brand new sissy in the motley evil posse. True, he was no Whedon offspring, or a tune that Moffat would sing, but Viper Victor was quick and able, cruel and stable, slick and awesome. Now, Rob, put this on the fridge with colored magnet stars!